Finding the little cathartic things that meld my spirit and mind into state of being at peace with each piece of each other.

Soul sucking
Life draining

Time ticking, slowly and taunting

Despire sneaks behind closed doors
Fear lurks in dark shadows

Waiting patiently for my guard to be down;

Grinning discreetly as it crawls upon my crumbled form;

“Surrender” whispers in thick air

“Yield” grazes the surface of my skin

Feeling defeated and imprisoned, I merely have room to breathe. My feet are too weak to flee.

Feeling threatened and trapped, I merely see a way out. My eyes are too watery to see.

Soul sucking
Life draining

Time ticking, slowly and taunting

My delusion of wait and hope to be rescued has broken into pieces.

My dream of independence and freedom has vanished into emptiness.

Thoughts, hope and love drain out of my veins

Leaving my soulless shell laying aimlessly among all

Lights may shed here and now

But it matters not

My eyes turned blind

My heart burried six feet down

My faith lost in the search of truth

I wake or I sleep

I walk or I stay still

It matters not

Soul sucking
Life draining

Time ticking, slowly and taunting as I drift further, disappearing into nothingness.

For long lost ghosts.

I hope you know

wherever you are

that I didn’t know

it was the last time

the last time

I got to see you.

—

I’ve spent

my whole life

crying for ghosts,

never considering

you wouldn’t want to

haunt me anymore.

—

We both know

I was never worth scaring.

I only wanted to be.

Hurricane Force Winds

Take me forward, take me back, take me to the place

where this is over and where it never happened. That back room

painted gray and white brick where memory goes to die, where the blood

of memory grows hyacinth, violets, carnations, flowers with made up meanings.

I wash my wounds with the blood of gods, scrub them with bath salts,

grab the skin at the edge and pull. Half the king’s fool, half a girl

gazing out the window in a periwinkle high collared dress, goat hooves

hidden in either costume. I kick out and hope the blow lands on a head of blonde hair

and not the edge of a cliff. Your brand new hunting dog has a taste for my tears,

your brand new hunting boots are a blank canvas waiting for tragedy, waiting for me

to spit out my broken front tooth, covered in sacrifice. So I leave it there

in the circle of mushrooms, something so explicit, so obvious a remnant

of the vulgar altar I never built to worship a body I’ll never touch.

There it lies, covered in dirt and the nectar of a fig. You ask me to stop talking

about him three years ago and him now. I smile, showing off the new

juvenile space where my tooth used to be. I swoon, cross my hands over

the pulsating, porous moon in my chest where my fire red heart should beat.

Portrait of the Artist Mid-Death

It will be violent, of course it will.

It will be so theatrical

only I could have written it.

I hope a part of you believes that I did.

It will be violent, in every sense of the word.

Violent: brutal, savage, wild

Violent: intense, unbridled, consuming

Violent: ephemeral, fugitive

It will be violent, but it will be true.

The harmonizing bleats of the

fatal blow and my grunt of pain?

As real as the fear I kiss on the lips.

It will be violent, and you will cry

You will cry “never forget!”

You have already forgotten

my faults, dearest.

And who are you if not your faults?

Perhaps the true anxiety

Is not that everyone will see;

It is that people will willingly,

Wantingly, desperately,

Go blind.

I could describe each

Fluttering, mournful movement I make

Down to the beat of my heart as it happens.

But only the empty space left behind my limbs is listening.

I gaze into the water and

A girl gazes back,

Head on my shoulder.

A guide who has gone mute,

Can’t bear to say anything more.

Can’t bear to watch their advice

Woefully, wander the halls of my mind.

A marble palace with portraits that age.

With walls painted with words that can tear

Small towns down into the water

To join the girl and I.

True Story

Why is it

That you will only sleep

In a room in which

You are afraid to move?

Gentle Sciences (Sappho Might Laugh)

Come dance with me love,

Just like we did that one time

When there were no stars in sight,

But Charles Darwin looking down.

You danced like you were showing off,

Showing me off. ‘Look! I won her!’

It helps that he was right there.

Baby, I’d like to think it was on purpose.

In the dark, an illusion: my lips on your fingers

(And your shoulder, and your cheek),

We float like perfect fairytale princesses.

But you know as well as I do, that we’re not.

Then the sun comes up, and I awake.

We stick to hugs and smiles and tap dances.

I stick to grimaces and taking scraps.

And it’s fine, my fair Aphrodite. You and I?

We’re really quite fine.