i’m all
bramble and hair
outside of your window.
I look and stand still,
tall, like your atlas cedar.
my wounds are plastered to
the branches, little sparrows
peck at the flesh of my
open bleeding breasts;
I flower from a deep root,
and I am constantly
gnawed at.

I’ve been watching you cook things,
evolve in her kitchen.   
you are becoming
something worth touching
for longer than minutes.
I’m devolving;
nails clawing at the stamp
in a fit of maniacal envy.
lower lashes leaking like
little pens
splashing on the loose leaf
when they should have been
dry like my jest and
planted lightly on your cheek,
when they should have been asleep
in your elbow, or deep
in your chest or dancing
like loose wisps of dandelion
and landing on your lips.
something worth touching
for hours.

my body is tangled
in words,
skin is ripped at the seams,
veins are trickling low utters,
some red hot lies,
stale adjectives,
big ideas about our reconciliation
delivered to your doorstep
in hopes you
the last time i moaned
under you,
letting out a little
m     o r    e

how i promised you
a little

“the envelope”


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