Maybe I’m not what you envisioned
Maybe I’m soft in places
You thought would be hard
My shoulders may be weak
But like Sisyphus
I will try
My eyes may strain
But they can see through
This envisioned life
My heart is in the right place
But no one else showed
A different time zone
And you are no longer
A vision
No longer envisioning
Our life together
Maybe I’m just too soft
As you utter “stalemate.”


Some Days (or Tabula Rasa)

Some days
I want to smooth it all out,

Ground myself into untouched flour
or virgin snow,
Stretch my body across a canvas
until I am formless,
A rightly scorned mess

Some days
I am smooth and untouched,
Cold as a distant star
and shatterproof

But some days
I am too rough for time,
Do not bend into its grooves
Or surpass the old rhyme.

Some days
I am more night
Than day,
More likely to say
What I don’t mean
But felt was right
At the time

And some days
There is light on my
Light with my pillow
Propped up,
Right there
Touching my cheek

But some days
Some days

Vicious Cycle (an Ode to the Ovary)

There is a cloud that stalks
Every bright thing I say
Or do

A stutter that sees me
Stumble through,
Occasionally uttering
A passive “fuck you”

To that zombie with
Mobile phone in hand,
Clocking my shoulder
With no eye for the time

Or the bus driver whose day
Isn’t going the way
He planned either,
Refuses my tenner
With seething grace

Sometimes I see his face
In the bag of crisps
I’ve fetishized all day,
That isn’t where I left it
But at the bottom
Of the bin

A vessel for sodden tea bags,
My body is a vessel
For rage
And sugared cereal
Straight out of the box,

But soon that lapsing
Teary-eyed bloat
Will rise from my veins
Like steam,
My skin will breathe,
My nerves will cross
Themselves blind

And for a time
The fog will lift,
My hormones
All tuckered out,
Will seem to leave
Me be

But of course like any
Horror movie buff,
I know the truth,
The butt of the joke

Just when you think
The monster has finally
Met her end,
She bears her teeth,
Her eyes ignite,
The cycle starts

To Sleep, To Dream.

Sleep is the levee,
Darkest embankment

A love as cumbersome and divine.

But love is no word for slumber,

To sleep is to dream of waking,
Walking in on another’s life.

Sleep is the anchor,
The roof concave.

To sleep and dream,
To see the very eyes of love
Only to blink.
And wake.

But love is no word for slumber,
The barefoot step.

Love is what sleep will dream
When it rests its weary head.

What’s in a Name?

Anxiety gives me anxiety.
The very word

Grabs you by the horns,
Wrangles you into submission.

A moth with black
Horsehair wings,

The flutter of a heartbeat,
Once static,
Now a deep sea tremor.

Printed bold on the bow
Of a ship.

She is an empty vessel,
Her head
Just above the waterline.

Poe’s golden bug:
Once bitten,
Forever shy.

To itch
An old wound.