For the Disney print princess
who knows what she's about,
who finds fascinating worlds within dust cover jackets,
who sends smiles in parenthesis; lost love brackets
over classroom mid-drifts,
a bare silence interrupted by pure kindness;
for who walks in noise behind inaudible
commuters from this station to that station
all the way home and back out again on her family vacation,
who can match and pair t-shirts and jeans with
bowler hat crowns from the palace of queens,
who, for all we know, could eat with elbows on tables
and read not prose, but short fiction fables,
who wouldn’t hold doors open or say thank you
to bus men and their drivers,
who might smoke away her pay
with great plumes almost every day,

who might not be the girl I thought she was.

Fragments of a broken mind
Some call it love
I call it time
See the end of the line
As you whisper mine
Cries of a muted hand
That failed to take a stand
I'm not what I am
I am what I'm not
Will it be enough
Never will you know
Will it be a callous feat
To be something I can't see
Broken upon the glass
And buried within the sand
Protruding is my hand
And nothing more

let me forget you.

take me to the drowned forest
where water gurgles from
descicated root-lungs,
preserving limpness in form.
where I can feel at home
dangling, the shadowed bats
swerve in overcast light.

here, I am caught
pretending that the ground
rushes towards me,
and peace is in my lungs.