tellingIf I press my ear against my arm I hear the metallic hum of white noise;
press it hard enough and it will buzz uninterrupted, the steady red
light of a cigarette that indicates she is watching you. I am here
to feel your eyes on me, the tingle in the center of your palm,
to tell you about the space between my words, of the space between us that becomes
so tempting to infuse with color, the red which runs beneath the bite of winter snow.
you drum the beat into your body because you cannot get enough. you love her
because your heart is not enough, because the stammer of your words will outdo
the finality of your hesitation and even the permanence of silence-
I am here,
I am here
I am here
to refrain from relative happiness- to feel the pleasure of thought running
through my mind; to develop a handwriting as cursive as my memory,
slanted as the sun. maybe I may be something other than what I say
at daybreak, what I will say breaking in the morning into day
like a pair of new
For ExampleA fist pounds on your ribcage
and over again
And you can't seem to recognize
The deceptive grin upon your assailant's face.
After they leave you're a crumpled heap on the concrete floor
And your heartbeat plays and replays the awful event
Until you realize that you were truly at fault.
All of your bruises are self-inflicted
Like a machine that ran itself down and down
Until it couldn't anymore.
You confess your sin and then do it again
An abscess forms on your soul
And you keep doing it
So that the scars remind you that all of them left
And you were the one who beat yourself up about it.
Someday you'll realize
That it was never you against the world.
It was always
What By NightThis is a lazy and ambiguous recollection
Of whatever happened when it did
Or, more appropriately,
What didn't happen whenever it didn't.
I don't remember you
With long brown hair and green eyes
That might even have been brown
Because you are no more your eyes
Than what they see in the mirror,
Or any more than that, your name;
It's just another pretty word
That I can't use anymore.
Who you are is an artist;
You made me who I am
And you let me know I was not alone.
I am a sculpture of clay, by your hand.
You've marked me with intention,
But just before it set in
You left me on a shelf.
Now I am dry and cracked;
Forgotten, I am the unfinished result of your experimental daze.