everytime you told me you loved me
it sounded sinfully real
so i fell for it
and those three words
broke my heart into three more pieces.

Mermaids die with mortal souls

At least that’s what Hans Christian wrote

And so we’re born with shallow holes

Where hearts should be.

Where nothing sleeps.

And when our bodies turn to froth

And mouths agape sing final notes

We wash away upon the waves

And dwindle to an arctic haze.


A darkness born of quill and ink

To drift to fog upon the sea.

His holy words.

His blasphemy.

His written verse has rendered me


And stolen my infinity.

It was silent, but not dead of night
The sun still out, setting in the sky
But the stage was empty, it was really a sight
There were no performers, not wanting to die

They're all alone trapped in their dressing room
Costumes hung high on their shelves
There were no flowers, but it bloomed like a sweet perfume
Spreading through the theatre, only by oneself

There was no laughter, no clapping at the end
There was no intermission, just act after act
It greeted them all, like an old friend
The catastrophe wasn’t beautiful, but it was abstract

The theatre was empty, but everyone knows
The tragedy wasn’t over, the show didn’t close

tragedies – an heir to all
the mess inside those walls
i can still recall

lunged in anger, seized with fear
oh, what have you done
i tried to leave the thoughts behind
but i couldn't run

black silhouettes, tragic memories
now i'm in constant doubt
am i ready for this?

in infancy,
I was everything
you had hoped
for in a child,
played a cherub
in our church’s
Christmas pageant,
wore a felt gown
& angel wings tethered
to my back, a halo atop
a mop of blonde colored hair.
it was as if I were finally
worth the title of
beautiful.angelic.
god sent. elegance.
you had finally
worked up enough
magic to procreate
& theorized that
something you made
could finally be an
angel. you threw yourself
so hard to another’s body
you became divine, if only
for a moment.

but you’ve always been
such a skilled poacher.
cut off my wings in slumber
& nailed them
above your head
board. one might
think this is a
brutal comparison
to how you’ve
never learned
to love anything
god sent.

both our knees
are bruised, but we’re
practicing a different
type of prayer. I still
feel a pain in my shoulder
blades from where you cut me,
your hands no longer feel damp
with my blood.
maybe, one day, you’ll hunt me
down, with your poacher’s pride,
& with your rifle, you’ll finally
take more than my wings. &
as I bleed out, a task which may take
days. . . or months . . . or years,
I hope you’ll look me in my eyes
& you’ll remember that even as an
angel, I was once still just your
daughter.