Pursed lips french exhale into the coldness of late January
On the inhale I can taste your cemetery shadows
The rich, bitter heat of your stalwart heart
Thumping to the tune of midnight
I want to draw on your edges with salt and whiskey
Make it burn, make it hurt
Let it really sink in how far away our fingertips have become
Am I still she?
Is this still me?
Looking for answers under the bird feeder
All I find are empty shells

A tangled mess
Sucker punched by my own blow hard suckers
Each scrape a deep wound full of poison and rapture
If I could but belt out this volcano of regret that burns deep
Perhaps I could take just one solitary breath that did not taste of you
That wasn't a constant reminder of
What. Could. Be.
Sea witch hair scattered every which where
Like seaweed jamming traffic along the ragged edge of reef
Is there a volunteer?
Someone willing to rehinge this off-the-rails oddity
That is and is not before you
A dead sea of guilty shade
Heavily armored
With fathomless depths of rage and remorse

control complex
strung tight around the bed posts with nothing around your neck
trapped by the manner of seeing with little review
years it will take to explain to you.
gripped by a man, her thoughts are course with no sifter
to shift her thoughts
to switch their bough's of anxiety
by definition an inner conspiring
of loneliness and obsession.
a generational connection where a father pesters his daughter about why she is the way she is and instead of hearing his desperate curiosity she feels like a first rate atrocity who deserves
to feel nothing.