When the sick get angry and they won't stand still it's hard.

She shrinks when she sees you grow.

She's sick and she knows it,
but shame hardens the soft spots in her and
anger shields her
vision.

Can you penetrate armor without violence.
She could peel it off with patience but she won't
stand still.

And you are busy, too.

By Definition

Insubstantial, but weighty: defects of character.
I am
With them,
Laden.

No Comment (Revised at a Later Date, When I Wasn't Feeling So Sad)

I've spent most of my second life
in fear of exactly this:
the return of Heavy Darkness
(now in in blazing HD!)
eye sparks flattened like lightning bugs
smeared on the sidewalk at dusk
glow-in-the-dark chalk
A bargain buy
at just one
little
lightning bug life.

Yesterday, I stared for fifteen minutes
at my own reflection
and felt nothing.
It did not bother me,
I inhabit my body from a distance
for my own comfort;
it's an improvement.
lately when I run in place,
I focus on my feet
since, of all my body's moving parts,
they offend me the least.

It's as cold as I remember,
Or maybe it's worse.
Definitely,
maybe it's worse.
It's the worst way you can imagine being,
but probably it's not that bad.

There's really no way of knowing:
The most important year of my life
couldn't be reached for comment.

Ghosts Need Voices

We're on the verge,
we inmates and captors,
of mutual understanding -
a riot without resistance
impends.

it's been a decade and a half
since we began dividing
each separation a burial,
building layer after layer
with hands misguided
to cover the Wound with dry dirt and ashes
as if by concealing
we could heal
by suppressing
we could control what was impossible
to tame or contain or suffocate

but a voice still rises
beneath all that dirt
a child's eyes, leaking red and bewildered
deprived of comfort, except in the warmth
of restriction, which infants crave
and against which
the rest of us exhaust ourselves in combat

We thought she'd be a statue
by now, petrified by time and pressure and abandonment.
She was a story,
but not ours.
A myth,
but not heroic,
Timeless,
but without substance
We thought she'd fade away.
What use could such a shadow serve
our purpose,
which is survival at any cost.
She enraged us by persisting.
So we buried her,
beneath every failed attempt at transformation
15 years misunderstanding

She is the root
of our family tree,
and what good is it to bury roots,
which thrive in the dirt
while we in the sunlight are blind,
and she in the soil is voiceless,
one resenting the other
and the other nourishing the ones who curse her.

This is an apology,
and it's only a beginning -
Years of abuse
demand decades of repair.
but her voice still rises
and we captors - for shame -
have begun
to yield.

This wouldn't fit on Facebook

Yesterday's coffee and artificial tears.
It's not a good day for sunshine.
Exhaustion causes inflammation
results in heightened sensitivity to sunlight.
As if this body hasn't suffered enough heights.
Assaults. Without strength or desire to defend,
Defeated.
Or maybe just resigned.
Maybe just too fucking dramatic
maybe you're laughing
and rolling your eyes
and maybe this airbrushed life is good enough for you
so sensitive to human frailty which you might call ugliness
not fit for magazine covers
unless washed clean by photoshopped wishes.
well excuse us. we're sorry for ruining the aesthetic.
but this sunshine
is
fucking
bullshit.

False Memories

I once went sailing on an ocean of blueberry pudding, and when I reached the horizon, I spread my diamond dragon wings and flew into the ether. Now I live on the moon with the rest of the weirdos.

We live communally, and it's my week to make dinner, so I'm slicing purple potatoes while the elephants and ewoks play dress-up. The pianolin plays itself, with a company of accordions and cellos.

Sometimes it's sunny, others it's dusky, but we're never lonely or yearning or lost. When the sickness creeps in, we take turns flying backwards and down, to taste the blueberry pudding salt water from which we came.

We always leave lilies as thanks.

Chocolate. Or Attention. Online Dating. Adrenaline, and Jokes.

I get carried away.
I blame impulse, and a lack of patience. I'm certain it's now or never. Forever, and always.
An excess of enthusiasm. I'm addicted to endorphins and the abandonment of accountability.
Too bad it's only temporary.