I never write about blossoming but
i’m seeing inflorescence in
dejection;
my unpolished toes at the edge of the kitchen,
an unwashed bowl of almond butter
next to my tea.
empty half of a house,
my patient sponsor and the
tail end of my
frantic texts;
public mania–
an affinity for
inscripting every feeling
somewhere permanent and obvious,
displayed so fragrantly.
I’ve been tattooing my afflictions
on the skin of them,
hang the hide,
admire the effort they made to keep
me inside.

when I could have been
sitting still,
saving face,
explaining through private sessions,
watercolor, grace or
long sleep.
she mentions  doing the
dishes         she mentions
breathing       she mentions just let it

be.

 

I see a bud in the daffodils you left me.
a water filled horizon that distorts my perception
about what leverage really means,
and the big picture–
obscured by my choice of lighting,
all fluorescent,

                     it’s cheaper
blinding              my censorious self-portraits,
overdone with explanation and
cyclic editing,
ornate,
constant litter in the place,
and now I have some dead petals
I have to sweep.

I’m crying.
it used to be us, dirty bowls,
but saw clearly,
spoke the same.
soaked in soft lighting,
your gaze,
your torso,
your incogitant rage
that I managed between fits of
self soothing and pleading,
placating you.
mouthful of
bitten tongue,
some little good timing,
ready for

            hi there
some little soft haunting.
with you always:
a toothy smile,
walk for miles,
fingers crossed for some
little soft revenge.

I think about you every now
and again.

2.

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