Six was the fall
climb and reach for it
motivated by your all
you let me go, into the pit
into the void
how could I have let this happen, the periodical sin
to let you avoid
a lot more than my skin

six minus all
it's pretty hard to recall
when I was a slave to your orders
manifesting disorders
using me
for your sick desires
you weren't the key
but you flaunted it, spread around like wildfire

here you made me crawl
as I followed your every demand
shattered me in the rainfall
scattered the shards with your very own hand
if I knew it would turn out like this,
on that very special day near the end of autumn
I would've declined that kiss
and it'd be not him.

That cold, harsh,
February rain slashes against
the panes of glass in my bedside window.

The sycamore tree in the front yard
with it's thick lashes,
groaning,
rattling,
has chased away the coo of the owl.

I've grown used to it's lullaby
and, as I drift off,
I worry a tired thought:
will he come back?

desert and abandon these
warm and sullen affects; upon you,
a wolf, thoughtful and reproachful as you
shook your snow at the starlight, and pondered
upon the mysteries of the pattering,
puddling, flowing liveliness of granite nothings…

and the turquoise faded into one horizon, the
other expanded outward, catching the humming of
the air, and the soft intake of the flowers…the green sloped
and shuddered through the lens of the hillside, and above,
the clouds shivered as you painted their likeness in the sky.

Some people will often list the smell of rain among their favorite smells,
but to me it is an awful stench; a reminder of that hellish night.

Some people are made giddy as they watch the dark clouds gather and anticipate the droplets,
but the air of excitement is something I dread; it suffocates me.

Some people watch the cars zoom by and admire that sound of the wet pavement hissing in response, but this noise is associated with a memory that holds me captive; it is a prison to me.

Some people find the smells and sounds of rainfall to be soothing, but I feel as if the world is mourning with me when it rains; a storm played in the background the night my life was shattered.

Some people marvel at the beauty of lights reflected in water, but I cannot admire these things for fear that I might get stuck in my head; my mind might think we're back living that night again.

Some people used to include myself; no longer, but there is not a day that goes by without a prayer that I might one day return to the world's collection of some people.