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  • “Name your torture,”
    one of them said
    with a wink.

    I wanted an orchard
    but I swallowed the vodka
    he handed me
    willingly.

    “The Gorge”

  • 378F57EF-53EA-4ED3-AAF8-EA3ADCCCB264.png

  • and what else?

    this is my 12th house.

     I wake up in his forearm
    biting through his moles
    to get to you.
      and what else?
    you repeat and
    I say something cute:

    honey, dip a spoon into the
    past and you’re going to watch it
    lick you.

    “grief”

     

  • your house was yellow.

    my house was blue and
    a ten by ten box;
    a cage and me trapped,
    torn between watching them
    pack up their stuff
    from their own pact to self
    and me, dripping virile,
    pushing them out.
    we needed a spark,
    I pounced and

    shortly after,
     the railing tumbled on my
    sprinting ankles,
    the basement rattled and the
    floorboards dropped
    filling the place with the kind of emptiness
    that is so dense
     it smothers.
    smoke smells a lot like
     ticking minutes
    if we scented time the way we
    spray each other.
    I hear a bark.
    hope the turtle remembers how to
    duck and cover.
    the cat’s sure got it.

    remember me as a black-winged fury
    hovering over your bed at night because
    there will be nothing left by dawn
    except some burning blue
    cedar wood and a cheap comb
    that found its way buried in the dirt.
    the photo albums gone,
    dusty cookbooks charred,
    vanished remote controls stay hidden
    and the asbestos and fiberglass ceilings
    imploded despite our fear that was the
    thing that would kill us.
    I am left with a cancer
    that gnaws through the joints
    like packs of rats chewing through cables
    to take the attic back.
    and I need this.

    I really miss your hands on me
    and the convivial cluster of caterpillars
    that swallowed the bark
    the day in the orchard
    when you held me in sullen incubation
    before the devastation of the forest,
    before I made way for us,
    the start,
    the parting and somewhere
    an empty crib stays unfurnished.
    someone starts an engine.
    the varnish is melting and so am I.
          God gave you a chance and
            an unfinished smile.
    a smoke alarm malfunctions
    mocking your reluctance
    to just grin and bare it,
    to just open up your arms
    and catch me when I jump;
                 but first here comes the fish tank
    catch me with all the fit I threw.
    we all look like burnt books
    blowing in the breeze
    and now, I too,
    am wafting with the exhumed memories.
    before my legs even hit the dew,
    you watch me dwindle to a million floating pieces
    in the cradle of tar black trees.

    you see the contract ascertained a certain
    ephemeral appeal
    and I’m too thirsty to complain
    about anything but the heat in here.
    hold your breath and wait
    for some other current to take me.
            baby

    there are no exits.

    “chrysalis”

  • “An opportunity for happiness:
    earth we cannot possess
    only experience.”

     

    –louise gluck

  • it’s like a woke up a black and gold butterfly.

  • Oh, and what is my
    true form then?

     

     

    you’re a sadist, Sarah.

    “forms”

  • After great pain, a formal feeling comes –
    The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –
    The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’
    And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?
    The Feet, mechanical, go round –
    A Wooden way
    Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –
    Regardless grown,
    A Quartz contentment, like a stone –
    This is the Hour of Lead –
    Remembered, if outlived,
    As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
    First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –
    -Emily Dickinson

  • oh, it’s non stop stories month.

     

    chapter 22: I am fine, xxx is dead.

  • nice figure.

    sharp glances,
    obsessed with her wrinkles in
    passing window.
    thirty three years old and can’t seem to
    thwart her own self persecution,

    said she liked ass play
    and pegging and
    doing things in pieces.

    “how guys save me in their phone”

  • one day I had a dream
    you bit the head off of a blue jay
     and spit it back into her nest.
    when I asked why you said:
    To prove you will never leave me.

    here I  am,
    on command about to run
    across the canyon and I
    laugh real loud in my
    skin tight
    dress:
    the one cut real low in the back
    in the shape
    of an obtuse
    triangle;
    jarring contrast to my
    scared-straight spine
    but I still
    slouch.
    I twist the straw into crooked pieces
    and tell myself things:
    make sure they know
    you are having
    a real good time,
    show your teeth,
    hearty laugh
    with belly and mouth and your
    lips are stretched to the limits like your
    social apathy.
    show your full moon eyes
    and hide.
    hold your tonic like a wand;
    fall asleep
    inside of yourself
    in the middle of
    everything and wait for
    the night to break.

    later, he will show
    you photographs
    to prove you were
    there.
    if you are lucky,
    he notices the story
    dripping from your
    eyes, the door
    opening, the splash
    of scarlet on your tights
    as you replace each page,
    as you become the
    walking lake flooding
    the wake that held
    you, and he becomes
    the witness that love
    is a quivering knife.

    “tributaries”

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