May 22, 2017

She picks her words like they’re pins from grenades. 

The blasts were last night, but the shrapnel flies 

This morning. It litters my kitchen floor, 

chews chunks from my toes as I enter to 

hear what my phone bleats for. Each lamprey tooth 

carves words from songs we share...

May 22, 2017

There’s an innocence in

scissors.

Design means them to

slice

but intent is null for

steel

once it nails limbs to mattress.

She’s here again.

Dust of dusk in skull becomes

open maws

at midnight, singing mourning wails

until mid-morning.

No means

to survive the many-mouthed silences...

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