She gave me her nameOctober 28th, 2013
I wear her skin,
as often as i can,
until my brittle bones begin to curve beneath its weight and i have to give it back.
Her skin is made of iron,
and yet she wears it like a coat of feathers,
delicately reflecting back at me.
She gave me her name, when mine wore out,
when it was said too many times in disappointment and anger and heartbreak. I take her words,
warm honey words of sure truth and acceptance, i swallow them
because I know she always speaks the truth.
Sometimes i lose her,
when i slip too far beneath the ocean of heartache,
when i get too weak to hear or taste the dry beating of her heart. She is high above,
on her throne of logic,
waiting for the waters to stain me,
so that i won't resurface unlearned. Her strong arms pull me out when my bones have sprung loose
and my heart has impaled itself. These are the necessary scars, she says.
And the hole grows over,
the bones pushed back into a new order,
and i sit with her above the sea,
growing harder as the winds dry the water from my blood. And it's a struggle,
not to collapse,
let my limbs crumple as if i were made out of wet paper. It's a struggle,
every day, not to fantasize about the easiness of disintegrating into that salty demon. So i wear her skin,
as often as i can.
I drink in her words, and take her name, and that keeps me on the surface,
where the winds can dry me out
a little more each day.
No charming words can erase this,
We climbed to the edge and ceased to exist.
Shadows lost under the rusting skin of winter.
It follows us, the vivid lines of strings,
Wrapped around our bones, and fraying edges
Like stolen breath in the frozen air.
In all those boxes, youíve trapped a moment,
The muted sound of weightlessness.
The Swelling Fear That Sleeps in My ChestAugust 2nd, 2011
You want to know how to do this?
This breaking, hurting, dying thing?
Because you donít see the colour under the surface.
You see, it was price I paid to live like this.
That kind of event doesnít just slip away.
It never reaches that place of empty meaning,
Where we look back and shake our heads.
The sheets smell like rotting skin and bones dissolving.
Beneath me, it pooled, a still grey of dust and death.
A whisper here and there that slides its steely fingers through my body.
Remember, remember when the universe exploded and time threaded poison into your lungs?
There are hairline cracks in my bones.
A shallow breath, another step and it disappears under the surface again.
That kind of event is the taste that lingers at the very edge, pushing salt into the sunlight.
It is trapped in bottles and zippers, my lips and the swelling fear that sleeps in my chest.