Sitting alone in my underwear
in the middle of a highway
in the rain, I pray
for a pair of merciful headlights
to bless me with their strength.

There is only darkness staring back at me.

Placid and passive,
it has no interest in the pathetic theatrics
of this scene I have chosen
to play.  It just waits
in growling silence
for my dance to die.

It waits for me to die.
So do I.

But it seems I failed at that scene too.
And now I can only swallow
drop after drop of serial sky tears.
In repentance (?)
for my sins that stay
too pure to punish.
Or replay.


On my knees in a solarium
filled with broken glass,
I search, blindly, for any trace
of a sun that isn’t there.  For me,
it has no interest in the needs
of my skin or my consummate desire
to burn myself in its faith.
Instead, it hides.  Laughing
and pointing nothing at my ignorance
just to watch me jump
to attention at the first hiss
of its echo.  Bouncing
and bruising what’s left of my brain
in a ring of wringing sin.


I tie myself, in heat,
to the radiator and wait
to see which of us will overheat
first in the eye of the moon . . .

Lonely and naked, I rattle
more on the inside
than any abandoned piece of metal
could ever hope to.  But the tired
machine answers more melodic.
And it is right.  I am too beaten
to remember the tune of tomorrow.
So I cross my legs
and my eyes in defeat.
Still waiting for morning’s mock
to come.


I recite the spells of forever
from the cell of a broken window’s frame.
It holds me –  free –
to fly through the sky.

Yet I cannot move.

I can only cry out to no one.
Always watching; always waiting;
always ready to pounce
on the first vein I leave
exposed to the moon.


I opened my eyes and I screamed
so loud I turned my skin
inside out.  Forcing
the blood I had left to the surface.

And once I was painted, I was silent.

There was nothing else to say.
You could not ignore me any longer.
I was a spot, a sore, a scab.
You had to pick me.
You had to make me
your own.


I commanded the walls to bleed.
And they did. 
For weeks, until I grew too week
to contain them.  But I was not finished.
I held my breath
and dove
into the pool I had created.
A backstroke – all for your amusement.
But you refused to save me.
You liked the sound of my death –
of my breath – breaking
as I gave in and let myself drown.


I buried myself up to my chin
in the hollow flesh of men
who were all too happy to sacrifice
for the cause.  Then I colored my hair
with their eyes.  And my lips,
well, I believe they speak for themselves.
Still I lacked the heat to hold
your attention.  So I left
my scars.  But I never realized the formed
a map.  Too late, I followed
you instead.
                                                   Until I could not breathe
for anything but the pulse
of your blood.


I carved the name:  Death
in my skin with the edge
of a broken knife.  Then I fed
myself – inch by inch –
through the mirror’s teeth.
Still I came out whole
with scars too tough for you to eat.
And I tried to pick them,
but gone was not a word they cared for.
Instead they doubled – tripled –
until they covered all of me
like lead.  Leaving me
drowning in screams . . .

. . . I’m still not sure
they are mine.


I paint myself in symbols
raised from the skin of an angel
that fell through
the glass of this world.
Now its shatter fills my voice.
Calling the shadows to guide me.

And they are the better wings.

More controlled than controlling,
they dip and swirl.  They are teasing
me.  Dropping lower.
Always stopping just short of the point
where my skin can burn.


I stretched the wire across my breast,
branding myself:  Dissected
to make it easier for your hands
to know me.
But they preferred to stay blind.
And it was contagious, as I too
pulled my eyes out and swallowed
them so I could fly with you
through the darker pains
of our beaten pair.


I press myself into a corner,
and you stand against me
in punishment
for the sins we long to commit.
But your scars do not fit
together with my own.
They rip
the image. 

The motion is torture.

We both deserve to serve
this time in silence.
Don’t worry, the sky will scream
for us tomorrow.
As long as we time our ending . . .

. . . Right?


I sewed my skin to the floor –
not the ceiling – as you requested.
I chose to draw my own battle line
even though I already conceded
to your victory. 
And I will let you tear me apart.
But I will not fall
from the touch.  If you want me,
you must come for me.
Crawling.  Like an animal
on your knees.


I want to set me on fire.  So I can watch
you burn.  From the inside,
these flames seem so unreal.
Maybe because I can see the pain
I am supposed to feel
shining in your eyes. 
You seem so angry.
Anxious and disappointed,
you honestly believed that once my skin melted
I could be re-lit.
                        And again.
                                                            And again.


I smile with my mouth closed
so you will not see the blood
on my teeth.  But there is
too much.  It seeps
                                                   through the cracks
in my lips.

It spots the floor with secret codes.
Of death?

You try to wipe it away.
Not understanding its beauty.
Its gift.  It smears your skin
in protest.  Staining your hands
and everything they touch.

You don’t believe me?
Look at my chest; my neck; my wrists.
I look like a still-breathing suicide.
And you are glad
because finally your skin has made
its match.


I opened like a butterfly.
A little bloody,
but that was to be expected
in this much light.
My skin refused to acknowledge
the head of such a silent battle.
So it burst
into screaming fits of its own. 

Desire –  I have been told – will do this to a soul.

Tortured and twisted,
only the violence will fly
in the dark.  I try to follow,
but my ankles are weak
and they cannot resist
the rawer kiss
of your chains.


I slide my hands down a pole
of glass.  Broken,
I am sacrificing
my touch for the full pleasure
of your sight. 
I understand the desire
hiding in your mind.  I want
to set it free.  Listen,
your eyes are already cracking. 
Let them.  Shatter
can only compliment my skin –
furthering its naked grace.
But all of that is over now.
There is only this blinding blanket
of red.
And it is a scent;
a stain; a pain.
Too dark to open
anywhere else but tonight.


I shove chairs in my mouth
for your comfort
and my convenience.

My knees are not meant to support
us both.

let me welcome you in my own way.
My tongue
is made to conform
to your specific dimensions.

What’s the point?
It is white darling.
Quick and sharp
and closing in on you . . .

No.  Do not look up.
We are too many.
And too deeply set to our own
hunger to be swayed
by your pitiful pleas tonight.


I slit my wrists on both sides
carefully missing the veins.
To tease you as you have
tortured me:  slowly.

You are disappointed.
You expected so much more.

Do not worry.  Just wait.
You will get the ending you desire.
Don’t you see?
This way I can die
for your honor.  Again
and again and again.