if you loved her –
the edge of her sword
the cut in her tongue
why was I there?
if you desired her –
the meat hanging off her rotten bones
the bloodshot in her eyes
why was I given the key?

my favorite poem
I never wanted to become my favorite poem;
I never wanted to feel
and forlorn.

all this time
I must have felt invincible,
thinking myself sheltered,
by my lonesomeness
and far away from the inadequacies
of self mutilation.

I never wanted to notice
the weight of the world,
the moles on my shoulders,
the stray hairs that forest my skin
the crook of my chin
and the pull of my spine.
I dread listening to the sound
of my heartbeat at night
and how it seems to ask
the questions I would not:
is it the bridge between worlds?
is it the stretch of my scars?
is it all of me
that makes you go

well, I wish that I had none.
and if that brought you closer
I wish I weren't me.
rest for a while under the moon vine,
keep your eyes shut tight and wait.
you may be able to hear that rivlet of fate,
a sign.

and when the moon vine will swallow you too,
when all your thoughts seem to be running askew
remember that the moon vine is always there,
and the thoughts you knew for spang are stained, beware.

so next time you find yourself under the moon vine,
you might think she'll hear your scream, wail and whine,
yet she'll have you put to death.