Cathartidae

•December 31, 2019 • Comments Off on Cathartidae

She said,
In her softest
Kindest
Self-help voice
“Find your inner hummingbird,
And not your inner vulture, please.”
But oh
That second
Sacred
Hunching bird
The one who looms
With talons curled
And beak
For scraping bone
And ripping meat
The one who
Needs and waits
For death and feeds
Who faces rot
So we do not
That is the beast
I miss and lost
And now
I sense her
Circling
And see
Her shadow
Once again
I’m bellowing,
“Welcome Old Girl!
It’s time to feast
There’s a death
In me
Needs picking
Clean.”

-me

Artist Unknown

Cin

•December 30, 2019 • Leave a Comment

The day after
Dies with
An unseen sigh
A quick puff
Into nothing
A bond that
Never was
Because
It isn’t now
And ashes
Never thawed
One single
Ice-cold thing

-me


Photograph by Remsphoto

Bare

•December 21, 2019 • Comments Off on Bare

While
Bathing
My hands
Fold randomly
As if in prayer
A lotus bud
On porcelain
I pause to see
Pink fingers warm
And memories drip
Pressed clean
And blanched with
Cool Petition
Pruning tips
So slightly
Splayed
I supplicate
And soon
Am weeping
Beauty’s
Bare in
Agony

– me

No

•December 16, 2019 • Comments Off on No

“You are not
Who I thought
You were
But instead
Exactly who
I always feared
You’d be,”
She sobs.
How does one
Crack themselves
Open enough
To speak
Any words
Beyond those
To anyone
Ever again?
How do I…

-me


Painting: No more words #3
by William Stoehr

Ghosts

•November 13, 2019 • Comments Off on Ghosts

A gift bag caught on a bare branched tree
Old cobwebs sway, too high to reach
Ancient names on a new marquee
My mind sliced thin, holes swissed like cheese

-me


Photograph by Rachel Thompson

Embrace

•November 13, 2019 • Comments Off on Embrace

That
I ruin
Everything
Pick it apart
Dissect quick
The expected
Ask too many
Questions
Why why why
And who
Does this serve
And what
Was neglected
And how
To accept it
Their shine
Overrated
Too much them
Reflected
Give me rust
Turned to dust
And from that
Creation

-me


Painting: Dust to Dust, by Yada Yakova

Split

•October 16, 2019 • 1 Comment

Sometimes
I still feel split
In two
And spilling
As if you left
Just yesterday
Took all my guts
As weaponry
You went to her
Dripping
With spoils of me
But both agreed
Your hands were clean

Oh there are days
I stay up late
To sew and stitch
The seeping stops
Rough pieces fixed
Together
Held by grit
And weathered thread
But I always fray
My skin seems not yet
Leather made

I am too soft
Sewn edges rip
The thread intact
But flesh is split
So I just dress
The emptied hollow
Halves of me
I shove my parts
In pants and sleeves
Cinch and button
Up and bleeding
My hands a mess
But form resembling
This encased undead
Shape of

-me

Painting: Tired, by Christian Kroger

 
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