It was an icy day.
We buried the cat,
then took her box
and set fire to it

in the back yard.
Those fleas that escaped
earth and fire
died by the cold.

I want to be able to look at you and know
That I could have you
If I wanted to
when I wanted to
And no one else would be allowed to touch you
Because you  are  **mine

Loneliness and depression are like parasites,
adapting to their new host bodies
They will cling to anything that it can.
Something with an open wound,
someone weak in the flesh - susceptible.
For these are their preferred feasting grounds,
and I’m their favorite company.

Poetry is a quirk of the soul
A seamless song of connections
Where the word rules its truth
And  its spirit encounters you

Adulthood is falsehood.
I remember at the darkest,
hearing a voice other than my mother's,
mantra repeated for knife-depraving comfort,
keeping nails away from face.
I thought it should be the voice
of the woman who held me against her breast
who bore me through blood and near-death.
The voice seemed more woman than my mother.
The deep, solid, earthy voice of iron eyes and earthen hands
rough tenderness of nature,
the comfort of Eve
made woman, never born child.
But I suppose she understood better than we
innocence lost.

My mother has the fragility of spun sugar,
But steel bent will--
I realize there is still the scared child
buried in her heart
and I see the same reflection of me in the mirror.
Buck-toothed, grass haired, round faced, and wide eyed.
I wonder if I will ever feel fully woman.
Or if we're all just scared children.
Powerful and powerless
as the girl building sandcastles
holding dominion
till the tides of time bear them away.