The pale braches of winters past
Draw shadowy cracks on barren ground
Littered with yellowed promises
Of journeys to the stars

These tired pages creased with time
Are heavy with scars of fading ink
And the watermark of separation
Runs through every line

Return to these walls once more
And melt the frost on the panes
Let it flow and then run dry
In my crevices and folds


You adore my shiny slivers of insanity,

Mere splinters that caught in my weave

When my being was hewn from madness


 I charm you with my quiet ways

While flurries of words drag their nails

On the echoing inside of my skull


My evasiveness lures you into my arms

And my heart sinks through my bones

As my pores recoils from your touch


My saccharine crust thins on your tongue,

Bruising your mouth and making you run

To something more palatable


Pick me out of a crowd of painted faces and read into my sleep-drunk eyes and tangled hair a passionate wildness that does not exist.

Drown in my shallow depths as I string together convoluted sentences that mean nothing, words that I use to shade our days with the sepia tones of yesterdays being deliberately created for tomorrow.

Lie with me in the halo of our entwined arms and breathe as our country falls to pieces around us.

Give me something more than these stubborn, silent distances caked with dust. Give me something more- promises that splinter with a whisper, delicate threads of melted sugar.


There is a lot that I don’t want to give up, most of all the luxury of disappearing when I want to. Sometimes, I want to cut off and shut down and curl up in the corner between the headboard and the wall and pretend that the world does not extend beyond the hypotenuse formed by my folded legs.

You won’t understand.

I don’t like to be touched when I’m upset. I build a wall around myself and feel like screaming at the touch of somebody trying to comfort me. I don’t want to be comforted. I want to be left alone, to dissect my pain to see what it is made of and become familiar with it- to convince myself that the fragments of my agony are nothing to be afraid of.

You won’t understand that.

There are times when I don’t want to speak. The effort of choosing words to string together seems like a difficult conquest. I want to exist in the comfortable silence of those who have said enough and do not recoil from the end of conversations. I want our silences to be enough. I don’t want to need words.

You, with your frantic need to pour words into the spaces between lines, won’t understand.


He held her unbuttoned black shirt away from her body, like a pair of dark curtains. The view beyond was a pale, sickly, winter white. That desolation seemed beautiful to him.

He fingered the edges of the twin lacy scallops where skin met cloth.

“How can you feel insecure with a body like this?”

She glanced up. The moonlight threw the sharp lines of his face into gleaming relief and his eyes shone in the long shadows cast by his eyelashes. She was mesmerized.

“It’s my body. I have the right to feel insecure about it,” she said nonchalantly, casting her eyes back down at his wandering fingers.

Everything looks beautiful in the moonlight.