We blame ourselves
not knowing why
there is blood in their eyes.

We wear red welts
and bluish bruises
but hurt even more inside.

Is it their lies or ours
that justify the scars
on our still beating hearts?

In comes nose runs,
and endless fountains of tears,
with an eternity of fear
that says please don’t let me
live this way.

We internalize their mistakes
looking out at the world,
believing that we are weak,
so we do not speak of such things.

Sometimes, we come out alive
on the other side of that life.
Sometimes, their rage becomes ours.
If we are lucky we learn
to take our pain and turn
it into compassion and purpose.

Still, we are always on the verge
of something unknown
fires un-shown
children stuck between
fully and half grown.

she's addicted to his "I'm sorry's."

Standing in the shower with my head against the wall
Letting the scalding water fall

Wishing it could wash away my skin
Wishing it could wash away his sins

Maybe when my bruises heal
My soul will once again, begain to feel

It looks so fragile with all it's holes
Where the monsters took and stole

But it's sewed with spiders threads
So it's as strong as a spider's webs

There's really nothing left to say
Accept that maybe one of these days
I'm gonna be ok

did you know
that no means no?

what does it mean?
it means no.
no.
no.
no.
no.
no should not be the last thing
you scream and cry in pain
as your body is manipulated
by somebody of your kind
that is supposed to be your equal.

no means no.
it should not be followed by
if's or but's or why's.
but,
it is.
because no is not enough.

no means no.
it is not any less loud
because it appeals
under the tinge of toxicity
or painkillers.
no is coming from a human.

no means no.
no.
no.
no.
no.
no is not a joking matter,
it is not the background vocals
for your hymn of menacing laughter
and aggressive fits.

no means no.
it means denying consent,
it means this isn't okay,
it means i do not like this,
it means please stop.

no means no,
no.
no.
no.
no.
no more aggression towards people
you ache for power over.
no more trying to fulfil your sad fantasies
of distress and desolation.

did you know
that no means no?
or couldn't you hear us
over the sound of your innocent victim
screaming,
                “no” ?

in pealing season, she is a girl of lousy ingrowth
she is an unkempt corner; kitchen sink. legs pulled like knives. phone call her curled tendons; isolation in
grit and fibril      
she is women with wings. this is how we stymie the rapunzel. we carve the ugly into her. we teach her to wear skin like saran. skin like punishment
                        cut-coin the rumpelstiltskin. how she is  wound and string, paper-doll; bird-in-a-box
how we wring the juice of her on washcloth. hung upturned from the ceiling fang; plucked and feathered
like apology. cherry-picked; veins like mikado. how it is dark and she is blind-bat wind-warriors; waterboarded with no hands
upturning the paper boats of her in every follicle; how the flipswitch insecurity eats her like pickle. in a storm
she is neither nor tongue nor limb
just breast, bone, the weight of mirrors
how we jettison when the grief is heavy. abandon. thick, empty abandon.
alone in grit-cusps when the monsoon has eaten into the white, wispy mortuary. dark in hallways; yet pale and slender. she is beautiful.
we lift her ribbed corpse off the shoreline.
we unload the offering like red carpet;
this is how we wrap her in white and weary-eyed
translucent. how unavoidable we become when we are the last hope. crippled. when we look hope in the eye. askance. how she will beg you to look at her with the heart in the honey-jar; torso in tourniquet
how the walls are ripped in shades of askance. how we look away.

how us, walls, look away.
how, us, walls, askance.
how we drip of askance; how the pink flesh and cherry-limb slips like matchstick on brushfire
how there is purple and primrose and bruise
there are some spots on the floor where it still reeks purple and yellow and bruise
how we are
               lousy
                         ingrowth
here.  how we
                                                              ­   try
to
pluck
                             and *erase

Little boy brown
dusted by broken buildings
smoking ground, and busted concrete.

Little one with a red shirt
I cannot say if it was
made that way
by the manufacturer
or this man made
disaster.

Little child laying down
on a rubble bed
by his little brother.
Instead of playing childish games
now two children lay
posed in death's way.

Little life left
in this mess
but plenty of
blame and sorrow
to share.