Winter

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it was breathless and agony, oh sweet of you.

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Swans

 

Watching your cigarette lips, parting your grays

a loose sense of dignity strung between us

as we discuss collected horrors

from remembered days

You pardon my thoughts, my need to bleed.

“I’m a bad person,” we both sigh

a unanimous lie

and then I share a tear.

 

I hold my stomach, the red

like dyed spiders

spinning secrets

on a

white web

Your favorite dress.

 

You bite out a hole, savagely tearing

the treasured threads

with your teeth.

You open me up a little;

you can see the glass.

 

You listen to me watching you:

heave after heavy heave

of ballerina breath

little hushed offerings of fear and lust.

 

You’re not going to be gentle.

 

Your fingers push inside, spreading my edges.

Something hot and necessary fills me

white light lava gushing against all

of my inner walls.

 

Your hand inside of me

reaching, searching, and

I can’t take my eyes off of the tops of your wings.

 

Wider, wider

and the blood runs together

with the sickness and the sadness and my

stunned servitude.

 

Your eyes are shut

as praise and poison are spit

into my open wound

the inaudible hum

of a language dead

even to angels.

You pull out the glass.

 

Catching the light

with a final mocking smile,

it disappears down your throat.

Your eyes have never been so blue.

 

You hold my face

as the magic mixes

in my gut

and the white heat swims

through my body.

 

The hole is closing.

I try to feel, but you won’t let me

touch. As you hold me down,

the panic of losing my nurtured misery

—my one and final pride—

mounts and burns.

My eyes are open as your mouth

covers mine

enjoying my loudest scream.

 

When I wake up, you are gone

I am naked and alone with morning.

I reach back through last night,

a drug drenched gauze

over everything you told me.

Hints and notions of you

but I still can’t be certain

of your constitution. Cut

from dreamcloth, woven to embrace

and correct

my own vicious destruction.

 

Your words: calming little

echoes through ears.

Words too real, sir, real. 

My dress across the windowsill

The blood will dry into a star

 

Feeling for my wound,

Neither scratch nor scar

Only a belly growing

With demon

infant light.

Imaginary Zoo (Homesick)

 

Purple dragons, eyes glazed and

wings left unclipped

form circles in the yard

on a lazy Sunday

 

Dark blood on the couch

men in hats

were here first

 

Rocks will say that; pay them no mind

Your fist, breaking an egg in

the kitchen,

only strikes when I shout.