Loaded Gun

clouds are forming and I am realizing
that I will always be a loaded gun
pointed toward your chest

it is nobody's fault but mine

and I am sorry
that I was only ever cactus skin
when you needed rainfall

A Mild But Unrequited Ache

dreary, dreary
I have been all cigarette-toothed
and smiling at you, and
I have been a fool

I have been waiting
for your eyes to send sparks
through my skin
and electrify
the sweat on my hips

(and you say I am worth
 painting, me with my
 soot-caked soles)

but dreary, the dust
has settled
and I have found you
out

so the day looks dark
sunbeams seeming
like moonlight under the clouds
streaming reminders
of histrionic histories I tried
to eclipse, but

even still
I made a promise

woven circles into my wrists
silver vows that I would
never
again smash
under a stranger's hands

(and you
 have done nothing
 so terrible to me, you
 are no criminal

 the only hurt here
 is a mild but unrequited
 ache)

so I will not remain
love-stained
today, no
I will open under the
moonlit sun and blossom
for myself this time

only for myself this time

because I am ready
to love me more
than I loved
loving you

Close Yourself Enough To Open Well This Time

cut it up

burn it down
stop the flow

your love is leaking
out from your fingers
into strangers’ mouths

the wrong people
are drinking your water
you are becoming

dehydrated, so

shut it down
break it off
let it go

kiss your own feet for a day
teach yourself to touch
your own skin

you deserve to begin
again, as often as it takes
to grow new moss

and breathe

Cutting Curves

my frame has rounded
like a flour sack filling up
through the years
and I have become
curved

I suppose that makes me
a "real woman"

but I felt real
before
and I did not hate
my reflection so much

my insides were on fire and they twisted
into angry knots when I slept
I know that I disliked
what was underneath my skin, but
my skin itself
looked alright, at least

and nowadays I am told
to keep my chin
up more often than
when I was thin

(so I must assume that my chin
 has justifiable cause
 to sink
 now that I am
 rounder)

I will admit that I would gladly
spend my evenings
cutting curves
from my hips and belly
even though I know

that souls do not grow more beautiful
when they diet -
they only waste into bone matter
with nothing warm or kind to hold onto

so I suppose a thick soul is best
but if I could look
just a little bit
littler
around the edges
and still keep a nice fat heart
I cannot help but think

it would feel better

Unfaithful

I have not yet written this part of our story
because I wanted to get it just right.
I wanted to be sure
to accurately describe
the glisten in your eyes

as you lied to me.

It took six months for the skeletons
to wander out of your closet
and into my hands.

You sewed your lips into a satisfied grin
and muddied the waters of my memory,
weaving some half-invented tapestry
depicting your poor, broken heart.
You held it up
for everyone to see
so that each time I opened my mouth
you could slap the words out of it
and call me cold.

It must have been so
easy
to blame me
with her there to comfort you.

So tell me:
was she warmer than our bed with me in it?
Did I not cover my wounds well enough
to support the story you tell yourself
about how you would
never
hurt me?
Maybe making me cry
was just too hard on your ego.
I'm sure you made her moan plenty
to make up for it.

And after you were finished with her,
did you want what was left of me?
You must have, since you did not hesitate
to devour my skin, with the taste of hers
still lingering on your soiled tongue.
I'll bet I still felt pretty damn good
under your fingers, and I never
even had to find out
what you did.

At least, that's what you told her,
isn't it?

It took six months for the cracks in your skin
to let out the secrets you'd been keeping,
but I see through you now.

This morning, I took it out
on my own gums as I brushed them.
Blood trickled through my teeth, and
I wished it was yours, but
my smile still looks fearsome
and I still feel stronger.

So I dare you
to deny it.

My claws have been waiting
for you to point those broken fingers
at me again. I dare you to say that I am wrong.

You said that you hated my poems
before, but this will be worse.
I will write a hole through your gut.
I will burn the flesh from your hands.
I will show the world your dirty sheets.

Go ahead and tell your friends
that I broke your heart.
Tell them I am soulless.
Tell them I am a bitch.

In the meantime, I will tell your children
about every night that you fucked her
and still had the nerve
to sing me to sleep.

I will tell them how you promised
you would marry me someday
and I will tell them
how you lied.

The Problem of Containment

love is not a baseball
it is not something I can throw around
toss to trusted pitchers
or catch in a single gloved hand

this is not a game
I am tired of playing love like a flute
keeping the notes precisely between my lips
and waiting for the chords to make sense

and you are not a flower
you do not wait for daylight to unfold you
nor do you bloom in only certain seasons
you are not predictable that way

so I had better
give up on settling the scoreboard
cut the music out of the background
and stop checking my watch for spring to come

because you are not a metaphor
you are not a literary device

you are standing in front of me, breathing
and we both deserve something more real than

poetry

Stop Forgetting

look up and inhale
there is water in the sky
and the rain on your skin
is growing mossy roots

try not to squander
the green of your breath

you will not be here forever

This Is Not A Love Poem

my skin is still laced with
mirror shards
from the day I lost
the fight
with the bile I had been
choking down

I can be hard like
dragon scales
and I will never let you
love me
as darkly, deeply as I
hate myself

so go ahead, I
dare you
watch me cut and drag
myself apart
and try to tell me you still
want me

(I will not believe you for a second
 I am rolling in the muck of my self-loathing
 and I would rather die than bathe)

Something At First Sight

they did not
ignite

nor did they fall
from some precipice
to their exquisite demise

they merely
breathed
for the first time
in years

Fireflies

I have watched lightning bugs dance at dusk
have seen them burn out every other moment
and relight themselves without fail
singeing holes in the blue twilight
encouraging other insects
to follow suit
and shine

I have invited a thousand fireflies
to congregate across my skin
because I no longer feel dull inside
and I would like my body
to glow as brightly as the space
between my ribcage and
my spine

I have decided it is a noble thing
to bring light to the darkness
no matter how small the beam
no matter how soft the gleam

What He Cannot Take From You

he pinned you like
a butterfly
to canvas walls

and you plinked
against glass
like a firefly in a jar

your wings are
wet
with the oil
of his expectations

so use your many legs
to crawl
over his eyes

sprout a stinger
and fence him with it

show him you are not
insect-small
anymore

A Promise To Do Better

I am tired
of breaking blood vessels
I am tired
of mending bones

I will not be your savior
I will not be your destroyer

come to me
cracked
but not crushed

let us sway
side-by-side

only Time
can tell our story

I will no longer be
the beginning
nor the end
of anyone

The Exquisite Burn of Hoping But Not Having

this is not about lust

this is about blood
beating in my fingertips
as I do not reach for you

and you are
awarding me the exquisite
burn of hoping, but
not having

you are not required to trust me

because you have already given
too much away
to too many
leeches

and I cannot imagine
asking
anything more of you

this is not about taking

this is about writing your stories
into songs
about the bruises on your hands
and on your heart

and about your resilience, because

we are not unhappy endings
we are not warning signs
we are not cautionary tales

we are a thousand blazing funeral pyres
banishing shadows and turning death into warmth

we are the shattered glass
and we are the mosaic

so this is not
about lust

this is about showing you
the you that I see

and showing you the me
that I am sketching to life
with cracks and smudges
and golden arms for holding
and wholeness in my eyes

and you are not required to love me

and something new is blooming

and I can hope
without wanting
to have

(and all of this can be
 true
 at once)