you are a poem that breathes.
all of the words bitten into my lips,
so red and thick, know
what i am hiding;
you’re going to eat me alive,
unless you change;
i’m going to meet the pavement—
pull the thread i hang from
until my heart unravels,
unless you change.
i will crochet you a sweater
to cover your empty chest.
i will knit you a new song for midnight
of yarn of promises you never kept
in hues of my eyes;
i will pour you cups of shadows
you’ll never see beside yours,
maybe unstitch your shadow
toes undone from toes.
decisions are the worst
the radio of the car driving by shook the floorboards. she sat on the front porch, wondered what that man was drowning out. probably nothing much—if his thoughts were that loud, that the song must be that loud. don’t you think we drown in our attempts to drown things out, she later said, on Skype to her good friend. what are you talking about, he replied. the game was on. nothing much, she replied. he didn’t hear her.
if i were brave enough i’d write one of our conversations
word by word from memory, cut the lines apart and leave
them scattered in the city like little pieces of a broken poem.
what i would do for poetry.