December 2, 2008
Tiny cuts where little knives
Have found to penetrate. My skin
Taut, cracking, nearly opaque
With sensation.
Closed the car door
Drove miles in hopes, of you
Waiting at the stop.
Began again.
Coin-operated soul
four quarters in, were found out
Of rainbow-colored cigarettes.
Get another.
Spindly little legs can barely walk
Neat as a pin, smiled. And
Entered through the well-signed
Exit door.
Listened to music by a band
who doesn’t play anymore. Here
Spoke your words, then we sang them.
Under night.
To go to that place,
You still salty on my tongue, I’m
Shattered. Tiny fragments, listen to a
Quiet tune.
little pieces made little cuts, where
I left them. Sharp tiny knives
At the end, I’ll start peeling.
With intention.
December 8, 2008
Driving home, cold morning, cold seatbelt.
My cigarette burns my throat less than the cold,
A sensation not unlike the swelling of tears.
Watch the sky, wait for the storm.
For some reason its colder here, Hurts more
than the bright bitter of ten below with wind.
There’s nothing to fear. Wood stove-warmed
Concrete with paint peeling under my toes.
Spiders crawling up the walls, spinning
As they go. Making patterns on my drywall.
Papering it with my 13-year-old mind
And tiny iridescent silken webs.
Rare snow days, foot of white, blazing blind
Stay inside and read and make up stories.
Never was much for sketching, but if
I’d had a mind I’d write for miles.
Tumbling through the cascade of white,
Falling like the delicate crystals that melt
In my hair, on my skin, on my paper tongue.
I’m measuring the snowfall.
