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Good Morning Bruises

None of your lovers are going to attend your funeral.
You spent too much time writing poetry about them,
and not enough kissing their black and blue stomachs
good morning. As they pinched the fat on their stomachs,
you compared their eyes to oceans that you’d never bathed
in. While they were lost inside of their own skeletons, you
spit out sonnets on the pillow. Remember this, you and I
will both die in the end, and none of this is going to matter.
Love better than you write.

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February

The strangest thing to ever happen in February was Chocolate.  A red-paper wrapped box of chocolates.  The air was telling me some thing suspicions was happening.  The air told me Caroline was lying when she said she left her shoes in the math classroom. But the air told me, play along, there's something sweet.  but my gut told me, don't open the locker, why else would they be pressing so hard, hinting so much.  Don't open the locker, this Pandora's box of chocolate.  

I open the locker and ignore the hear and the box.  Run away said my heart.  Stay, said my friends. This isn't what I asked for.  Bewildered, angered, confused and upset   I don't want to be your valentine, and I don't want your chocolate.

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Declination

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Embers

She used her last cigarette
To light the photographs
Pictures of happy times
Before he had chosen
To make her just another
Of his many casualties

She used her last cigarette
To exhale his fumes
Out of her chest
Out of her head
And with a flick
She released was what left
Of the love they once had

She used her last cigarette
And then went cold turkey
Letting go of both addictions
That had tried to kill her
She stood up again
And with clear breath
And a clear head

She watched the embers slowly die out

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At Home

My home in the fields

I let go of all worries

Time goes by slowly

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if i pen pretty words 
secreting scarlet scratches
my scars unseen
would you believe
my mind beautiful? 

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I've Forgotten Flowers

 

Scents used to tickle the nerves
residing in this nasal cavity;
now, it seems that all that lives there
is a cavity, dulled to the splendor
of  Flora’s careful  handiwork,
her scratch ‘n’ sniff tapestry
swept away by the winds of Favonius.
The marriage of fragrance to my sensory
has long since been annulled by a
higher power—
higher functions deeming petals too
delicate to endure the affront
of a hard logical approach,
too yielding to stand against
the rigid structures that have
usurped their former reign.
Even with pistols, they could not
hold up a shadow of a thought
or a makeshift memory.
They’ve been lost to barrenness
of what my world has become,
a reflection of my mindscape
and the harshness it has adapted.

I’ve forgotten flowers
and now struggle to weave them
into the braids of my words.

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The Falsity of Touching

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No tiki

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[un]altered reboot

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