I feel like I'm seeing everything
Through foggy windows.
The details they blur
And I can't tell who's friend or foe.
If there's danger
I can't see it.
I'm blind to the reality
That I know haunts me silently.

Roses are red, violets are blue
A dinner you promised, just me and you.
Reproving winds lectured me in bites
For my barely-there skirt, and lustful eyes.

Sour cream lathered that oily exterior.
The aftertaste lingered, creating a barrier
Of which soft lips could not break through
Nor embellished flowers or chocolate fondue.

With our stomachs full, with more than just food
You brought me back home with beer-stained shoes.
My mind a fog. The Lamb now waits to be skinned
For the Wolf that set the ****** trap to finally begin.

Virginal blush, tinged with her bruises all blue
A dinner you had promised, just me and you.

I remember being a young girl at the pool
Playing this game with myself
Where I would float on my back
Belly, face, and palms to the sun
I’d see how still I could be
And once I was as still as I felt was possible
I’d exhale and feel myself sink
Almost close enough to where my nose was underwater
Just before the moment where air meets water
I’d breathe in as deep as I could manage
And feel myself rise again
Back to the surface
Back to safety
Sometimes I still do that
Maybe you do too
Just in a different way

I am learning that self-pity
Is a dangerous thing
That must never
Be allowed into your mind

It might be comforting
In an unusual way
But in reality
It's slowly poisoning
Your mind

Spacetime warps round her,
Moons colliding, suns implode.
Black hole siren song.

Untitled because it is not about any one thing. It is of the stuff written about, untamed, undiscovered… un yet. That which is just beyond. Before the hand reaches it, before the eye sees, before the mind pours it into the shape that is comprehensible. It is pure. It is debauched. It is half and complete. It is the blind mice playing a symphony with small instruments in Schrödinger's black box where he suspects a cat to be. It is the mother of “Ah Ha” and the father of “Eureka” that is this tear.

Be neither this nor that
He nor she thin or fat
Be and being not
From any given lot

That grail of poetry
That makes it be
This lightless paint
What tis and taint

Who may choose may
Find who chooses say
It choose me instead
I am and was dead

Be rabbit or sacred star
Do I follow and how far
If I am weary I resume
My fleshy wick consumed

So big… yet so small
So… yet… so it is all
Great be in my being again
Now at least I have been