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ten years,
too late.

ten years—

and there's
no debate:

i will do
everything

to not be

like you.

i'm no saint,

but i know
when enough
is enough

and to draw
a line,

before it's
too late.

people come
and people go;

and i've come
to terms with
forgiving

and letting
go.

but in the midst of
it all, i hope
to be better

than to
risk it all.

because impressions
are forever,

and

i've learned
to forgive you
and move past it

rather than fall.
some legacies are meant to end. this isn't anger. this is release.
What
if
I
was
just

























Gone?
i want to peel your skin back
and reveal your deepest sweetness.
to look at your veins
and memorize their paths.
maybe then i’d understand
why you are so rough on the outside.
it takes a lot of work,
digging your fingernails into the flesh,
pulling and pulling until you are bare.
but it is all worth it;
to visit your center,
to break past what conceals you,
and take you apart
slice by slice.
Impromptu
moments
have spurs—
sharp little flares
of now
kicking
air
into wind.

No time
to rein it—
just ride
the wild
minute
where it
wants
to go.
He’d call me into the bathroom
Pinch my arm
Or find cut on my skin
And rub alcohol on it
“Doesn’t that feel good, Liana?”
He’d say

I knew I only had one option
And that was to say yes
Not poetic but I wanted to know if this was truly weird or not because it was very common in my house. I was talking to my friend and suddenly realized that this wasn’t normal. Is it normal? She said it wasn’t and looked confused/concerned. So many things that seemed normal weren’t I guess but I don’t know about this one.

Edit: Yup confirmed. Not normal.
Devil in details—
you said love me as I am
then handed a list.
this kids,
is how you do it

in the mid of the dark hours,
when two am is your new oldest friend
when sleep, your oldest old one,
left town on the midnight train,
taking your peace of mind

though she is far away
lost in dream-thoughts caught,
but only twelve inches close,
granting you an unasked permission,
you ok to stroke her hair,
undisturbing her, yet comforting yourself,
every voice in your temple'd altar praying,
one glorious chorus godly chant:

Oh Lord, what would I do without her?

and you stroke her hair and are saved.


2:51am

May 2014
I

The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.

     II

The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.

     III

You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.

     IV

His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
Feet reclined near water's edge,
the warmth of the Sun,
coolness of the breeze,
Hmm...a little yellow flower.

Standing all alone,
so small,
so proud,
so beautiful.

For a moment I'm reminded of you,
I shall pluck it for your enjoyment!
But wait- maybe instead,
I should leave it alone.

Yes, I'll leave it where it be,
so I can return each day,
and have a pleasant reminder of you.

Perhaps I'll write about it,
maybe in a letter,
and send it to you,
immortalizing its brilliance,
the little yellow flower.
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