I’m in a relationship
with the man
working behind the counter
at the post office

though I have yet
to determine
the nature of our pairing

he asks me how I am
as if fumbling for words
on a first date
i reply quickly fine fine and you?

he nods disappointed by
my urgency
and half-hearted smile

moments pass in silence
as we chew on our respective entrees
he looks at me questioningly
i stare down at my phone

a slip of paper is issued
I sign it he counts out the money
I stare at his chest hair

instead of placing it on the
counter he carefully slips
the notes and coins
into my outstretched hand

for that singular tactile experience
before our time is up
his soft blue eyes

always expectant
impatiently drink of me
without my acquiescence until
I leave there

awkwardly drained
knowing that
he’s watching me go

0:00
I fly through the front doors
racing upstairs like hunted prey
praying she didn't see me

1:00
I tear open the make remover
and feverishly rip off
the overpowering
jet black eyeliner

2:00
I steal a glance in the bedroom mirror
and throw on a hoodie over my black shirt
quickly swapping out the black pants for jeans
in a crude attempt to look normal

3:00
I hear her steps ringing off the stairs as my heart beats
sounding together like a drum kit
I pull off my spiked black bracelets
and trinkets
hands shaking palms sweating
as I hide them away

4:00
I feel the door opening before it does and
hope i covered up the look, the spikes hidden
the eyeliner gone
i glance in the mirror and see a pale
empty girl looking back
terrified of being caught

5:00
she asks how my day was while casually looking around the room
her ever seeing eyes falling on my undoing
my small black spiked gothic bracelet
hanging off the desk
sticking out like a sore thumb

6:00
she asks what it is
and looks at me questioningly
talking about how she deposes the style
hates the look
as I fumble for an excuse
of the unusual possession

7:00
I lie, its easy now i do it all the time.
But this was different. I tell her
that its a stupid birthday gift
a throwaway I keep because
friends like to see me wear what they bought
but as I utter the words
I feel like Im stabbing my soul
twisting a knife
calling a part of my identity garbage
telling myself that part of myself is simply a throw away
and despite the fact that I use a fake knife
The sting still feels real
because I know that part of what I say is true

He seems distracted, his lips tight.
Is everything okay, I ask.
He smiles and says it's just fine,
Then hurries off to the other room to grab his things.
Sitting on the bed, I got to thinking,
And the more I thought about it,
The more I realized that everything was going perfectly.
It was all going as it should,
It certainly couldn't be any better.
I smiled softly, a powerful peace filling my core.
He looked at me questioningly when he returned,
Quickly distracted by the task at hand.
He pulled the needle from my arm,
Replacing it with another IV.
Are you ready for your next round of chemotherapy Tiffany?
My heart flutters for a moment.
Yes, I am ready.

Wildly clanging bells, soundless--

housed worship withdrawing

senses...your button black pupils

struck dead.

Alarmingly alive, wearing *******

vengeance in pure.

Both Christ and high priest tearing

open your skin, to shed a

blasphemous tour.

Exemplar energy transference,

popped cellophane wrap round

mileages of barbwire.

Eavesdropper, peace-fingered

tongue thru fangs...plunged in

red rondure, swell fruit.

Salival juice, moonlit seafoam --

hard jazz tripping your wire.

Asked to Come again--questioningly

striking, you always come again

on the flip side, straight up.

That notched spine: O sole mio.

Bite till darkness takes cover

in me.

I lay in bed in a dark, dark, imagery
As a cold deep shadow watches me
Monitoring--questioningly--menacingly
And I feel myself grow lonelier and lonlier
After a day in sunny foyers and populous piers
I stay shriveled in fear
That the day was a dream
And this isn't a nightmare

Do my tired eyes tell the tale of a love lost?
I don't mean to say its gone away, I just can't seem to find it
I've looked for days I've tried it all
Found the highest mountain and I climbed it
Still it evades me, this love, this life, that used to guide me
I'm confused on what to do, I could always see it shining
But I gaze in your eyes questioningly,
and see a dull shade of gray
I'm afraid if I go down that road,
i'll never find my way.
So I trace trails down your spine
In hopes i'll find a familiar road
But on my way I only find
A river of contempt that wasn't there before
I search in the heart
That once harbored my home
The smell of a stale fire
I stand with unspoken words, alone
This doesn't feel like home anymore
The fingers that once intertwined with mine
Now hold a barrier between our souls
Riddled with wrinkles of guilt
Sweating drop of secrets left untold
And your pulse, my pulse
I just can't be sure which one it is
Once thriving with passion
Cold, waning, and dim.
That face that once fed me endless comfort
Now it only brings me pain
Of memories of a love once had
That may never be the same again

He was a boy, she was a girl,
Do you see where this is going?

Sometimes she was a girl and sometimes he was sweet,
and sometimes they would smile at each other,
and sometimes one would smile and the other would miss it,
and sometimes neither smiled at all.

Sometimes there were others and sometimes there were not
and sometimes the others got too close,
and sometimes she got rather internally possessive,
and sometimes he raised an eyebrow questioningly but got no answer

Sometimes there was music and sometimes there was dancing,
and sometimes they danced and sometimes they didn't,
and sometimes he watched her and sometimes she giggled,
and sometimes she watched him and had to look away

Sometimes she thought in terms of forever,
and sometimes she thought in terms of 'never',
and sometimes she thought in terms of 'maybe',
and sometimes she thought in terms of 'enough',

(because sometimes she didn't feel good enough)
(and sometimes she worried about not being loved enough)
(and sometimes she stressed about not being pretty enough)
(and most times she didn't feel like she was enough)

But sometimes that didn't matter,
because sometimes he smiled and talked enough
and sometimes his stories were funny enough
and sometimes he showed her he cared enough

And sometime she'll realize enough is enough
and that being attractive isn't always a measure of scruff
and that when you love someone you've gotta say that stuff
because leaving is easy when you don't know enough

No faintest ray of light
Shines in
Or finds it can
Divine a grin
Above my chin
As darkness seeps into my skin
Wherein the fading joy persists
To fein another day amidst
So many glances skeptically
And questioningly scowering me
Or some don’t seem to care I’m here
Don’t meet my eyes, nor dare I there’s
A stranger in some stranger land
And every night the rains again
Crash down upon this muddy shack
Until my dreams all fade to black

Heartbeat quickening, I weight each decision in my head. "**** it", my head responds. I gently hold your head between my hands. I let you stare into my eyes questioningly before I bring our mouths unto eachother. Finding your lips is one of the single hardest and easiest things ive ever done.

I colored her into a canvas and called it my greatest art piece,
letting them know that only the hands of a(n) artist is capable of making something that has always been beautiful,
Into beauty that is now defined.
The brush strokes speak of heartbreak and anger,
Of love and pleasure,
They mimic the energy vibrating throughout her body and begin to imprint a different story within those who stand before her and ponder.

One, thinks that her movements are portrayed as tough, yet the world is slowly weighing down on her, crushing every sense of hope
The other, believes that she sways to the beats of Love. She stares, questioningly, at how the canvas embodied Love.
Little did she know,
The contents of the art piece is in fact,
Love.
A man and a woman stand before my significant piece,
Their hands interlocking, eyes wide open, mesmerized
This is what the art work stands for —
Lips interlocking, eyes gleaming, hungry minds, desperate hands, drum-like hearts.
A family walks by, the kids unaware of the beauty surrounding them.
The mother stands in the center and clasps her hands. Her thoughts buzz.
This is how she feels.
These swirls of color,
Mixing and staining the white, is a representation of all that is within her —
A mess that continues to haunt her.
Is this what she wanted?
But of course, she is madly in love,
Is it with her husband?
The father stares at his wife in awe.
Regardless of all the litter in the world, she remains the only sensible thing of beauty.
As more people begin to file in,
A sense of accomplishment washes over me.
The painting connected to so many people, that they’re most probably going to think of it over the next couple of days, weeks, maybe even months or years.

I take the painting down.
I storm out of the gallery.

I project the painting onto a larger canvas, a larger wall.
The people realize that there are seatings, in which they each begin to take one.
I yell out, ‘what do you see?’ ‘What does she speak to you?’ ‘What are you filled with?’ ‘What thoughts creep out of the shadows and talk to you, when you look at her?’
The audience stares at me with disbelief, as if I have become a madman, losing my sanity.
But I’ve already lost it to her.
‘Comfort’, one yells.
‘Loneliness’, follows.
‘Patience’ ‘intelligence’ ‘abandonment’ ‘happiness’ ‘carefree’ ‘anger’ ‘pain’ ‘suffering’

There are no words to describe the person I love,
But she embodies everything I see.
I tried containing her within a painting,
But she lived in every person that was granted a look by her.
And I am,
Forever,
Grateful
That I get to see beauty, in everything she is and everything she does.

An afternoon with father
he directs a play
in the patron's building and
meanwhile, I wander around
the attic, room after room
musty stuff from the past

saints that I don't know
of wood that I don't know
smoothly and shiny waxed
but fallen out of favour
only sometimes as an advocate
carried on a throne in a procession

here they are real
here I can smell them
and touch them, see
their look close up and feel it
upon me from heaven
questioningly I look at them

There is a line
from me to you.
It straddles
the salt **** of sea,
the starry marrow
of night air,
the pencil shavings
about your ankles.
It threads through
castles of romance
I built in another time,
the courtyard littered
with lost scarves.
The line spans
thousands of girdled
miles without effort,
yet it touches you
questioningly,
and lays down
like a stray cat.
Go ahead,
it's yours,
take it.