I could never forgive myself of breaking a poet.

Back breathless from the bi-weekly poetry slam. My pulse is ready to tear through my skin but I push it down. Lately I run the last block home. I don’t know why. It’s dark, in front of me is a field, I run. Anyone watching would think I know what I’m doing but I can feel my body’s still broken. It’s frightening to run. Feet hitting the ground in such delicate pounding balance, this ankle’s going to go. My faulty eyes can’t see the ground so I focus on what’s ahead of me. I feel like I could go forever. I feel like I can pretend to be whole again.

I’m lying.

Mine from the stage. His words rolling so skillfully on skin that he could almost talk me into loving him. “I was sick for you, but I think I’m better now. Recovering.” I worried last time I saw him, his illness a sheen on his skin, a catch how he looked just barely at me. It hurt my soul. There was nothing I could do. Nothing that would be honest. I’m going to wait for him just a little more. Keep him close to watch him. Skin to taste and bones to break, these words can’t tell what he means to me but not, might I add, enough.

Something will die the day I break a poet.

Victoria posted T. S. Elliot today. I need to post it as well, as I know the same things. It’s a wierd sad place to live my dearest, and a strange road to walk. Lonely when it’s supposed to be home, but it’s not, because we know how beautiful the rest of it is.

“Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow”


lifting me up

I’m dancing on spider’s wings. My phone’s died, leaving me without voice to the outside world. Shameful, really, that I allow it to get into such a state, but oh! To send my glittering nets out skimming facetime. See who appears at my door. Being both needle and thread, tatting an evening out of a peculiar miracle. Chaos controlling, my favourite. Under the skin conditioning, supple and smooth. I assure you that your name is important to me, you sweet wordsmith beauty queen. The broken smile’s fixed, replaced by a mild “you make me feel rainbows”.

Call any time you want.

Outside my window the world’s been cunningly replaced with christmas card cut-out of trees.

I don’t know if it will ever be okay again. I shudder inside when I hear your name. With permission, I’d like to slip sex into your morning coffee. Quiver and gasp, silent in my eyes. Clever compromise, I never had any choice in the matter. Come to my window, I will pull you in. Conduit heat and passion. I’ll learn for you. Brief chances at happiness, I know. Forgive me in my youth. Allow me this, I have a habit of bringing back immortality. Impure dream with me, trace the curve of my hip with your fingerful gaze. Done right, there’s nothing to corrupt. This is pristine, made of whispers in darkness and an ocean between.

Hair-dye hum, all of it’s plum purple yours to curl fingers into. A shipment of my things arrives today, every packed box a mystery of it’s own making. People to help me haul know less maybe then I do. Words never said, dresser drawers emptied into cardboard surprises. Later I finally record my voice. Jagged notes maybe, burrs to catch in clothing and stumble over. Clearly, enough to bind me by.