last page

 we shiver from a touch, withdraw

re-draw, hand always a second from holster to face

is this a standoff or a mirror? what are we scared of?

arms spread, not for embrace but grapple

keep them from getting in, keep them out

and yet, we find their imprints appear

like lint in our pockets.

I need feminism because

though I know that God is there,

good, full of good things,

wants me to grow and be purposed

I still am terribly afraid. And my fears have been confirmed

in glance, word, action

as though I am nothing more than an animal

on their hunt. Though I am told repeatedly

that I am overacting, over-reacting, over-everything

too much

that does not change the fact that I am still wary

and doubtful that I will ever find someone who is not

just being a guy.

new friends

perusing, I found that last piece:

dusty charcoal circles, slightly smudged

by your fingers, your artwork

forgotten on a shelf. I lifted it,

my wrists shivering, the pale white

lines and seven simple shapes.

I could hear the squeak of the charcoal sticks

on paper, the squeak of your voice in it. That

memory, dead in my head, has grown silent.

It will not speak, so I will

set your art aflame

on the cold asphalt and dry leaves

where it curls up and dies glowing.

– not alone, someone else

stomps out the flames. And then we roll away into the night.


singing so hard we coughed our lungs out

skipping over green and ochre hills,

the blue sky the a whipping curtain above our

two part harmony, our lips crying out,

“Love love love

love forever

I love you always.”

Little did I know

i was slowly breaking you apart, these melodies

became jagged rocks your heart

shattered over

as I crashed from on high, my Icarus

snapped his spine on a misunderstanding.

on being replaced.

As many times as you reassured me –

“You are special. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

– now, there is that little nagging, that knowledge

that this was another hook in my side you used to reel me in.

Oblivious to this manipulation, I was

caught off-guard, daring to trust, reassured by

the golden presence of your support, your desire to see inside. Then,

when I stumblytripped, you strode on,

that cocky half-smile carrying you off. I, confused,

 – and frankly, pretty scared –

staggered in some other direction,

the flimsy bridge made of twine still hooked in my side

slowly rotting and tearing free.