She Cannot Save Herself

She cannot save herself because she hasn't got the time to. She's too busy searching for the break down, tied up by making lots of small messes inside of bigger ones. Her mind's all right, but races in the still of it. She can't be bored. She's beautiful. She's up late while you are sleeping, picking and pulling the good apart, simultaneously defining and denying need. She won't eat fruit because it's pretty and full of juice and therefore undesirable in its nature to provide instead of take away. She craves a salt that stings the inside, that makes the skin swell, that wakes her up from a nap dry and gasping for a drink. If it wasn't you, it would be another. She is not a victim, and truly, though I'm sure your guilt feels so heavy, you are just the child of an idle disaster. You saw her sweetly at the exact moment she needed a little kindness. It was a summer day, right? Perhaps the sun was in your eye.

Barbie Wire

Barbie. Pried aggressively from her box just to be furiously de-robed and mussed. Just one more reason for a young sexually charged girl to question her motives? For years I thought I was alone in my habit to make barbie a naked, wild-haired sex machine. She was everywhere in my hands, humping ken dolls, other barbies, GI-Joes, Lego's, the couch. I never asked her if she needed a break. Often, I felt perverted as her puppeteer but never played with her any other way. She acted out my fantasies. She was the hussy I was too young to be, to young to dream of being. By the time I had the courage to ask my friends if they shared the same secret, if behind the closed doors of their rooms barbies worked the corners of all four bed posts, we had moved on to other games and it was buried deep inside as a twisted working of my libido. Today, Barbie resurfaced in a conversation of her reuniting with Ken and Pandora's box exploded. I was not alone. It seems Barbie was always a queen slut and will continue her reign indefinitely.

not a builder

I’d rather you stay but

I can’t hold tight with a heavy hand,

Can’t jump with a lead foot.

Running is flailing and falling when

Limbs are imported objects,

Pieces unattached and inoperable.

This body was just given to me,

Dropped off without instructions,

And a builder I have never been.

Even just this morning

As I called out your name

Another voice entirely filled the quiet.

The dog stood at the edge of the bed baying wildly,

Just as frightened as I

By whom I had become.

the figure of sophia

and you're still hunched over the radiator,
which is slowly loosing warmth,
still watching for the door to open,

though outside you heard the gravel shuffle,
a whirring song only
the bluest goodbyes are sung to.

The apple in the icebox must be thrown away.

A heart with holes and browned edges

Such big bites for your lonely mouth.

An orison for the lonely

I let the lighter language make way
Mostly for you
Because years ago
Flowery and fascinated
By the words
Which escaped me
I received little more than the
Glazed and fearful glare
Of a father first presented
With a daughter
He doesn’t understand

i love to crumble easilly

Every time I see sunflowers I am reminded of the first love I made a lie. They are striking, strong and seek sunlight. When prompted I had those answers ready; I had the whimsy; I had you and sunflowers on my table thereon after. Mocking me, heads turned from me, smart flowers knowing when they are not wanted, knowing they are a prop of interest to a complex mind, knowing I loved asters, small purple wisps that crumble easily and thrive in crowds. I believe thorns too are involved.

My Face is falling

My face is falling. My face is falling,

heavy highlighted skin drooping like misted clay.

In this café I was approached by an awkward and hovering young man.

He told me I was stunning. He is here today and walks past me.

The couple beside me is new and the girl is too eager. Her face is smooth

and perfect and as he hands her coffee she looks up at him

in the practiced hook of beauty. I had a look like that just months ago.

 I could muster it up again. But today my face is falling.

My eyes are bushed. I am no different than the old man in the corner,

Covered in his beard, hacking up his dinner, his face falling into his lap.