"of hits and misses"
where did you go?
you're not mine these days,
but i still feel you
in the wind and can't stop from
crying my heart out violently
enough that it
bursts
in streamers of
paper-mâché.
i feel like thunder,
a noise machine-
just sound, and nothing you
can touch. the misery
hangs like a heavy mist;
instead of killing myself,
i clean my room
until the books sit in rows
as straight as the veins
in my hands.
you make me feel like the earth,
muddled and browned from the
ram-rod sun, ever-beaten
into black and blue submission.
i am your pariah. i am to be
shunted to the wayside
every day for three weeks,
broken on the fourth.
the words, they don't
come like they used to,
no ebb and flow in the mighty
(blood) vessel rivers,
all hung back by the stars in
the scarred dams.
i wonder idly with my black
turned up, exposed spine an offering
to fate in hopes of its
severing intentions, if-
if i gave you my bones,
if i sang so sweetly,
would you love me again?
