She painted the collars of her gloves
With a box cutter

We still do not know
Whether she was running a marathon
Toward Athena
Or screaming from her palms

The difference matters less
Than the price of milk
To a herd of cattle
But still
You have to wonder

When I asked you the truth
We were separated:
A flimsy footnote
Fewer years than I remember
A wall of hair dye
And one bastard of a door

I wonder now
If you remember lying
I wonder now
If you were

At times I hate you.
Some days I can only remember you.
The days between
Feel like teeth:
The soft
Fleshy part of my back.

Balk

If you find the mire has surrounded you

Invent, for yourself, a plank filled with holes

And climb on top.

This way, we feel the warm dampness

Of our lessons

Within the brink of learned remorse.

When even the space between is kindling

We built ourselves within the fire:
Twiggy legs uproot the scalp.
Kerosene soaked veins.
Tinderbox heart.

The rules of the waterproof children
Amuse those who simmer.
The blouses they tuck within
Their unforgivable pride.

I calmly palm the cheek
Which once burned him in five directions.
If he were as awake as his flames,
He would know as much as yesterday.

Backhanded compliment

When the fist is your refuge,

The bloodletting is

Your dangerous wish. He

Likes to turn on his side.

Likes to make you wish

He would yell. If only

To be mistaken for violent compassion.

Your hands have coated themselves

In tremors. A reaching

For some sort of salience. They

Want to be worthy of their love's

Worth.

They feel too easily cast away.

You hate yourself

Because you know you would

Trade the silence for a tirade

Of door handles to your cheekbones,

Of matches to your palm;

Memories that your departure

Was feared.

You have met these women. Held

Them. Men. You would have freed them

If they would have allowed it.

And you hate yourself.

You wonder if there is worth

In this.

A glassful of broken beauty:

Unspeakable in its deaths.

And just once...you carefully

Place a hammer

Not wishing,

But at peace, comfort

With the recovery months of hug

And coddle.

2

I am sorry I could not remember
The name that you stole;
I have never been one to swallow rain.
My fingertips were holding tight
To my palm. I believed that to fight this
Would win you over.

My body likes to make fun of psychics like this
To prove that it can lose its own battles:
Nobody will tell me where I wind up.
Not until someone can tell me
Where I've been.

Tonight is a new kind of savior.
My breath is held
My knees are begging me
To stand.

The ramblings of the loved.

I sometimes pray

That my mother and father

Stop believing in me.

I feel taken by the privilege

Of their love.

The shaky scribbles of their hands

Etched in the small of my back,

My shins healed in scabs

From fences they did everything

Everything

Each thing they could

To get me over.

Sometimes I like to pretend

That my "I Love You's"

Are received with the intensity

I feel them with.

But I know they are not

Because nobody has yet responded

With, "Ouch.

What the hell did you do that for?"

Nobody has broken into tears

And so I know

It has only ever been

A sentimental trust.

And I can accept that,

But I don't want to.

On occasion I wish

That the children of this world

Were taught

That beauty is not the thing admired

But the admiration.

That flowers and perfect bodies

Are only created out of necessity,

While the sneaky moment silent

In trusting these things

To be filled with the beauty

They demand,

This moment is where holy begins.

Once or twice I have demanded truth

But truth is like puce;

There are so few people it looks good on

So I like to take funny pictures of truth

I like to discuss it when I am drunk

And pretend I will ever believe it.