Thirty angels in black grasping for the nakedness of being seen For the angels dressed in black I pray They find their souls beneath it
I stretched my skin I folded myself up and the heart, it always fit
When I asked for my mother they brought me a heart
The first hit of lightning reminds me of the grace that is needed to swallow a lie
I will search for you in mirrors and I will press the pain away I will whisper I love you (I love you) I will become my painting until love seeps from your walls I will write different endings for myself then watch the ink dry I will I will I will
From a well the drought drains itself of its ashes
Under the door to our home lay our memories She runs through it all pink, sparkles and PTSD And apparently she cannot just be because that is too dangerous
A flower hides in its petals. Plucked or not, whispers the moon “I am the flower.”
Spy the edge. Watch the skeletons fall. When did they begin forgetting themselves? When did they become shadows?
And night tastes like silence when I close its door.
A golden drink or a golden cup? To know or to be known—a love
The song comes from inside the garden-there are few roses left. In this collection of words, I craft vignettes of self. I become you in the shadow of your hope.
Milk and honey flow beyond the gates of heaven. Why, if not to live?
Somewhere I find it Somewhere it goes
Unfold my desire keep it in your pocket
When I wake up will I remember me?
Nobody sees me I see nobody
Grey clouds and pulling seams and danger danger in me
A loss of self overcomes me. In the morning and in the evening. Loss. Loss. A loss like death. Or a death like loss. A loss which hides in the shadows of my rose garden. One loss and many roses. I see only the flowers. And this loss tastes like honey on my tongue. Bitter…
I tear like the golden rope which ties us together