I used to be an empty room
until I decided to step back
an innumerable amount of centuries:
discover every way I was a murderer
and ignore the saints at my feet.
Guilt and I have a history of conjugal
rapture, and I can’t help if it my calling is
self-annihilation with no way to contain it
so I pin it to the pages in hopes I understand some lesson
about never fixing anything.
Now I’m filled with things,
stored with things,
so many things that used to be
black space.

I think,:
I’m an infidel
that can’t keep her mouth shut,
her breasts covered.
If you want
to take me from this jungle,
I’d stay wet in any  desert,
hot in any tundra,
golden doe in any forest.
I can paint mirages full of kindness,
cool water,
a heart that’s fresh like constant sorrow:
something I can watch slip through my fingers
like the hours I count every night
before I see the ghost,
the moon,
the spirit that rocks me in her endless cradle.
I’m chasing the sun with some hesitation,
but I’m chasing.

Once I followed someone who
chased the oasis of
beaten plasma
and wilted dozens that
he planned to drown me under.
I am
so full of all the things they had me plunder
from our previous life.
You gave
all the nights you had.

Once I was a lush terrain
but someone drove me to the sand and  buried me
beneath barren plains,
sewed my lips,
said no complaints!
We must
imagine all the water that my life,
had it blossomed to a greater age,
would have had us taste.
We’d dive below the breaking point
to slurp up the breaking, pacifying waves.
But someone filled me with their scorching skies,
their brutal, starless nights
until the holes were pouring blood,
pouring hurts,
pouring cries.
Hung and dried and scared of Earth,
I started roaming giant sandboxes
following the Atlantic’s soporific siren voice
to find something that called to me.
Something vague.
But this is how I’d  rather have it?

I once was a space of bright, blue lakes
but now I’m
bursting with black magic.


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