You are the sea and I am only a shipwreck. Drawn by every siren’s call and sinking further to the bottom. Broken into thousands of little pieces. To become driftwood? Or treasure? I don’t know. It’s quite a gamble.
But I still want to be yours.
poets
a dying breed,
slowly suffocating
since birth.
choking on
all the words
we’d never speak
aloud.
and no one tells us
that it will be okay.
or pries our fingers
from the pens,
from the sheets.
because even though
we are strangers,
they know
there’s nothing here
for us.
just
make love
to me like the men
in the stories
please
Patriotic Duty
Who’s to say
we’re not already
in Hell?
It seems
pretty bad here
to me.
Bad enough.
We all know that we have
one purpose:
to die.
Slowly suffocating
our whole lives.
I put out the
S-O-S
but no one comes
and I’m not sure how to save
myself.
Crossing lines is usual
for Illegals;
not for me.
If he wants
a smoking gun,
I just know,
in spite of everything I’ve said
or done,
I’ll pull the trigger
first.
I just know it.
for all they know
I’m just the
girl with the flaxen hair
and you are
no one to me.
you may have me
but
only in the night
or in the
very dim light.
and when they
ride by
hold your breath
and
be still in the water.
our hearts
from the assassin fled
but beat so hard
from the exertion that
they bludgeoned us both
to death
and that’s the end
and no one wins
you are beautiful
as a ghost
is beautiful -
here
then gone
but
you are all I want
in this wide, weird world,
so
stab me
up
through the ribs
straight
into my heart
twist
the knife around
scraping
the bone
separating
the tendons
let me die for you
once more
you’re made of fire
destructive
but with all the intrigue of ice
and if I ever come home to find
my house ablaze
and everyone I love
burned
I’ll know who to blame
dear self,
where are you?
I need you now.
writers
we give
so much of ourselves
away
and
they still don’t get it
