Diagnosed A Dogma

I sit, heaviness my holder,
the corner of my room shallow support
and stare at the cracks in the wall.
One small flake of paint
struggles itself to freedom,
I feel my fingers itch to pick it, flick it
and laugh hyena at its destruction.

Bandages coil around my wrists,
press for a pulse they cannot find
and bleed my skin old time to purify,
to balance, or maybe to unbalance
my mind from its subversive reverie
I want to dream of pomegranates
But taste the worm instead.

My skin feels like leaves,
smells like death,
the death of something
I did not have the knowledge of.
So sudden but so slow,
like autumn’s first turning,
and all I want is to be whole again,
to scratch my chest and find
something other than peel beneath.

They peer at me through the window,
echoing a hammer fall of centuries ago
and place the lamb at my feet.
They are the clipped, the unchosen that
haunt these halls for my kind, waiting for
my words to form an unholy scripture,
but they wait blind, my words are already here
underneath my fingernails
tangled up in my hair.

There is a scar on my side
to match the one in my head,
where he took it back.
He spoke not a word, his hand
deep inside of me, his teeth biting my
lip so that I could not scream.
I still try but all that comes is a familiar hiss.


Lost. Misplaced. Mislaid. Vanished.

The words pale and fade away like you did,
none forthcoming with any clues as to how to retrieve them,
stubbornly mute under the interrogation of wet eyes.

I fumbled over the items you left,
wanting to caress them into being,
to lay out your clothes and find you in them,
a slip of a girl in a slip I removed so many times.

I put on your shoes,
size unwilling but forced,
and walked the mile in them to help me get to you,
but instead they walked me circular and tired.

I steamed the shower to taste your scent,
breathed in the vapor and felt only empty moisture,
no clouds of headiness, no drop of your sweat remained.

Your lipstick on my lips felt wrong,
the kiss I hoped they’d place there only reminded me,
taunted my mouth and pouted you gone until I teethed it off.

I find you everywhere here yet nowhere anywhere,
a ghost I cannot conjure or channel,
a forgotten memory,
a witness relocation that left me the victim,
the mark,
the DOA.

Presumed Dead

We noticed too late, printed and posted the missing signs,
set the rewards too little too late and called in the authorities
only after presumed dead.

Blinded by the distraction of pity fucks and silent breakfasts,
passive aggressive looks and meals out drinks out anythings out,
it slipped out covert.

It left a note, a eulogy really, and between the politeness of forced
conversation the words erased themselves, itself realising, relenting,
“what’s the point?”

Maybe if there’d been shouts, domestics we’d have seen it coming,
going going gone, evidence lost and we blinked it out of vision
and into complacency.

And then it was gone, I’d like to say stolen, taken without force
by the apathy of time and ease of avoidance, a space reserved
on the back of a milk carton.

So now I place flowers at the foot of the bed it passed in,
praying someday a safe return whether aged or alternate I’ll hold vigil,
lost in that old sell out – Some Day…