my bones in the ground are changing.

winter killed me. i know, i know - i promised to be hearty, to shake off the frost. i didn’t mean to lie to you. but when the sky turned grey, when the nights stretched over the days, i knew i couldn’t.

i froze, and i’m sorry. not sure to who, really. myself? you? that hope of a far-off green that i selfishly failed?

it turns out the universe likes second chances.

i do not wish you the sweet embrace of death. it is a lover far beyond your deserving, a kiss much too good for your filthy lips. i want you to keep taking steps on this horrid fucking earth. it was made for things like you, a place to suffer, and when we’ve all gone on to bliss, you’ll still be pounding the ground with your fists, begging for something more.

thanatos shall not lead you through the field of poppies. charon shall not accept your coin. our elysium is closing our eyes. your tartarus shall be every breath you take. you’ll continue to be alone as you ever were, not even majestic enough to be a wounded beast lashing out, but just a pathetic as-is, never to rot and return.

and so: i hope up you wake up every day to the sunlight. i hope that tea keeps you going. i hope your feet don’t give out. you were made for this. drink to your heart’s content and be merry, for mostly i hope you never have a grave for me to spit on, and that is the worst thing to wish upon anyone at all.

when i say that i found you
in the pages of a book:
i lied. sorry. it sounded
so much classier than the way
my throat tightens at this
old text, junk mail

maybe if i
pretend that you are fiction
you will be.

make-believe instead
of (this)
slowly melting

(i grasp at straws
to find what is real
every day, hazy bleeding
from you:

live in this world you made me
fair trade, eye for an eye
you break it, you buy it)

like reciting bad poetry.
a text post.
sadly funny, relaying like

maybe if i
pretend that you are fiction
you will be.

#violence ?

you took my muse out behind the shed and shot her point-blank. didn’t even give her time to grovel. now i stare at blank pages and a stark white screen, hearing her scream through the cotton stuffing the necks of pillbottles. her voice is gone and so is mine and maybe that’s for the better, because all i ever spoke was nails-on-a-chalkboard underneath everyone’s teeth. 

stitch me up like my father and leave me to my brother, the wolf. maybe one day when i can haul myself off the sodden ground i’ll run with him, knees and hands in the dirt, but until then i’ll lay here, the stars burning pinpricks into my head until it’s dark. i must go on. eventually.

i would like to think
that i know the path i am
walking like the back of my hand
or my lover’s smile
the smell of the grass in spring or
the weight of a favorite blanket.

but i am stranded, mapless
in a desert of powder-ground bone.
how long can i stand still
while pretending i’m moving?
how long can i lie through my teeth
so well that even i believe it?

my hands are too unsteady to
construct the compass i need
and the way to still them is as
much of a mystery: behold this
ourboros of aching need, of conflict

(of a creature falling to shambles
within itself — all at once quiet and
with the ripping roar of a dying beast)

it seems that every time
someone extends a hand
it is only with pretense to hold

in the end they dip into the inkwell of
ragged many-times-torn veins
on bared vulnerable wrist

to sign, with a flourish
under many names before
a laundry-list of vampires
sucking me dry to the bone.

you are moonlight 
splintered through dewing grass
cast, creeping, through decaying suburbia
an overtaking of warmth and chill

fighting fang-and-claw, your scales glisten
as your judging gaze freezes them in place

and i am twilit underneath
knit forest canopies
a spark lighting the caverns
greys and warm in-betweens

when i scorch the earth, blazing my path
my touch, in turn, regrows the tender green

we were never meant to touch
they knew, when we did
the flames would climb
and they would become ashes
underneath our journeying feet.

let me tell you a secret.
lean in a little closer.

i am every bit
as tooth and claw
as you, sir.

and another:

once i was soft and gentle.
nothing to be ashamed of.

then you —
carved into rounded corners
left gaping wounds.

but i will own this.
me, not you, grubby fingers on
all me. myself. i.

your kind has left its dirt on me
but this acid i secrete
belongs to no one else.