revenge is a dish best served
with a blindfold.

“the end”

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sparkling explosions of
cellophane and
champagne nails down
the back.
fallen glitter eyeshadow,
bare mattress,
a girl licking a cheek and a
rolling bare tear,
somewhere far but also
quite near.
hearts burst like red lava
to fill the blue gray cracks
that December left.
ghost stories, hot elderberry
in bed,
mouth filled with laughs.

my shoulders are
wrapped
in an afghan
somewhere else.
I’m naked underneath that.
and what else?

I’m someone
else.

“new moon”

exhausted from the effort my
hips have made to
prove my might to
men,
I let her show you
with her flesh and borrowed guile,
more cultured manner,
a divine proclamation:

she summarizes
what I really meant
without all my nervous
containment and flustered
public flagellation.
she seems objective
so you trust her,
and she had a dream like that
once so you conclude
I am the cat
that chased her,
skinned her,
wore her
like a trap
you fell right into.
she is a mouse
wearing my mouth,
and she is quavering.
I needed her to say the one
thing you had been thinking
but had yet to
fully take
so I possessed the space
inside the shaking room
between us.

take a kneel,
I’m in your ear
wearing my best butterfly
costume.
you could use
something.
when you fall asleep
tonight, why don’t you
give way to the chase?
you’ve watched me hunt you
every night this week
from the safety of my yard;
but here I feel your’e emaciating,
you are starved.
it’s time
you taste
your own quivering
prey.

“spiritual practice”

sometime
past midnight
when lovers turn
from blank expressions to
receding shadows,
my mouth is dripping red
into an empty cup.
i’m still thirsty.

I take from us
what I can cough
back up.

“mine”

and some guy sat
on my apartment floor
after I gave him reiki
for money.
I was in a desperate place.
with a grin, with a
hard on, he asked
“what do you look like naked?”
and he pressed his hand
deep into my thigh
as if I was a
banister to lean on
while he stood up.

and I stood fast
in my cracks
like the other
weeds in Kensington’s
concrete garden,
shooting up
and growing
into a gun
all of a sudden,
biting that hand
clean off.

“the birth”

I’m haunted in several kinds of
cadence and burdened
with unmanageable lust.
I’m replaying the way
you never said my
name, the way I keep my nails
short in case I turn on myself
when I’m turning myself
on.
Someone has to touch me
at this point.
The way I begged
for you to send me a magpie
some mornings,
the way I long for it still,
it hurts.
The way in which I elongated
the word u s
so it looked bigger on paper.
I let it last
a whole year;

grow leaves, grow fingers
dotted emerald green with pink flowers
and then sorrel and bare,
baring its brown
bones to the birds
who perch in earnest search
of shelter so they can call on
one another in fight,
famine, or flood.
I watched us
drift to the floor
in detritus,
becoming
a new organism that grew roots,
that craved sun,
that lapped water and pollen and
seasons.
Letting it fall
in frost.
Letting it crown
despite the real
us.

Kiss me in the light of
these new found
bedevilments,
I lick the mirror
with feeling.
It is December and I am
already freezing.
I am relying on roots
for nourishment.
I am hibernating
and emptying.
All year, I am sturdy and foreboding
like a honey locust
dripping thorns down her spine,
dropping leaves all down your walk
so you will always be reminded of the
pine that encircled you when you first heard
my forest chorus:
the long form I wrote of
u s.
Look at me again and
again and
again finally
as I am leaving.

I am chopped into several pieces.
I am becoming paper.
I am becoming waste.
I am becoming the spines of books,
archaic adjectives
that you chase to replace your
chilled silence with a word
that offers anything but
a returned question mark.
You thought that all devils
wore black and sauntered
and spoke coolly with promise,
but I am the devil
who wears anything
the world will offer,
including white,
and offers some
warm reprieve
like a velvet-lined casket
floating over the open
sea.
I am listening.
I am wide open
and encasing.
It was never us
I came here
chasing, I finally admit
what I am
drawn to.
It is waiting.

“death”

I used to be an empty room.
now I’m filled with things,
stored with things,
so many things that used to be
blank space.

once I was a lush terrain
but you drove me to the sand
buried me beneath those plains.
you sewed
my lips, said
no complaints.
but I’m a hunger
that strikes at anything nearby
whether invited or actually alive.
I felt things move underground
and crept along the bottom,
leapt with precision at the blood
I was following:
whether it was mice or man,
when I dined it was sudden.
my jaw unhinged and my prey
would undergo an attack of
paralysis, not by the shock
of the poison bleeding out of
me, but the lie uncovered:
they knew one day the end
would come,
but never thought it was that
day.

we must imagine all the water
that my life,
had it blossomed to a greater age,
would have had us taste.
we could be together
slurping at the pacifying waves
as they broke on our
feet and you would urge me
to show you how I grow and shrink
with each lunar cycle.
but boy, you have wasted me.
you filled me with your scorching skies,
your plain and starless nights,
until the holes in every dune
you hid me under were pouring blood,
pouring hurts,
pouring cries loud enough to form
mirages shaped like traps,
shaped like mice for every snake
to catch.
I was down and dried and scared of Earth
before I knew how to control my mind.
now, I’m roaming giant sandboxes
following the Atlantic’s soporific siren
voice, seeking creeks to quench a
decade’s thirst.
i’m riding the scales of other hunters
to bring me oceans, to bring
me people to swallow.
my mouth is big enough.
remember, this is how you’d
rather have it:

I once was a space of bright, blue lakes
but now I’m rolling east
and ready to break
like a tidal wave
chasing the coast
out of bad habit
and I am huge.
I am full.
I am bursting
with black magic.

“the desert pt. 2”