my whole life
i have been looking
for myself in the
gaze of someone else

i wonder what would
happen if i never cut
my hair again
or if i walked into the woods
and never looked back

when i was a little girl
you told me that
vampires couldn’t see
their own reflection

every day i run
my tongue over the
sharp points of
my teeth
burning to forget
the taste
of strangers’ wrists

I’m confused
I don’t know how to be happy
was I happier fat?
Or am I happier skinny?
I can’t tell the difference
it’s all the same
it doesn’t matter what I look like
the pain will stick to my hip
through thick and thin.
literally.
Is it my body? Is it my clothes?  
or the way I don’t like the rounded curve of my nose?
no.
it’s none of those.

I wanted to be a painting,
A goddess.
I wanted to be all Aphrodite,
Body and curves.
I didn’t want Athena’s leadership,
I wanted the power of seduction.
I wanted to be a muse,
Amused by the spellbound stares.
I wanted to be a mare,
Bred into beauty and totality and grace.
I wanted to be nothing less than art.
So the gods blessed me with such
Voluptuous hips and curves.
But I do not want to look like
Renaissance art,
I want to be a contemporary model.
Thin and toned with golden glow.
So now the gods shake their heads
And wonder why they put so much hope,
So much effort, so much and so little
Into me.

Gravity died,
Or so it seemed to us, who were to die,
All loose objects vortical,
Yet static,
                 car spinning,
side over side, the policeman said,
No one could've survived,
Radial blur
All in the rearview
Thud of impact, Thud of stillness
No screams till the spinning wheel ceased
and then only one,
                                 melting like snow upon asphalt.

From the eleventh floor
the world looks small
and possible

The cars
     black and white
     parked perpendicular
          to the curb
     parallel
          to each other
are keys
     ebony and ivory
    
I reach out
through the window
and play the street like a piano

Imagine a young fervent swarthy portrayal,
caramel strong un-clad lady,
yet at touch so “douce” and glued
whilst leaning out
from a window
slender rainy on a balcony too urban
pane
And eyes at digital art
Spin a confession
Of how the watered petals of flowers there
do not explain
The origin or calling of the rain
And that its every end or beginning
In her unbetrayal made swayed
Has actually
since always
there
been taking
its rightful place.

The world in that fact
does not have,
find
nor
make relay, sense.

Someone right  on the other side’s
staircase stroll
Would extract their own core
by extending through their ribs own

her beloving so longing and old
that one at last will find it
possessing a too hurtful call.

Head lolled.
Dew owned.

Smithereens
we,
with, on, a truck’s van
speeding scrapping,
alas, vagabond voyage ceiling

Well, astral jumping from a car /cinnamonned sun/
isn’t hard then I see, creek

We,
the cloak, the moment and me the contracting,
a book of flights spread open, we
a discarding,
as its wing from gold smothered in
most blue sky and a red sign towards
embarking to a new life/face encrusting

Joy, lazy, lounged,
like a banjo in its autumn on a porch jiggly slouch,
strings light freeze at wind, clasp, then step up and
as the hitchhiker dance.

Amèlie, I caught your sound!
your theme, lastly away,
the accordion’s as of now met,
adopted in a knee’s set,
one leg around the other a mess.
Hanging springs of it, at edge.

Maroon,
eyes currently in wood carved,
steampunk clogs, clads there
fine.

Mellow,
whole body a cello,
from boots with folly drunk
through wood prolonging curved
to the “f”s at the end of ideas and
caramel hair known as falling leaves’
place.

This
will
be
a
great
something.

Laid open!
Further!
Hitter!
Onward higher!

Off,
so off
we
go

in the arctic air
the sins of the tundra are
absolved
                in passing

Just because we have a picture,
It doesn’t mean we’ve got the whole story,
Remember that picture is a moment in time,
A picture you shared makes me compare your life to mine,
A picture alone of an empty field,
The photographer doesn’t know what it can yield,
I’ll see something different to someone else,
Puts me in that moment all by myself,
Trying to use all my senses,
But we all see the picture through different lenses,
One might see happiness, another despair,
Wonder what’s really going on there,
A picture doesn’t mean we have the story,
But we can share a moment celebrating different glory.