Don’t give me hope just to break it again;
I’ll leave twice as many shards.
You told me once about your uncle.
A bad man. He was. You said.
You told me that,
in your country’s gilded framing,
we get back
what we wreak.
Taking fire for ransom
– the passionate fist of my heart,
an example –
will not be excluded from your equation.
Though it takes a little longer
than your trespass
to reach the full extension
of its force,
though it takes its time
unlike the shape your face would make
with each level I dipped further,
though it’s without conscience, too:
the whole conclusion
of that forfeit
will continue to blow
You left stains on my sheets and stains on my soul.
– while some other peaceless nest you sow
and other wings you clip for show/
to hang upon your mantelpiece
for only you to know (her) –
but with creeping soreness
that batters the core.
A chronic disorder.
Perhaps, when you think you are safe or recovered
(a mistake I know so well),
it will get you like the sharpest hit of trauma.
I don’t need your eye for mine when I can take two.
Love is the purest tragedy;
it tells of heroes,
worn and bruised.
Of 7 billion lovers,
I chose my love for only you,
but you took it and you caged it and you made my heart your zoo.
I was walking in the snow
when I should’ve said a prayer for us.
If only I had known.
Too busy, I was,
with padded feet that felt like wings
and confidence in love.
Life works as twists and turns,
and you’ll always yearn for the other ride.
Don’t buckle in too tightly, then,
if you cannot yet decide
what is best
My love’s got amber
once you’ve seen his anger
there is not a red storm
that could seduce you.
I crack the window
not for the air
but for the street-clams’
Slivers of nonsense,
an extraordinary calm,
silver the mundanity
as your darling,
as your charm.
What do you have to captivate with,
and what do I have to captivate you?
I don’t want to be severed or devoured.
You don’t need to peel away pieces.
You don’t need to be scared of what’s beneath
the scales of your protection.
Your mastery is worse
than anything I could compel myself to do
with you in mind, or without you.
It’s funny to preach a person
that I’m not so sure is still so there,
is so much less uneaten than the one that writes you here.