Lavender bruises

It's almost sweet in its familiarity
so subtle, it feels like home at first
rising slowly
bubbling like lava
rising in my chest

it isnt until it catches me in my throat
that I even notice its there
and by then its established residence
and my hands are shaking and my heart
's rubbed raw with emotion

This is your fault
this is you, you did this
and you're the softest, sickest corner of me
my most tender wound

I vaguely recall
honey-thick lullabies
and gentle caresses
all marred by
steaming hot curses
fingerprints on my shoulders

seized by rage
It's difficult to breathe
and I measure my thoughts slowly;
trying to contain

I can't even place blame
as much as every ligament and muscle fiber
that pulls my hands into whitely clenched fists
desperately wants to

You're just a sick, injured animal
and we your captors

And blisters on my tongue where
my cruelties have burned marks
press softly against the roof of my mouth
nursing nursing
always nursing.



There's this sweet gentle hand
deeply rooted in my core
that just wants to take care of you
move slowly over your shoulder blades
work your hair into a long, twisted braid

And I'm breathing deeply
measuring my thoughts
I love you, I remind myself.
And that sweet gentle hand
strokes my hair
tender on the nape of my neck
reminds me of the source of my strength
and all the things I owe to you
my poor, fragile bird
they tenderly broke your wings.
That hand works over the scars
rigid red dots from where
I tugged at the last feathers.

I am so sorry.

The first thing to realize
is that everything you do is perfect
your
awkwardly nervous giggle
your
fumbling stumbling hands
your
adorably crooked teeth
your
your
you're perfect

The next thing to understand is
that I am not.

I can only tell my left from my right
because of a tiny freckle on my right pinkie
A surreptitious glance downward
(I've learned to do it so quick you can't tell)
and it's the same thing as knowing.

My hands are small
but only in comparison to others
in the context of my wrist
from the vantage point of
the top of my nose
they feel like grotesquely large monsters
with their own plans and desires

I've got plans too, though.
I've got tremendous aspirations,
that don't involve this place
I'm for indulging in explorations
of new locations, bodies, brains
I've got high expectations
and a thousand and one questions
don't ask for explanations
unless you're ready to hear them

I get too nervous to speak,
I'd rather read your face than your words
I'm firmly grounded in the assumption
that everyone can read my mind

I can't talk to strangers
and I'm too honest to shield my heart
or end this poem.

This body was not
built to love

hands made to grip to claw to pull to tear
to hold to climb to evade
the tender slow sweet gentleness
an added bonus
tangential to purpose

mouths structured to bite teeth designed to cut
tongue capable of making sound, signal for help
but
two mouths softly moving together, making shapes in the dark
pure coincidence
happenstance
And those tiny white saws
partially hidden in a grin
is mere circumstantial evidence

No this body has bigger plans
(or lesser, depending on where you're standing)
and if put on trial
could and would only respond
with the flames that are subdued in polite company
in favor of lowered voices and mild handshakes


But right now
these hands feel only capable of softness
this mouth good-intentioned, only willing to make nice
and Isweartogod
it feels so natural and profoundly deep
making echos in my core
you'd think these bodies were built to love

Time, Life, or Something Like It

It's like train tracks
only not
less permanent, less directed
Like shooting stars
sling-shot sent
less fleeting
maybe just as fleeting

A thousand sparks exploding at once
being shot in every direction
hovering a moment like stars
like dew drops to the clouds
before showering down and shattering against the pavement

The point is
its bright and its fleeting and its yours
and the wayitworks
what I like to believe
is all of this magnificent light
all these paths crossing and exploding
sometimes crashing, fragmenting, and cascading to the earth
in tiny wondrous particles

My favorite though is that erie synchronicity
the harmony created when two paths
are running parallel
and it feels like forever and everything and nothing
and the only light you can see is the one racing alongside your own

Boys Will Be Boys

Scuffed knees crouch in the dirt,
tiny fingers wrap around a stone
nervous smiles, tension
the air is almost holy in its solemnity.

He raises his arm,
reels back,
gives a nervous grin to the others
who wait, anticipate

he launches it forward.

and with the crackling crashing crumbling glass
his heart beats big, beats hard, beats fast.

Only a child
but the desire to destroy
the perverse curiosity in dismantling
what you do not understand
courses thick flooding into every
thmp-THMP-thmp-THMP-thmp-THMP
of his chest

They all fall in line
taking turns
rushing to make their own awful crash
before all the glass in the windshield is gone

One boy steps up,
his arms small and wiry
the joints in his elbows protruding,
nearly visible under translucent skin

His rock takes two hands to lift
somehow, between his tiny boyish frame
and his budding primal adrenaline
he is able to lift it and heave it forward

The image of
what it is
to be a man
flashed in his too-big, too-blue eyes
as the metal in the hood crumpled
under the weight of the boulder

but after the groan of the metal
they heard another sound.

Something pitiful
somewhere between a squeal and a whimper
unmistakeably
a dying cry.

They crept forward to investigate
pried the rock off the abandoned car
pulled the hood back gingerly

A mouse was crushed, flattened
its colors disturbingly vivid, and all-too clear
smeared against the sooty-black interior of the car

and from a hole in a pipe
a baby mouse crept out
crying for its mother.

The boys stared a moment
the scrawny one finally spoke,
realizing suddenly
what it is
to be a man.
"I think we should go."

He choked back tears
as he walked home
trying not to kick up dust
trying not to disturb the earth
any more.

space for rent

It's a mess in there,
therefore it is timorously, and with hurried apologies
that I give the tour
to the dauntless few that work their way in.

Though chaotic and disheveled
there is some semblance of organization.
You will note in passing, here,
cubbies and compartments
(these are important)
not terribly structured, ever changing
but crucial regardless

for instance
your face, painted purple with rage
fists tight, knuckles white
steaming flecks of spit
punctuating a litany of
the nastiest of words;
this
has one compartment.
and this compartment
must remain separate from

your palms,
wide, open, protecting,
smoothing down my hair
the top of my head
comforting
your eyes
softened, sweet,
home.

The sections all may coexist, but must remain apart.
You walk onward.

I see you stumble over

wires that don't quite connect
bustling with sparks of electricity
trying desperately to reach one another.

And as we pass,

I appreciate you not asking about the shadows
on that wall just there.
The amorphous obscurities
dark shapeshifters,
ominous and sneering;
I am silent as you avert your eyes.

I've been having troubles with the lighting
as well, you notice

flashes of color, excitement
they come and go,
often flickering excitedly, then fading out.
but, occasionally, they come in incredible bursts,
brilliant and radiant,
making hollow the few seconds after.

And suddenly, after turning a corner
I look back and realize
you're no longer behind me.