wanted

everything is full of ghosts.

they are dead on replay, they rise

out of a song lyric

a water bottle

friendly shoulders

some chairs at night.

one specter awakens and calls up all the others,

their bones rattle as they write

words with their fingers and tongues

┬átimes when you wouldn’t be forgotten outside in the cold

quiet art galleries

being asked to dinner

really white sheets and A team

you’d have people to sit with at the show

though these are all good things

they sting as all broken promises do. So I commune with these spirits,

tired of avoiding these commonplace terrors,

wait for those to come forth that calm the others

the peaceful, quieter, subtle loves

the stories that did not end in heart-wrenching shame

they come close and silence the ghosts which say

life will never be any better than failure.

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dear anna IX

aching, I fell

from a car-smashed wreck in a pile of glitter

and crawled, limping into the dark.

I begged to share your dark, to heal

just not alone. Silently, our hands met in concert and you

let me know without words that it was a good thing

I wasn’t dead.

walk: a true story

Last night, I sat on the edge

of the river and yelled out into the blackness

admitting the truth, clinging to the ground before I fell

headlong into the black-encased stars.

You held me down with a hand. We talked of

broken wrists and cold mists. As

always, the rushing of water calmed and with it

flowed away the things that were wrapped around my eyes –

I saw the treetops silhouetted, chilled fingers losing flesh-leaves

as I fear the skeletal, I hope

you will not let me hide when the winter comes.