Split seams on the dress of my daydreams.
No needle or thread in sight.
Where is the seamstress who'll fix this?
Why is she never here on time?
Lost on my way down the aisle.
Commit to a man I don't know anymore.
You don't get to sweep this under my veil.
You claim love but won't let me go.
I asked that you didn't tear my dress,
since it was my only protection from
the elements.
You agreed with me
but then snipped at the seams
when you said "Just trust me."
Was it all for your own pleasure?
To play with my own nerves.
You bought me a drink and played a sad song.
Then apologized for the miscommunication.

There was no miscommunication.

Dewdrops sparkle with spiders' silk
Twinkling like stars in the sky
Sad that all of them have died
Sad that spiders live short lives
Substances seep into my skin
I don't know their ingredients
Smooth age before it sets in
Fill all my gaps with plastic
Pretty nice things are never sweet
Quiet homes thrive on busy streets
White lies kept our hearts in line
White fences hid vicious crimes

Tighten the belt around my waist
Hopefully I suffocate
Before the final hole is made
In the noose on my vanity

Quicken the pace of self decay
Rot like flowers in early May
Diseased; succumb to earthy graves
Be welcomed back from which you came

I've forgotten quite a bit of my childhood
The teenage years that is
Spent so many years without sleeping
Anger-bleaching my brain
Who was I,
I hardly knew

But I am so different today
Or perhaps I am who I always was
And back then was just the shell
I did not change then did I?
Does the distinction even matter?
I feel so different today

I wanted to see the sunrise.
Instead I laid in bed and watched
as my windows slowly let in
more and more light. Maybe tomorrow,
I'll watch the sunrise. Maybe tomorrow,
I'll crawl out my window. Maybe tomorrow,
I'll take pictures of the sunrise and
it'll be worth it.
I'll always want to see tomorrow
even if I dread every second of today.
I want to see tomorrow
and capture it.

If you miss me,
              follow the bees.

If you miss me,
              listen to the leaves.

If you miss me,
              I'll be beneath
              the lilac tree.

I'll wait for you;
              come join me.

I'll wait for you;
              come join me.

A large **** slashed open its side.
A collision with a boat we all think.
Though no boat has claimed its ****.
The wind whipped its scent through the crowd
a saltier tang than usual.
More concentrated; more direct.
Its chest heaved with the rhythm of the waves
as water poured into its lax mouth
expanding its chest
in a mockery of breath
before deflating again like a balloon spent.
Bites from opportunistic feeders
marred the solid gray-blue-white skin
with a pinkish hue
and gaping holes.
Its blood lingered in the dark green waves
a sandy-pink as it flowed with the current.
And people still swam in its wake!
Unperturbed by the dead still bleeding
or the funeral procession watching on
in a half-circle of grief and awe and humor too
as the largest of lives we don't normally see
lay dead on the beach.

Did you know when you screamed at the mountain
until your throat protested your own cries
until your voice became raw and bleeding
spitting out blood and lies
that the mountain would echo it all back?
Ask you the same questions you asked it?
Like pointing a finger at a mirror and demanding
your reflection explain itself.
It’s like screaming to the heavens
“Why didn't you do anything?”
And then your voice becomes larger, louder,
asking you the same question back.
Why didn't you do anything?

To my dearest heart, wherever you are...
What say you?
Should I plant roses in place of graves
bring life to death like months of May?
Or plant daisies for every lady
degraded when they don’t drop to their knees?
Shall I reinvent marigolds
so that their yellow-gold glows
when darkness falls upon our souls?
Or maybe I should scatter seeds
let flowers grow freed?
My dearest heart, danger days will come,
flowers will die and not be enough.
But until you know this, I cannot rest.
Of all the flowers I grow, I care for yours best.

I'm manufactured like hand-me-down clothes.
Worn at the seams though I'm not old.
Elastic stretched out,
zipper caught on its own track,
my buttons won't snap.
The threads at my knees tear
revealing scarred skin that won't disappear.

But I can roll the hems,
unlatch the zipper,
replace the buttons.
And truthfully, I like the look of jeans
with rips at the knees
so what if it reveals me?

I wear the clothes of my mother and sisters
what they loved is now mine to claim
for it doesn't quite fit them anymore
and perhaps some seams ripped
but that I can fix so it will fit me.

The clothes I wear may not be new
and hold old hopes that won't come true
but it holds old love too.

My brother asked me,
"Do you want to shoot a gun?
We can go over safety.
How to load and unload one.
You may never have to
use one in your life
but this is America
knowing this could save your life."
I told you before,
I don't trust my hands when they're still.
If I know the code
to the safe when I'm ill
and how to load
a gun when I'm scared,
will I remember
who I am and who cared?
So my brother,
I fear what I'll become
if I learn this will I
get control of my thoughts?
Will it bring me power?
Will it bring me peace?
Will I be in control
when I turn off the safety?
My brother, I want to know
but not enough to hold
this answer to the question
"When will the pain go?"
It's so finite.
So absolutely cold.
The barrel in my hands
so still with idle thoughts.

In this hou  se I sit
on a chair t  hat has
yet to be m  oved
it takes tim  e to pack
up furnitur  e that
decorated a  home
I trace my f  ingers on
a groove in  the wood
grain of the  kitchen table
a mistake f  rom when
you cut app  les without
a cutting bo  ard for you
were runni  ng late to
work and d  idn't have
time to take   care but
it was okay   what was
one mark on   a wooden
table anyway  ? I was not
angry about i  t perhaps
I should've be  en since
you feel like I  don't feel
anything then  maybe
you wouldn't   be moving
out of my hea  rt without me

...................................................
   my heart            is filled
with           th    e               thrill
of                   fin                ding
my                                     place
that I                               don't
  even                            notice
     the ma                 sk they
          painted    on my
                      face  
.................................­..................

I've dissected hearts of sheep
who bleat about what they eat
and how they're incomplete
they need to meet
that other sheep who'll complete them
And yet I'm no closer to understanding
these grand feelings, these demanding
blood-pumping vessels that are deemed romantic
have you ever dissected one?
Not to be pedantic but they aren't filled
with love.
Perhaps that's why I don't get it
I'm dissecting hearts when I should be
picking at brains, watching the sparks
that I hear people talk about
take place
But I don't feel sparks
am I supposed to?
If I cut open my head and **** around
I'll find what's wrong and cut it out
and I'll feel just like everyone else
won't I?
I don't think I will
Because I've dissected many hearts
and each one is different
in size, in shape
in care, in weight
so why wouldn't our brains be any different?
So I do not feel the spark that other's do
I do not feel the pull that other's do
and as long as I'm living with it
and I accept it
I don't feel broken or alone
I don't feel like it is something to fix
because my heart isn't broken
nor is my brain
I just don't want to *******
my guy
or anybody tbh
get over it

My throat aches from goodbyes I've held
behind my teeth; I'll never tell.
The friends I miss say, "See you in Hell."
Without a word uttered from their lips.
Contain it in my stomach; a terrible acid.

So I'm drinking, honey.

I sit on my bed, pictures in my hands,
and a bottle looming on my nightstand.
I read once honey can soothe
rough words into sweet and smooth,
tooth-rotting platitudes.

So I'm drinking honey.

There's no way to fix the tears I made
pieces of film fall from my hands.
Onto my floor, I know what to do,
I lift my rug and I grab a broom.
What good are these to me and you?

Stop drinking honey!
Stop drinking, honey!

I wander through the woods
on a brisk Autumn evening.
Leaves growing crisp with frost
beneath my heavy boots
and light fading faster than
heat escaping from my head.

I stop.

Only the pines boast any greenery.
The rest of the trees' leaves create
a path that I've yet to disturb
with my trudging trail.
I shove knit-covered hands into my pockets
and release a foggy breath in still air.

I wait.

A slight rustle in pine needles is my clue.
I'll stay until my cheeks redden from the chill
and the sky releases snow as pale as my bones.
I'll wait for when leaves are crushed
yet I'm still as stone.
I'll leave now that I know

I'm not alone.

talking on the phone makes my skin crawl
I can't see who I'm talking to
maybe they're rolling their eyes
or silently laughing as I trip over my words
perhaps they're trying to hide me
for someone else in the room would rather I not speak
and it's ridiculous, truly, I don't want to talk
People calling requesting estimates for their homes
no heats, no ac, no need to hear from me
I'll check the messages and send them on their way
but they call again and again and again
wanting to know if I got their message
do they really need to hear from me?
Honestly! I'm the go between!
Just leave a message with the info I requested
on my answering machine.
I got your message, I really did
I sent it to where it needed to go
you don't have to talk to me, please stop trying
I turn the volume down on my phone
stop calling me, I won't answer
but your message won't go unheard
stop calling me, I won't answer
my silent phone rings with recorded words

The call comes in at six am,
I don't get into the office until eight,
My answering machine blinks red with warning;
I'll get this message too late.
"I haven't serviced my generator
in three years
and it stopped working
after twenty-four hours.
I have no power."
I check their name,
they've done no business with us before.
I cannot send techs to them
when my phone keeps ringing.
I answer it.
"Hello, how can I help?"
"We're current contract customers
and our generator didn't turn on.
I've got an infant and this storm
is too dangerous.
I have no power."
And all I can ask is for their name
and number,
send it off to my boss
who cannot send techs out
in the storm.
I inform them so,
"I understand," they say.
"Send them when you can."
I hang up my phone
only for it to ring again.
"Let me guess," I say
"you have no power?"
"Got it in one," then comes
the nervous laughter.
Our conversation repeats
just like the others.
When I go home tonight
I'll maneuver around branches,
dodging cones and power lines,
yielding for approaching sirens.
I'll go up my driveway
crunching twigs and leaves.
I'll enter my dark and quiet home
and flick a switch
but no lights will turn on.
I'll have no power.

My desk is clear.

Unless you count the neat stacks of papers
I have yet to attend to
that sit on my left and right
except for right in front of me.
Right in front of me there is nothing
but a keyboard and a monitor that's lit up
with a too bright white page.
The cursor blinks in and out of existence
much like the ideas in my head.
I type a word then delete.
I type a sentence then complete
an entire page with great phrases such as:
"There once was a someone in a land
that was known for its great something or another.
The sky looked very pretty, maybe a few clouds
which are puffy and white
a large, dark bird flies across crying in victory
with a mouse hanging limp from its claws
and that someone stood on a hill,
or in their room, or on the street,
staring up at the bird and wondered
what it'd be like to fly,
or to hunt,
or to be the predator not prey,
to be feared not fearful.
Perhaps this someone will never know
what it'd be like to rule, to live on top of the hill,
as they'd always be stuck in the town below."
There are too many choices to manage
too many places this story could go
and my nameless main character
are they friend or foe?
I don't know!
I knock my neat stacks of papers to the ground
they scatter all over my office
I shut down my computer so that the screen goes black
and my reflection stares back, shakes her head
in judgement.
My pulse pounds in my temples as the pressure builds
and I look down at my desk to avoid my own eyes.

My desk is clear.

I don't believe in bad omens.

A black cat crossing my path isn't a bringer of poor luck,
otherwise I'd trip down my stairs far more often,
or get whacked by a stealthy sheathed paw
with more dreadful precision when I ascend them.
It's just a game this cat plays,
as if they guard the upstairs to keep intruders out.
I live here, this is my house.
A flock of crows doesn't bring me to fear the day
as old warnings say
they're just dark birds gathering together.
On Autumn days I pretend
they're investigating their ******,
casting wild accusations with their raucous cries,
and the final judgement, no matter the distance,
reaches my ears with clarity
like a church bell tolling when its time to pray.
"Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!"
And what of breaking mirrors?
Mistakes happen, reflective material shatters.
If I let my mind run with that one time
I knocked a mirror over, well I'd
never let go of the damage I caused.
Pieces of an old reflection live within me
embedded in my skin like shrapnel from bombs
dropped on my head,
doesn't matter if I saw them coming.
I could only shelter; never dodge.

No... I don't believe in bad omens.

“Haven’t you heard the cottage in the clearing-”
“-upon the mountain?”
“-yes it belongs to a demon.”

And I gripped my angel’s arm to keep them from interfering
with the two mothers' conversation.

“My kids tried to enter it one day
they thought it was abandoned; figured it’d be okay.
But it wasn’t empty! The home came alive!
With shifting shadows that let sinister creatures thrive!
It hissed like a serpent preparing to strike
but its shadow was not unlike
a human in form, tall and thin
with claw-like fingers, a pointy-toothed grin,
and slitted eyes that glowed amber in the dark-”
“I’m glad my children know to only play in the park.
No demons to be found on a swingset
Or buried in the sands to upset
children wanting to explore-”
I interject, “Isn’t this just some old folklore?
A tale told to tiny children to make
them more obedient… or perhaps to fear the snake?”

“What are you doing?” My angel asked
But I did not reply.

“Oh I am sure that my kids exaggerated a bit.
Childish imaginations are like a wicked kit
to build extraordinary nightmares from shadows.
A frightened animal becomes a monster which addles
their minds, tells them not to stray.
But it is an 'evil home' they say."

“That is absurd! It’s just an old cottage!”
My angel was incensed.

“And no child should be digging through its remains,
no matter what secrets it contains.
So if there is a demon, I do not care,
As long as it stays there.”
“And besides, a storm is coming, haven’t you heard?
If the cottage survives its assault, that would be absurd!
Leave that evil thing to rot in the weather-”
“Yes, that’d be a splendid thing! I’d tether
my hope to it like a boat to its dock
and wait out the storm. I'd wait out the clock
to see horrors end their own existence.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Good riddance!”

And the mothers walked on, angel pulled my arm
turning me to their pinched face.
“Why do you speak such a way?”
“It got them to leave me be.”
“You could’ve said, ‘I live there and I’m no demon.’”
“That would never work.
I’d rather feed into their fears and keep them away
than gave them a single face to openly hate.”
“You’re absurd!” My angel declared
and then grabbed the collar of my coat,
turning it up to protect me from the sting
of the oncoming wind
And perhaps also from the maelstrom
they feared untied boats would be caught in.
Protect me from the frightened visions of children
completing a dare.
And keep me safe from their mothers
who speak about me without knowing I'm there.
And keep me safe from myself
when I speak of why I should not receive care.

I check my pale wrist where my watch hangs
held up by a loose knot, turned from my judgement.
I do not push it so I may see its true face
for the lifeless swing it will create.
I leave it to its gravitational movement.
And as a result, I do not know the time.
Yet ticks crawl their way into my head
and bite down on sun-bleached bones,
for I have no humor left to feed them.
So they trickle away with my thoughts
like a stream that may one day nurture a river
and carve a path that cannot be denied.
No, I do not know the time
or the place I'll reside in when the flood
sweeps those ticks away forever.
But my bones fear not the changing landscape
as my patience is pendulumless
and floods cannot be bridged by swaying watches.
When the knot finally comes undone
I'll watch time plop in waist-deep water
and I will not be beholden to that parasite.

I will not know time.
Time will not know me.

They said I divested Saturn of his rings
and asked if he would dance with me.
He squeezed my fingers so heat lingered.
I knew he was told I'm a danger;
that I don't feel, that I don't kneel,
that I'm a terror, but that isn't fair.
Just say he can't make his own choices.
Say he can't control his impulses.
Why would I tempt a planet to ruin?
Why would I tempt a god to consuming
each breath before it disappears?
Confined him to my strong atmosphere.
Then call my heart weak as it beats in threes
how convenient, toes tap to odd melodies.
For my body's from Venus, how divine.
Yet I was a borne sinner, so keep me in line.
He said good evening as I said goodnight,
atoms were buzzing in the sunlight.
He grinned like I was a prize to be won
It was almost as bright as the starry sun.
So I lead him a bit further and took great care,
Saturn broke his orbit for an affair
and threw himself into the fire.
He was burning desire as I played the lyre.
Strum a gentle song for the end of love,
call me a heartless, winged-rat dove.
Say this is how I feel; this is who I am.
Say I sent an innocent to be ******.
Call me a fiend, a demon, a liar,
when I'm just a woman who played a lyre.

I kept a quarter in a drawer next to my bed
for when I made decisions that hurt my head
where each choice came at great cost to my sanity
so I flipped a quarter to cheapen the price to twenty-five cents
and I said it's just common sense keeping innocence
but it's ignorance and guiltlessness that I wanted for me.
When a quarter felt too heavy I moved on to a dime
because it was lighter than its cost and fit my indecisive crime
but I find I tossed it too high and couldn't always catch it
so it clattered to the floor and rolled beneath my dresser
and maybe if I left it there, my decision-making stressor
would disappear like the dime then I could quit
Yet decisions kept on coming and so a nickel would have to do
five-cent choices should be worth less than dimes too
and yet again, I couldn't bear the weight of my choice.
So instead I flipped two pennies, to get my two cents in.
One landed heads, the other tails, and I still have a decision.
I can't keep flipping coins to replace my voice.
My treasure trove of choices worth less than the ones before
because they're all plastic, made so I don't have to endure
the weight of cost so I selfishly kept on flipping
all these coins and kept on wishing they would never land.
Fifty-fifty, leave my choice to chance, take it out of my hand.
If my coins never land, then my decisions cost me nothing.

I
d
r
  o
   p
    p
     e
      d
       m
         y
          w
            o
             r
             d
              s

               pick them up
Can you                       for me?

Rearrange t-h-e-m
in
a
w a y
I meant to s p e a k?
Because I                  k n o w   you
and you                    k n o w   me.
We would n e v e r use
stale, weak words
to hurt each other.

No, we would(n't.)

There is a memory I keep circling back to
during hours of soft, smiling silences.
It is rather incomplete, just a piece really.
A single shard of shattered years I hold dear.

In this memory, I am on a hill just before it descends
holding an ice cream cone that once held a vanilla scoop.
My hand still sticky where the dessert dripped down
as I sought refuge in the shade of a lilac tree.
Late Spring's sun ceded to the blooming lilacs,
I could breathe in the perfumed air with an ease
of those with lungs that worked consistently.
And I could hear bees,
buzzing overhead, pollinating the light purple flowers,
going about their work at an unbothered pace,
like they too were soothed by the lilacs.
Content with what they already had
unhurried to gather more than they need.
I took my time munching on the wafer cone
unbothered like a bee.
And I thought to myself at the tender age of seven,

I'll remember this.

I just didn't realize at the time
how important that promise would be.

This memory is a shard, a piece,
it was jagged and hurt to squeeze.
Because it was brilliant simplicity
just before the concept of breaking touched me.
But the years I've cared for it
receiving cuts from how much I despaired
that it was gone, I'd never feel it again,
my care to return to this piece smoothed its edges.
I know now that there was no use clinging so tightly
leaving a mark in my hands as if it was proof
to be read in my palms that I had happiness.
Because I haven't lost it.

I will always enjoy the memory
of eating ice cream beneath my lilac tree
and smile at that simple piece.
I remembered it because I said I would.
I remember it now to experience it again.
It is a memory of happiness.
A promising peace.

I'm a good student and that's about it. I get good grades; I am a good kid. I'm smart and people say I'm going places. But I'm going nowhere, I'm trapped by expectations. I've made decisions based on safety, and not on who I want to be. Because I'm a student, I listen to authority. I trick myself into thinking I'm free and I get to decide my future. But I'm living on regimented time, saved and controlled by bells and teachers. I'm a good student, but I'm not good at life and my ambition has been dead for a long time. I'm just a student who knows how to pass. I'm a good student but I'm not made to last.

I stumbled across a letter from an old friend,
its contents were long and wordy but they had their end.
It was just her way of saying she appreciated our friendship.
A friendship unanchored, blew away with the wind
with paper sails that have only thinned.

Birthdays used to be a grand affair; a day to celebrate
but each year the wishes dwindle down so I reciprocate.
Radio meets silence while we're both aware of the days
until it becomes a memory of the song that no longer plays.
Too busy trying to navigate channels that changed.

Then an invitation to a graduation came to me one year
a wedge of uninterrupted distance bridged by a, "Dear."
I don't know if olive branches can hold my weighted heart
but I sent my response to expect me there
before I decided to not care.

When the day came you said, "I didn't think you would come!"
I kept quiet how I cried in my car a block from
your home. I hid my face in your arms and squeezed you tight
because the wedge between us was five-years wide.
"I said I would," is all I replied.

And we asked each other questions that friends don't ask.
What did you study? Where do you live? What do you do?
We joke around but do not laugh as hard as we used to.
My past brought to my present like a nostalgic gift.
A chance to heal over our ocean-wide rift.

And there were no known reasons! I can't turn back the clock!
I just drifted like a small boat barely tethered to its dock
until a storm came and everyone forgot to tie me down.
Or maybe it was on purpose, or maybe I couldn't secure me.
I was the fourth in a unit of three, send me out to sea.

But there is a positive to all of this turmoil
there is a reason the invitation made it to my door.
I rowed myself through the five-year waves back to shore
and tethered my boat and checked the knots times ten.
When friends become strangers we get to meet again.

I plant another garden; sow seeds and pips.
Dirt stains my knees and my fingertips.
I go inside, escape the all-seeing sun
and erase any trace of ***** work I've done.
I don't know why
my hands are raw and dry.
Cracking at the seams of my skin,
revealed myself to be wrist-deep in sin.
I planted my garden, but at what cost?
What flowers grow when the gardener is lost?

Teach young girls that they can say "No,"
to situations that make them uncomfortable.
Don't force them to hug someone they barely know
even if you know them well.
Teach young girls they can say "Yes,"
to situations that make them curious.
That they don't have to sacrifice their own happiness
for someone else.
Teach young girls that they can say "I'm sorry,"
but only when they actually mean it.
To assert themselves when they've been wronged
and to recognize when they were wrong.
Teach young girls to say "I'm worthy,"
no matter what path they choose in life.
Whether it's to be a doctor, an artist, a scientist, a wife
whatever it may be, let them decide.

Teach young girls to say "No."
And teach little boys to accept it.

I tell my secrets to children
in the form of fairy tales
A "Once upon a time," is enough
to quiet down their wails
and I spin stories as well as spiders
weaving webs that a lost child
must navigate the tangled trails
with cleverness and wit
sharper than any sword
more accurate than any arrow
I speak of children who questioned
the established path of rejection
and this misguided idea of reciprocity,
"You must suffer because it happened to me."
Because my blessing in life was not brute strength
but a clear mind and clever tongue.
I tell my secrets to children
so that they may grow smarter because of them.

"How are you doing?"
those words pierced through my coat
bypassing the buttons that I didn't notice were open
until he spoke them
How I froze words intended to warm
into a pointed intrusion meant to warn
me of my icy exterior
It jabbed at my heart like icicles
pressed into the wound that throbbed and pulsed
He maintained eye contact when he asked
and my eyes were wide
with weariness I couldn't truly hide
but I could disguise
"I'm doing well and you?"
I replied to the man holding a stop-sign
my voice pleasant like springtime
when the wind rustled green-leafed trees
during the early sunrise
and the morning doves sang a sweet melody
covering up my shivering heart
"I'm doing good," he said
and nodded his head
in response to my quiet 'thank you'
he waited until I crossed the small street
eyes at my back, tracking my slow, steady steps
and when I got to the other side
I paused for my crossing guard said one more thing
"I hope you have a good day!"
and I said with a smile too bright, "You too,"
and went on my way
marching through the bright, winter day
hoping that this road would just take me away
Just take me away

I sit on my front steps with a camera and listen to the leaves
As they slide across rough concrete
Like the wind has secrets to keep
If I listen I may decipher what’s dear.
Leaves carry notes of love long lost
Letters meant for hands that can no longer hold.
I pick one up and trace its veins
and listen to the message it contains.
Regrets for time not spent
now the currency is valueless.
Updates of the present
a simple gift to the past.
Notes about plans
now cancelled eternally.
Some leaves dry up and get crushed,
some bear the marks of words rushed,
But not a single one lacks love.
Not a single one lacks love.
I capture moments with a click and a shutter.
Preserve the memories so I won’t lose them in the clutter
Of a desk covered in papers and pens.
With drawings of a time I can barely comprehend.
Why is holding a leaf like holding your hand?
A fragile, weightless being, supported by the wind.
I don’t want to let go and see you
taken away again.
No, I must remember
the time that we shared.
When leaves were a beauty
pointed out on forest trails.
Find comfort in the memories
Captured by cameras and pens
There is a beauty in every
beginning and end.
I can whisper that to the leaves
send them like a letter I penned
And maybe when the wind delivers
it to those ghostly hands
We'll know it's been read.
I know I won't know
until I see you again.
Whispers in the wind
Until I see you again
and receive leaves
from the messenger wind.

I'll tell a tale of a heart that wants
a place to sit and rest
where it can relax from a brain's taunts
slow its beating in a chest
that's locked up tight buried in the sands
of a beach the picture of paradise
people dig for it with trembling hands
can't obtain the chest though they paid the price
of searching for a treasured heart
that wishes diggers will take a break
A heart beats though it wants to depart
how much more hate can it take?

Higher functions demand a heart to beat
it continues to hurt beneath diggers' feet.

I bit my lip so I won't speak
chewed it up so my words won't peek
out with my tongue. Mouth shut, I keep
my voice to myself even when I weep.
I'm on the ground like a trembling dove
being cut with scissors wielded with love.
They clipped my words
like wings of birds.
Held those feathers to the light
and ordered them to take flight.
Then laughed when I stilled on the concrete
and nudged my broken wings with their feet.

I stood on the side of a busy road
on a winter evening, not many years ago.
The blaring red and white lights,
sometimes yellow or even blue
had me squinting in response
but I didn't move from my spot.
No matter how close the cars passed me by.
No matter how much the lights hurt my eyes.
And I was approached by some sort of ghost
who leaned on the guardrail next to me.
"Nice weather we're having,"
he said to me in a way of greeting,
and flashed me a smile of broken teeth.
A helmet damaged and hung down his back,
the straps still clipped together.
A **** in his skull bleeding down his pale face
and several bones out of place.
Could he still feel that pain?
Next to him was his mangled bicycle.
"Bit of a blind turn?" He asked me.
It was a rather difficult turn.
I nodded my head in agreement.
"It's gonna rain soon. You should get going."
The ghost continued.
"I think I'll stay," I replied.
The ghost shook his head.
"Listen, once that rain starts
you're a few minutes away from a tragedy."
I didn't reply.
"The minute it happens, you'll wish it hadn't."
the ghost insisted.
The rain he spoke of started to fall
and I remained where I was
leaning against guardrail.

"I'm not leaving," the ghost said.
"I'm not leaving until you go home."

"Well, we have only a few minutes now.
I'll be home soon enough."