#bodypoetry
up to my elbows
in spoiled milk and blood.
my love oozes out through a break in the bone,
uncaught, and spills between swollen floorboards.
sorting through our silences now,
all scraps of memories, and anyway,
why would you want to keep them?
i've always hoarded your lies
in my marrow
let the grief kick hard from inside
i am happy to hurt
if it is in the service of somethin' good
tired from loving your way,
afraid of the light that cuts the smoke,
hot tears in evaporating off our cheeks
eyes, blinded in the sun.
waiting out another hard winter
only to be unsoftened by spring.
time keeps our shape like a bruise
pressed, flowers in the dark of itself,
waiting for whoever we are now,
or what we've got
mostly for the better,
though, often not.
Nov 4, 2025
Nov 4, 2025 at 2:45 PM UTC
The mechanism of my body is ticking away the moments:
clinical seconds, dehydrated hours, years washed too clean.
The orbit of my ribs makes its rounds with momentous clicking
felt as a ripple- a forte into seizure.
There's something industrial in the alignment of these organs:
A factory of ventricles straining against the assembly line.
I'm a blood clock, tragic motor; I'm an organism
too mechanical to hold.
With a liver like a coal burner and lungs to expel the smoke,
how can I find a way back to being human.
Feb 22, 2021
Feb 22, 2021 at 11:33 AM UTC