Desert.

We are an army of soldiers walking the field, watching faces of the enemy become more clear. Open land, no place to hide, we are exposed without time to mitigate fears we have inside.

You lean on me and say, "I've been shot."

And just like that.
You were gone.

"You should have jumped in front," my conscious mind says, "taken the bullet; saved your friend."

I should have jumped, I wouldn't have died-- you're already gone if you're dead inside.

War.

One piece, one look. As addiction seeps into the skin, a parasite has found its host. Again, repressibility sleeps. And a war has begun. Snoozing itself, repressibility sleeps. I am at war, myself and my whore. Beside me it lays— greedy and selfish, unworthy of a name.

I turn to my side, watch my hand glide, feel closely as the world subsides. My whore is a bitch, sleeping with both my body and mind. It is a nuisance, tort of aggravation, capable of controlling the brightest and still all the rest. Raging fire, a disturbing fight, gain is diminished and I am hidden from the light.

We live and love in a cave, hidden from emotional creatures. I tell it to let me go.

Hurt from weakness, the pain never mends. Broken by war, I am one with remorse. Accidental addiction, repressibility sleeps. Scared, scarred, shaken and starved, I have initiated war.

Poison.

There is a hand inside my heart, clenching and pushing, trying to reach out. Disruptive of the blood coursing through 1my veins, more like poison, I’m no longer sane. The hand, it hurts, drowning in pumping blood and the echo of a heartbeat.

My veins are suffocating.

There is a rock inside my heart. A boulder that pulls it down, my heart is laying on the ground. It’s covered in dirt, the rock left to dust. Tainted heart, bruised and beaten, tired mechanical heart, beating until the stars disappear. A rock left to dust, the heart, stardust.

My veins are suffocating.

There is a hand inside my heart. A fluid motion of pulsing and straining, breaking and mending, tearing and scarring, trapped inside the taste of life. I can taste the blood, see it seeping from inside of me. A part of me, broken free.

My veins are suffocating.

I cannot breathe. Mechanical heart, do you beat? There is glass inside my heart. Shattering, cutting endlessly. I am alive. I am alive with the poison that flows through my veins, I am alive with the energy of the world consumed with greed.

“I will help you live,” the heart says.
She whispers, “I will help you die.”

My veins are suffocating. And I am the poison. Seduce and destroy, I am the poison.

Dust.

Standing on a balcony a hundred feet off the ground, wipe the dust and soot from the railing onto the floor. The cold of the breeze and the sting of the metal inch under her skin like goosebumps after a warm bath. What was meant to save acts as a lure to death, standing on the balcony a hundred feet off the ground. Hands barely holding on, her cold feet widen apart by the fate of the wind.

Breathlessly falling,
breathlessly feeling,
breathlessly reaching out for dust.

The soot on the bed is from she and I, dirty minds and dirty bribes. The soot on the pillow, that is mine. The chemistry of love combined with the chemistry of the mind creates soot from the eyes that bleed onto cotton-poly blends that will never wash out. Like a tattoo on the face, it will never wash off.

By the fate of the wind, fall from balcony to grave; fall from balcony to grave and still stay still awake. The sound of strangers awaken me, their feet feeling like a colony of ants having their way with me. That light you see, that light that’s so bright, fluorescent they say? It’s blinding me. The brighter the light the darker the shadow, I see the shadow floating out to sea. I look at the balcony and raise myself up. The stronger the love the deeper the cut.

The cold of the breeze and the distance of the fall would have better ruined her than given her another chance at all. I look at the balcony and raise myself up. A shadow is watching, mimicking every move, the mind unallowing of the fates to corrupt.

Standing on the balcony, a hundred feet off the ground, there is a girl below about to drown. In a puddle of torn love and unconscious mind, I jump off and breathlessly reach out for dust.

Self-Nemesis: An Abecedarian Sonnet.

Let me breathe, let me go, let me travel to the moonbeam.
Nemesis in my head, but there is a sound—falsetto,
piercing through my ears; a cirque
reeling in my head as I run through the gleams,
turning my head to find a psychiatric guru.
Vengeance, maybe, I am caught in a willow,
excruciating pain, my vision goes awry;
zipping my jacket to save myself, a panacea
birthed from a twist of a hand. Still, I am toxic,
demure yet brash, I have no love.
Fugitive to a glamorous life, I am going,
halcyon, I will go; halcyon. I
justify myself, both of me. Let me go, let me sink.

Molten Ruins

Caution tape covers you like you are the enemy during an apocalypse.
Stay away; I will not hold back.
The raging fire of your heart swells into a volcano;
Gripping, grabbing, I am your eruption.
Contagious, your love left me in ruins.
With rugged rock you stabbed me,
liquid seeping from my heart like the molten remains of the natural disaster you are.
As you reign as queen atop your mountain of passion
My lava slips into your soul, your elevated peak,
into the visible cracks of our love—
Are you no longer in control?
I am the eruption of your gold,
The orange-red prize that your insides hold.
I will hurt you like you hurt me;
Give me your rugged rock and let your lava free.

Tale of the Typewriter

There is an old typewriter that sits on a shelf next to dusty books and burnt candles.
Untouched for years, harsh feelings linger of the sticky, temperamental ink tape.
Watching arms bend as each letter transfers from ink to paper
Its keys are like fingerprints matching to mine and I listen—
I hear the click and zip sounds as my words write themselves
Bringing me back to grandmother's house during earlier times
As I sat writing, typing, staying awake for days
Finishing a story: The Fairy in the Flower,
Celebrating a birthday and independence of childhood
Much unlike the agedness of these tacky keys.
Light green and yellowed, the stories it has created,
All the fingers it has felt and the tears that have fallen on the letters.
If the typewriter could speak, the tales it could tell...
Just like the time I sat typing in a chair making up fairy spells.