Real men don't cry
Or write poetry
But you did, and I made you
I stood frozen as an ice sculpture
...
the last thing i want to hear
late at night,
before i close my eyes,
is your voice.
...
Live corpses wander littered sidewalks
Shoeless, legless, toothless and tired
The refuse of a city built on broken promises.
Pregnancy runs rampant - a self-perpetuating disease
...
They say that eyes are the windows to the soul
And so I paint yours pale
And vast
And blue as tiny slivers of beach glass
...
Even though the connection was severed
I still feel the pain
In the phantom limbs that make up the
Giving Tree that is my
...
“The girl is wicked”, so they say,
“A succubus, she’ll cause you pain -
She doesn’t love you anyway.”
...
There are fragments of your flesh
Trapped
Underneath my fingernails
Crusted blood in frozen coils
...
I pretend to sleep beside you -
Lying awake with heightened awareness
Attempting to preserve this moment,
Encapsulate it in a memory,
...
whenever i sleep i sprawl.
i cover my bed with the
entirety of my entity
to make up for the loss
...
Ballerina in a music box
Red smile painted on,
I twirl for you till the music stops
And frown when you are gone.
...