Final ReviewFrom the perspective of your deathbedwould you want a heart that was whole?Or a heart that had bled?Torn by lovingbruised with caringthin form beating long after youwere sure it should notScared with healing and breakingand healing againUgly with stretchmarksof growth and expansionpurple with lack of oxygenall love flowing out againas soon as it flowed inFrom the perspective of your deathbedwould you want a heart that was whole?
TNTI, I was a powder-keg of emotion.Rich, uncut, pure massed emotionjust waiting for a sparkYou, you were the flameon a very short fuseFirst we sparkedshimmered for a heartbeatand when we exploded when I explodedthere was a mass casualtyof one
UntitledThere was a sadness in her eyesIt seeped into her fingertipsand with the lightest of toucheslodged itself in my soul
Ritual of FireLust's fingers unfurledat the sight of herlike young flames dancingwith warmth and the promiseof heat to followjust enough to engulf heraliveyet still she watchedas hips swayedunblinking, as eyes metallowed for the slight smileunder the gaze of tempest seaand welcomed the vanquishingof her sanity
FailingsLove failed herthe very first time she thought:She had found herself in the reflection of another's eyes.Had found home under the warmth of another's skin.Had found meaning in words dropped carelessly from (love) drunk lips.Has found safety in the presence of another.
Shards of BeingIt was a husk of a heartset on hatred that met younot to hate you per seBut all that you might offeror beSeeOr discoverIt was a husk of a hearthell bent on not loving youand even in thiseven thisWas broken
By DesignA heart can never be lessthan what is isA heart can nevernot loveSomethingSomeoneSomewhere
The CardsThe thing about life isthat thing about love If you are willing to play the game If you are willing to take that betInvest your heartYourself, your beingYou better get real comfortableReal quick with losing
AssessorI am not the guttered shell fit for abandonment you believe you seeI am built in the land slide of the crumbling facade of your delusionI am the foundations that have rotted in the land fill of your wasted timeI am the cracked windows that reflect the broken light of your jaded sunsetI am the dust coated chandelier of your yearning, curling wires and missing crystalsI am the broken hinges on the door of your peeling trustI am the sharp edges of the rusting sink in you derelict kitchen soulI am the empty shell of the collapsing bed that once knew lovers sighsI am the lifting floor boards of the illusion in the passages of your mindI am not built in the broken pieces of me you believe you seeI am the burnt ash in the grating of your heart, crumbling, cold and blackened with useI am the long grass of your derelict garden of faith, abandoned and littered with filthI am the dripping faucet, the perished washers on the inflow of your loveI am the damp ceiling-boards beneath the
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desksat school.i don't think they liked the language i usedwhen i wrote how my heart was beatinglike headboards against the walls of people fuckingat 3 am to the sounds of joy divisionwhenever you read me paintings at dawn.they were going to send me to the counselor,but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,so they just let me go.but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roofand laughing when we argue about rimbaudand sighing as we start to die.
ElenaElena followed me homefrom work one nightand stayed for tea and eggs,and all that minimum wageand wars between the sheetscould bring.She said she was a goddess,daughter of a carpenterwith her long red, red hairand eyes as warm as hazel nutson Christmas morning.Her hands spoke brailleacross my backand made the silenceof Sunday into a prophecy.She left one Octoberjust like she said she wouldwhen the fireflieshad turned their wings to ash.And I found revelationin red, red wineand cheap red, red fabricthat came off in my handslike summer.
renovationsmy mind looks at my bodyand says, "i don't like whatyou've done with the place."
WineHead on a patisserie tablewith a wine-scented napkinthat I scrawled your name all overin the hopes it might necromanceor just romance youto this place, at this time,so we could be together againand although the guitarist knowsthat I'm broken beyond blueI keep reaching for the bottlein the hopes it might recreateor just replicateyou.
short history of the universe(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)Genesis:A lake slams into a bus and a city is unborn.Enter an ocean of fog and then desert after desert stacked above the hills.Then you get drunk as fuck near the tumbling skyline,and this god damned room burns like prayer in your chest.Then many missing scientists reappear in your brittle beach,and your satellites in relapse all bending,and what it's like is some kind of disaster, honestly;the arms and the aerosol and the linen and the light.And the rumble forwarding the sovereign wreck sayingsurvive yourself like you've survived me;saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,always,and same for the carousal shadow bleeding through the mountain in your dream,same for your silence and the sudden red rain of witnesses.And then what unconquerable continents,what strange forecast occupied via gate via wind and wave-multitudes of sick yellow branch
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,or to have myself cradledin the curve of a throat,but to be broken,to be diminishedby your lack of affection& over indulgence of sexualization.but i,uneducated in your intent,found myself left entirely whole& incapable of the furyi had sought to sow between theridges of my aching ribs.
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echoof a cloudburst,the earth curls invisible fingersabout my achilles' tendon& pulls;she cries that i am notintended for the clouds,that my mind must not wanderbetween their susurrous concavesso i,furious with her insistence,her petulance,untether myself from the soft,diaphonous comfort of the heavens& sink,down into the weight of gravity.listless green blades welcome my soles,stimulating a tickle,an itch,a sneeze; i never have done wellwith nature,but oh,she is calling for me,soft-tongued and crisp in herown shadow,& i am sorely temptedbut no,no--i am not for the soil.lungs listless,she becomes my inhale;lightheaded& translucent,my alveoli shudderbeneath her force--i am not for the air, either.mellow-skinned,i stand beneath her onslaughtuntil she tires,her molten heart beating beneath my toes;unable to woo me with her facets,she pirouettes,cloaking me in one last attempt,a final shadow.my pores bloom& i r
muddy waterthe sun rises late now. or hardly ever. or belligerent carmine on the underbellies of plants.a shot of sleep to the head, a boxing glove punch.the metaphorical rooster crows with the awful clamour of its lonely breath. the thing is, i can substitute the body.the thing is, the slit is a fantastic shade of orange i saw god but he says you still need to get a fucking jobthe thing is, i am bathtub water and rotten leaves.and the taste of power on the morning wind, a wet newspaperwith the headlines of a presidential divorce.there is power in the young eagle hissing at passersby from its trashcan throne.i know one thing:
I'm too poor to feel so middle class.My teeth still ache from the dentist,but it doesn’t stop me from nibblingthe cheese danish I bought at Krogerthis morning, warmed by thirtyseconds in the microwave. My mugof hot chocolate is too big, and Idrink it all. The washer is on its lastcycle; the cat is purring at my feet.Netflix is background noiseto clacking keys, typing a transcriptof middle class morning that I’ll latercall a poem or a turning point,wondering when I became such an adult.
With YouI'm less alone,but more lonely.