I Wish I Still Had Scars From You

I wish I still had scars from you.
Because when I remember
how I hurt you,
I want to rip my skin
into shreds of paper
that blow in the wind until I am no more.
I wish I could bleed,
tear at my soul
until nothing exists
but the blood and the bone
of my very being
and I am alone.
It hurts to recall,
a pit in my stomach
growing and absorbing all light and life
until it sits,
gnawing at my heart,
indulging in each beat with relish.
And I’m sorry.
There’s a passive aggressive bone hidden
somewhere within the ribs,
maybe the third one down,
and it poisons my mind.
And I’m sorry.
My blood is ichor,
but the devil’s instead,
and it scorches and twists through veins
until boiling into one unleashed act.
And I’m sorry
that I can’t find the words to express it.
That I have to be rude.
That I pushed you away.
Because I can’t have people close
when I fail to live up to
the expectations
of myself.

Love Discarded

I have issues, this I know.
For my history tells me so.
But you were different, never the worst,
never thinking I was cursed,
or flawed.
Maybe if I still believed in God.

But it’s painful, sometimes,
you and me,
the way we be,
is it heaven or hell
(it hurts so bad I cannot tell).

And I still love you.
Or I think I do, or did;
split apart, god forbid
in hide and seek if I hid,
because you would never search for me.

It’s leaves on the branches in a tree,
our love the breeze,
our bodies dashed on the ground,
broken skeletons of plants dissolved,
so I let you go.

We Hired Ourselves

We hired ourselves,
Young and innocent,
“He reminds me of you.”
True, yes,
but did I have the outlook of a day on fire,
the air poison, no sense of desire
with everything pain?
Did I sit in the silence, mesmerized by rain
and seeing nothing but fall?
I guess I did.
And I wonder if you ever saw me at all.
Because if that’s what I remind you of,
if this kid is me,
then I pity you.
We hired ourselves,
and in him,
I see you.

The Dice

Six seconds.
Fight, die, live,
it’s all decided
in the space of a moment,
a fraction of a minute,
a tenth of our time.
Do I run,
flee,
leave company behind
thirty feet away?
(but I’m short,
I’ve always been,
so twenty-five).
Do I fight,
tooth and nail,
pinned to the ground
by a villain
we cannot see.
Do I wait for an outcome,
for them to move closer,
to see the whites of their eyes
before firing,
missing or killing
but at least acting.
Six seconds.
I count them on one hand,
the sixth a dice
thrown on the table,
my action an arrow,
my fate in the dice.

I’m Obsessed

World’s Turning,
and I Don’t Want To Know.
it’s Secondhand News,
that i’m Nothing Without You.
Brown Eyes, Cool Water.
Crystal Dreams Everywhere;
Fireflies, Dragonflies.
Little Lies.
Don’t Stop.
i’m Hypnotized.

Sara,
my Rhiannon,
my Albatross,
I’m So Afraid.
In The Back Of My Mind
Isn’t It Midnight?
i Need Your Love So Bad,
our Tango In The Night.

Love Is Dangerous,
but Love Shines.
my Seven Wonders,
my Silver Springs,
Gold Dust Woman,
I Do. I Do. I Do.

i’m a Sentimental Lady,
I Know I’m Not Wrong.
so Save Me,
Say You Love Me,
Say You Will.
I’m in Over My Head,
Over And Over,
Only Over You.
it’s a Monday Morning Landslide,
and i Can’t Go Back
Without You.

There’s an Open Pack of Cigarettes

There’s an open pack of cigarettes in the glove box.
I haven’t smoked them.
I found them,
left behind,
in the office.
So I took them,
my fingers itching to steal,
lungs aching to burn,
brain wanting a release.
I have never smoked.
A lie.
I smoked once,
half of one,
passing the still-lit cigarette to a friend,
singing loudly into the night
as she double-fisted the burning sticks
out the car window
doing sixty.
But I want to.
Which is why,
weeks later,
there’s an open pack of cigarettes in the glove box.

Drowning

I’m drowning
in antiseptic apologies,
clever words disguising
a poisoned tongue,
your tongue,
laced with hydrofluoric acid that,
at first,
cuts with no bite.
But bitter words leave bitter wounds.
And they fester,
burrowing,
until your blood and bone burn
and they become your very being.
It’s a barbed wire tongue
that lashes and cuts,
wrapping around a mind
until it’s yours,
you’ve won,
nothing exists.
Except empty apologies,
flawed balms,
and twisted words that become true.