The poems congregate like unopened letters
Whispering their sweet and sorrow  

I catch a word here and there:
Eyebrow, sling shot, Gilligan, heron   

Frisky gifts winking their secrets                    
Hidden intentions urging a closer kiss              

Shapeshifting angels and perfumed demons
They absolve my lapsed abandon  

The crone with the broken blessing
God bending the forgiven knee  

scratch scratch scratch scra- ouch!

it hurts now…. please don’t touch it…

itchitchitchitchitch

My mom stopped
taking hydro this week

sitting on the floor
all the other kids are
picked up or
at the after school program

I did it just to know what it felt like
wished it never ended
did anything else to try
to match the rush

I go to meetings in churches
and try to materialize
and talk through
what I can’t process on my own

Still I see dots in my vision
like atoms colliding 
Still I just want to be numb

Wound not like a ribbon, but like a faulty watch. Wound not like a gaping hole, but like
a pinprick. I suffer a long loss, interspersed with tiny victories. Blood like a faulty tap

dripping water. I still love you obviously. At least enough to tell everyone about it.
At least enough to claw at the wheel when I drive past your house.

Wound not like a noose, but like a necktie . I don’t hold your hand but I do think about it, twin sisters at the end of a long hallway. Whatever. Whatever. Whatever, I don’t care.
    

    
Another for good measure, another, just to be sure. Pushing every button until I find the one that makes you explode into a million pieces. Selfish girls always get what they want,

for some reason. Wound not like a bleeding gash, but like a broken bone. Held you in the back of my head like a ring holds a diamond- otherwise purposeless. I want to pluck your grandfather

from his bed and stand him straight like a man, like a mannequin. I want to drive you to work. Wound, wound, wound. Like a song. Like a shudder. Like a dance. Cloudgapping and toasters-

strudels, baths in rose scented water, tapping my nails on the glass case at work, one two three four five. I used to bite deep crescents into my palms- tethered to the ground by the comfort of

my jaw. I used to beat bruises into my hip bones. Okay, I lied. I still do when the opportunity arises. I know pleasure and I know guilt- they are the best of friends. I know pleasure because

I know guilt- the inverse being true as well. Riding your coattails all the way to the bank. I want to hold your hand,but I don’t, but I do think. About you. About the things you say.
    
    
    
About hormones and what they do to bodies. Wound like- a reveal, like curtains pulled back- the flesh unveiled. Admission. honesty. This is what it really is. This is what it was the whole time.

Red. Wound. Wound. Tight around some sort of answer. The award winning failure. Nationally recognized. Spark of talent. Another canine head dipped for another heavy collar.

Begging for you to take me and keep me and make me yours. Begging for the wound. Begging for the ribbon. Begging for hallways and diamonds and hands and hormones.

Open sesame?

change blows in and I question
why, in regards to the timing
does it mean anything or mere coincidence
this could alter my course
indefinitely
it’s that big although it could be only slight
time will tell
my mind though, goes to all the places
have I lingered too long or is this my forever
opposite poles, differing viewpoints
is this a sign or an obvious fork in the road
again, time will tell
the only way through is through
so unglamorous and unsanctimonious
give it all a few days and the answer will be revealed
or it will be eventually
interesting it all came about
suddenly
although I suppose, it’s been happening all along

When you are exhausted you cannot feel at all,
and this is just one virtue of your constant pacing.
The other is that if you keep your heart in motion
the blood will never settle, you will never be
placated by stillness, or complacent with yourself
and all of your many shortcomings. You will try
to do better, be better, be perfect. You will try.
You cannot exculpate yourself from the innate
guilt of being human. You will try, but you will not
admit you are addicted to empty. You scrape apart 
your severed heart, gut it with your own hands. 
Your skull is the only thing left you cannot clear. 
But believe me, you have tried. You always try. Pass 
out in the sun, pretend to sleep. Racing in the night,
you reach near panic about the cards and the hand 
you were dealt. It could’ve been good enough
if you wanted less, if you cared less about control.
You hold onto so much, you can hold onto nothing.
The world slips around you, the gracious nightfall 
carves each day to its bones. The moon, a gaunt
face, a glittering reflection of everything beautiful 
that you will never be. It’s okay, you have accepted this
nearly. You have walked in place for six hours straight
like you do every day. The sun slowly archs and falls
as the world’s wheel turns. You are still mostly sane
by the time you finally voided a day’s worth of work.
Even if the directionless walking gets you nowhere
at least you can say you fought relentlessly for it,
that you had the stamina to kill yourself over it.
And at least you can say that you tried and tried
and tried and tried and tried and tried and tried.
You are tried. You are guilty. You are not enough.

smells like cobwebs
a dusty old like faded felt
who alive now from the 80s
didn’t have a den?
the playroom of the past
hardwood, paneling, fireplace,
leather sofa, guns on walls,
and odd deer head, or two
mix and match your own design
even if you didn’t have one
you visited a friend’s to
click Atari cartridges in place
or grab Nintendo controllers
in fact, I just might go back
walk in, rummage through
its nest of cardboard now
find the right flaps to uncover
the fun I thought we had
again

I was not looking for you today in my digital mess,
old photos, homeless and scattered, no label except
months and years which are blurry now, no
warning to prevent me from accidentally slowing down to
look in your eyes, watch you mouth words of love,
read your wishful promises I would not
recognize as lies you told both of us for
far too long, listen to your voice sing of the
passion that kept me high while the ground
below me was unhinging its jaws, ready to
swallow me into the sinkhole I am still
crawling to escape.

Tears cooled my hot cheeks while
I deleted every trace.