I tried and tried
for so long.  
Suddenly
I was exhausted.
My mind growing weary,
I decided that my
time had come.

Your truth is sweet.
Mine is sharp.
I cut away at you, without meaning to,
my hands are scissors,
yours are feathers.
Icarus, do not let me be your sun.

a throbbing that
presses in and
forward from
the back of the
head eyeballs
squeezed gently
in the palm of
the orbita to
serve as reminder
of the pain of
shrinking the fear
of compaction

warm lights that
stab and radiate
as taste lingers
on the sides and
back of the tongue
swallowing the
nostalgia as forceps
press tight enough
to lift the brain out
of the cranium

vibrations and the
ringing that is too
much to seek out
grating cheese along
a brick wall as temple
rubs lose their power
in stressed syllables

How could I answer
When you just asked me that way?
'Course I don't hate you.