ground zero

Today is ground zero.

The scale of damage is not yet known.

Future volunteers to the clean up operation 

Are not yet awake,

to a different world 

Than the one they fell asleep in

A few short hours ago.

 

You sit amongst the wreckage and,

Catatonic,

wonder where to start. 

The task seems too big for human hands.

Inertia.

And the panic sharp.

 

Lonely like the only survivor, 

every bone in your body aches to go back,

To the moment of freedom 

between the words hitting her ear and leaving your mouth. 

textbook

What trick of physics or God 

Could contain 

a multiplying galaxy

Into five feet and five?

Surely foxes or dogs 

have the sensory breadth 

to know that I am spilling out.

I listen to my own heart

Beat

through a stethoscope 

confirm I’m that thing

you see in a text book. 

imagine the size

of my veins 

My cells

Laid out across two dimensions.

Now I know

The science is wrong.

It is not enough.

I feel

Too much.

fuck or be fucked

You sink a pint or six

You take the hit

Time and time,

Time again.

And again, 

eyes glazed, over

In a mist.

Dissociate.

from your self

Sacrifice to survive it.

 

In your world

A wrong word

Might mean

A fist

Or a dragging of nails 

Into softest of skin

You could have cracked

My spine

With a sleight of hand

I could not navigate violence.

You could have had me.

 

screaming and blackmail

cheap shots.

Fuck,

Or be fucked.

That’s the language of love

That you know.

So all things considered

That silence 

You sung me

Was the greatest act of love

You could show.

 

Held loosely

So that you don’t break me

a delicate bird enclosed In your palm

 

I do not underestimate 

The strength that it must have required

 

To keep me from harm.

secret face

Your face of secrets melts

Like raindrops down glass 

As each nerve and muscle 

Held tight above our heads

Goes into freefall and

Chases away the last.

And if I’m not wrong I think I saw

A secret face 

Not mine to own but yours to lend.

Thank you

I’ll keep it safe.

dysphoria

Body.

Broken body.

Foreign body.

A mound of meat carved by an inexperienced sculptor;

Their hands fumbling, their touch coarse.

 

Lumps, growths, cancers of my chest.

Cruel inversions. 

 

I imagine the hundreds of people that my body tells lies to every day. The collective weight of it is suffocating. 

 

Does the wound ever heal, where self is torn from self?

I am ruptured flesh, scar tissue. 

I catch my reflection.

I fall on my sword.

both

The dry of the sun makes

The wet of the rain

And it’s persistence makes space

For a break

For a change.

All infinite things counterbalance

In waves

IayiuugIu An unstoppable force 

Meets an immovable thing

 

A tide that goes out comes back in

We all oscillate 

A unceasing dance between magnetic poles

The only things lying still on this earth 

are the dead

The nature of life 

Is to ebb, Is to flow.

 

And so.

 

In your bones

You are yin and yang

a goddess, a hunter 

A lion, a lamb.

 

You’re a pendulum swinging 

forever 

You’ll never

Be still

You vibrate on a cellular level

 

Your soul is a river

And your life is it’s flow

You’ll show this unlearned world

How to be both.

meltdown

How far I can fall

And how fast

I am almost impressed

Nought to sixty 

My brain is a car crash

I guess I was cruising 

In neutral, my eye 

Off the road

And my foot

To the floor.

pavlov's dog

Neural pathways 

Carved out

Seratonin superhighways.

Pavlov’s dog

And you the bell

My brain rewards me

When you call.

 

I am a homing dove

With featherless wings

looking at the sun 

too long

black spots

So much light

The world went dark.

 

Whenever I’m not with you

There is a nagging ache in me

Like a piano tuned flat

An ugly humming 

A dissonance

 

Think of how thinking thinks in traps 

I challenge myself.

Don’t react.

But my cells were fused with yours

One by one

They drag me back.

 

my redundant rationale is

A book I bought but never read.

My body and my heart

Have picked you

I am powerless.

dysphoria

Body.

Broken body.

Foreign body.

A mound of meat carved by an inexperienced sculptor;

Their hands fumbling, their touch coarse.

 

Lumps, growths, cancers of my chest.

Cruel inversions. 

 

I imagine the hundreds of people that my body tells lies to every day. The collective weight of it is suffocating. 

 

Does the wound ever heal, where self is torn from self?

I am ruptured flesh, scar tissue. 

I catch my reflection.

I fall on my sword.

spring

Tuesday nights I get in your car
A race against the setting sun.
Sunday evenings,
November summer,
never long enough.
We're fleeting
And I document it
Something concrete,
never sets.
Substantiate the shadows
before winter comes and brings us death.
This was the worst of times
to bloom, we wilt.
Go underground and pray.
We'll have our spring 
Again, I know
We'll have our spring again someday.

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