Two miles south of nowhere there is a field of dying things,

silent save for the rasp of autumn grasses as they crash to the ground.

There is a girl here, too,

running a pink tongue along rusting guitar strings,

all ripped jeans and cloudy skies.

A man's name is tattooed across her clavicle,

blue ink pooling at the place her breath catches.

His name was Agony and he taught her to love,

to hold kitchen knives to heartstrings and pluck them like a symphony,

dancing barefoot on barnwood floors

until the splinters left scars.

His love was one of honey and shrapnel,

the kind of beauty that only comes with pain-

but the world is growing dimmer

and come dusk

she lies alone

in this place of dying things.

under all

the horse bells

cat calls and

bell boy

whistles

I'm a sham

a showman

like every

yes ma'am

I am

a rope

beneath

the cultural

yoke

something

like a public

joke in private

cloaked

a bunch of cells

beneath the

skin

whose locks

were picked

until the pick

is broke

along with

the string

that fells

in final stroke

...the hand

will no doubt

draw back

another line

beneath

in due time

*

I'm still

changing

my figurative

mind

05.28.20

She ran, her feet slamming on the ground, as tears trickled out of her eyes, leaving a trail to be followed easily. Yet, she did not care. She knew the bestias were coming from the whispers in her ears, and had already exepted her death.

She was running only to bring them away from her village, and in the end, it worked. In the end of her life, at least for a moment.

Our shadows

Speak in

Voices hushed,

As souls

Dissolve in

Modern rush.

I watched her in the mirror for many years, always calming the storms that raged under her skin

… rattling her bones.

Broken never looked so damn beautiful.

But as all broken things, there were parts of her malfunctioning like a damaged toy

… like allowing the idea of happiness to stain her blood,

coating her insides with possibilities of rainbows and butterflies.

She was tired of the lies.

She never talked about it, the pain she suffered as a child, and blows she took like a champ as a teenager. She spits at the word “love” when it’s thrown at her so blasé.

Where was love when the first monster she encountered violated her? Was that love? Sure, he was kind, but he was a sick bastard that preyed on the innocent and the damned.

I watch her stare at herself, blinking back regret and chaos behind her eyes, and for a moment, she was still. Her calm frightened me to the core, and yet I could not look away from her enchanting aura.

I searched for love in her eyes, it’ was somewhere deep, under all the dirt and built-up particles that would repeatedly crash into her like a wrecking ball. A reminder.

For many years people assumed she was lost, but in all honesty, she didn’t want to be found.

Not yet.

She had broken pieces to clean up and discard first.

And as the dregs

Of a star-drunk night

Drip, drop by drop;

Melt into a new canvas

For day to paint on;

You unfold your wings,

Each one of your feathers,

A sister to your heart.

The mellow expanse

Of your wings that

Reflect the desire

To touch the zenith,

Rise and fall as

Your breaths escape,

Subtly, steadily;

Streaks of red and gold

And yellow and orange

At the deadlock of

The horizon and the earth,

Meet your flames,

As you fly;

Your eyes hold the promise

Of stardust and

A better tomorrow,

Where love falls in love

With life....

Rise above and beyond,

For the next universe

Whispers your name

In her dreams.

Gathered uninvited

Clouding the dawn of

A new day,

With dusty, molten colours

From ages long dead.

It hangs low,

An impending disaster

To disrupt the work of a day.

It isn’t raining yet,

But no umbrella

Was invented

To stop the downpour

Of memories from old boxes,

Drenching the heart,

Wooing it to sing

A lullaby, to make the present sleep.

Not dark or grey;

A riot of colours

Spill, tumble,

Shrieking with joy,

As my hands touch

The softest

Of those raindrops.

I stand, breathe and get soaked beautifully.