gravity

I breathe a
beating
bowling ball
that bludgeons
behind
my breasts.

I want to
tear it
from my
chest
to show
you
my inner
winter
sob fest
and what a
positive
pest
this pain can
persist.

I want my
bowling ball
burden
to blacken
eyes;
I want to share
the darkness
I hide
and hire
someone
to color
my insides
white
sunlight.

I'm tired
of this fight
with heavy things
and all the weight
blackness brings.
I'd roll this
sphere
from my chest
if I were
sure
it's ghost
wouldn't persist

home

I hate this
plaster place.
disaster
disgrace place.
confined to the
corroded
corners of my mind,
I pray to poetry
to placate
the pain,
an elective
embrace
of syllables
to zipper these
acid wounds.

god gives
gifts
through
this conscious;
a pandora's
box opera,
a pantheon
of syllabic
options
to
occupy
my
disquieted
mind
until
I have
an island
of my own.

I'll live
in language
until then.
A castle in
my conscience
of
lyrical
correspondence,
my self
and
my god.

mister

he is currency
for her emotional state.
a sad masturbate
waste of fate
flood gate

and the saltiest
tears
stream her face.

her tears
spear
angry arrows
to hollow
my heart
against her,
but all of this
is for him.

him:
mister invisible.
mister
makes her
miserable.

mister,
I didn't consider her.

all this water
work
wallowing
swallows us whole

and it is
mister
who wins.

him

he makes me
imagine
hand sewn
seed pearls
on
white sleeves
and what it
means
to be
loved.

his glance
is a gift,
a glass galaxy
boxed
in promise
and collaged
across my
iris

he is my
every
possibility,
and I,
his
Isis
to birth
bird baths of
beauty for us
to swim in.

we create
a honey space
of loving embrace
to bask
in each other's
grace

and all
I have left is

thanks.

oil change

he polishes
a soft cloth
carwash
wax
on
and
off
across
this physique.

make me
squeak,
mr. mechanic.

no need to
clean
this
dirty
interior;
press those
fingers
like piano
keys
across
my
leather
spine
and make
my horn
beep.

let them
hear us
across the
street
and pump
it through
morning
till birds

tweet.

Jesus Saves

catholic girl
guilt
quilts
her conscience
in plaid
fabric
and patent
mary janes.

jesus saves,
mary jane.

stiff collars
alter
offer
alcohol and Him
original sin
virgins
all
embedded within.

stiff collars
bother
the
blossoming
skin
where
her hickeys
are finished.

alters
of
soft carpet
to worship his
dick.

offers
impart
wetness
from her
dark
garden

alcohol and him
pound a gospel
of sins
through her
skin

original sin
licks
her insides

virgins
and all that
pure shit
sit
at opposite
places of this
space.

Grace be to God.

bruised fruit

she bruises too
easily.

this plumage
of blue
blooms
a booming
fruitful
suit fabric.

a bruise suit.

a first base
suitcase
just in case
this pain
escapes
this laced
frame
main stay,
a playplace
briefcase
attache
attached sad
face.

a displaced sad
face
mental case
she
needs this space
to set ablaze
this blemish,
a blueish
contusion
of wounds
that winds
this
watermelonwoman
rind.

she is so
unsweet
to this
bruised
fruit
to which she
hikes her
unlaced
steel toed
boots.
an unkind rewind
rewards
from behind
while
watermelonwoman's
rind
cries.

broken
blood
vessels
sting
grief.

she
repeats
these
injuries
too easily