you’re in there


and i’m sick

of the mirrors you put in front

of my face

so you can argue me into some epiphany

you’re having about yourself

lock my words in a vice

that you claim is the boundary

of reason and fariness

but from my locked hands

and from my stiff neck

it feels like a beartrap carved specifically

for someone who might be tempted

to steal


if nothing i say is true

consoling, forgiving, or real

and you choose to cast my noose on the threads

of moments when your self focus

had me unraveling

i realize i’ll either be hanged

or i’ll run

and that neither answer will lead me to you


already i know i’ll miss

thinking you might someday want me

there’s only so many cold touches and shut eyes and hidden corners

and disguises

in dark car rides

that i care to romanticize

before admitting this has just been

one more verse

in the piece you’re sketching for your future resolve-

that the “she” of my details is

just a pronoun

in a sentence that wasn’t even about me.

spring 2015

there was, chasing me,

a riotous figure

spinning discs in the green

all I wanted though

was an Oak dividing lawns

of blonde hair and silk sheets.

when caught by the

figure in shades of

disease and desire

she knelt beside me and

offered her chewed gum

to say, with sorry eyes,


already got away