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Tiger Striped Apr 23
I saw her
yesterday
climbing the stairs,
outrunning the blonde cascade
tumbling down, down
down her shoulders
outrunning me. I should have
known I’d never be safe
or good,
or sensible, not
with her in the room
I can’t move,
I can’t breathe,
I can’t speak.
She has me liquified
she’s an artist,
so I let her do
what she does to me
because maybe this is
my highest purpose,
to be her paint
for I love the feeling
of her brushstrokes
so I let her
muddle me into elemental puddles
and I’m glad of it, too.
Tiger Striped Apr 23
You are evil.
Did you know?
Or were you blessedly unaware
that you exceeded the limits
of Earth?
This is not heaven, honey
this is the closet where saints run
to cry. And you are here
which makes you
holy and broken
and a lover of mine.
Tiger Striped Apr 23
like a wreath, wretched over
my front door.
Pray, do not enter
nor seek to tempt fate
(she showed me her hand long ago).
It begs me,
always pleading,
listen, listen, listen.
Words cannot heal
the wounds they painted on your skin
and as you turn your shining
eyes toward mine
and you waver
on the precipice of past tense,
and the beating on the door grows
louder and louder.
Tiger Striped Apr 23
I’m tiptoeing around
my tsunami,
the same one
that drowned you.
I dried that bouquet today and
cried for the day you gave it to me.
Forgive me, darling,
for all my tears that should not
have been yours.
I want you
but I’ll settle for words
that dance around your likeness
teasing to capture
the beautiful face
I crumpled.
It gets harder
every day
to tell myself
it’s not my fault.
I’m cowering
six feet under you,
trying to look away
and let you live.
I will shrink myself
every day,
if it means you blossom
and with dripping cheeks,
I will tell myself
I am watering your garden
from three hundred miles away.
Tiger Striped Apr 23
I’m too in love, honey,
I can’t breathe when I see you
I’m flattened by you
and I stare at the sky
like I’m pavement
created by man
and screaming for more
than calloused tires.
Floor to ceiling, glass
I stand on the sill
and lean forward
facing the ground
suspended over construction,
beautiful nostalgia
and a hundred people who don't
know they're being watched.
I belong up here, I think
always wondering if
it will crack beneath my forehead
and I'll go tumbling –
in slow motion, I hope –
towards the earth. But
I can't decide
if I'm meant to be down there
the watched, instead of
the watcher.
Who is happier?
The doer
or the observer? I
think the answer is buried beneath a little
self-awareness
and I don't have time
to search for it. I'm busy for
now
looking out the fourth floor window.
This forest is dense
redwoods loom balefully
I run my hands along their bark

My breath comes too quickly
it sounds like laughter
I can feel your eyes on me

The fog surges in our open mouths
I'm facing you now
I don't think I can turn away

I don't remember stepping closer
we're standing on quicksand
my fingers clutch yours

It's not dangerous like I thought
I can breathe between grains of sand
I like it underground

I step into your body
I can't feel anything but you
I don't want to leave
and I can't.
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