my hands break open
platelets emerge and (s)tumble
rolling hills; bulbous apparitions
my eyes burn
i want to forget you, i want to forget you –
the worst kind of poison
self-inflicted, a bared nectarine
that cannot be cauterized
spilling its juice like this avalanche
from my hands.
we woke up with the light
a tone too bright and the air
a paler version of ourselves.
we had it coming
and repeatedly, the tentacles of
inclination and intuition
grazed at my belly with unkind
heeding; but i begged
i begged this time.
your mercury gaze encapsulated
the glue of the spaces
chewed with vigor; satisfied.
i bled, yielded to
your most malignant undertones.
i had it coming.
my hands break open
i am not far from the song of the meadowlark
and i never intended to play house,
or take your name,
or remain transfixed by the duties of make-believe mothers.
i grind my teeth with the aftermath
of things that never happened
but had meaning.
just like the perfect pines have meaning when bearing witness
to an isolated bark of a lonely dog.
you eat chalk to distract yourself
from feeling anything,
from sinking into quicksand on all fours.
the beauty of a milkweed pod distracts you
and moments later the severe stings
of imaginary arrows piercing deeper
swell your flesh.
i am hidden in the tall grass of an endless ravine
sucking on a slick blade.
the crystals in my eyes chase fallen light.
i do not heed the abating calls of brethren
because i do not yet have the correct count
of scalps and sacrifices at my belt.
but i will.
and the blood on my chin won’t resemble how it was
because that’s how it never used to be.
all that matters now is this mountain i’m beholding
and i’m only trying to climb higher,
in the mouth
anything can burn
folded sheets, asking nicely,
semblance of a previously
extended olive branch,
this hollow row of
her violet character
replaces emotional blasts
seen only at six minutes past
the hour on the darkest day,
the darkest day of summer
or just after
her third shot of bourbon,
eyes twisted, particles in motion.
the floral scent of aftershock
arranges old jars saved for
we can adore her essence,
eulogize the garments of
but there is no sweetening
the crouching foliage of
her undercover sting.