Rain

How desperately it touches every part of me it can reach--my skin, my hair, the little bones on the back of my neck. How desperately it touches you and everybody, sacrificing its body of infinite tears to hold the earth together.

Fragments

I felt a pull towards the gothic, so I wore it. Lived it through each of the seasons and it became part of me. Now it is winter and I can lather its absent color over my lashes and cupid's bow, conceal the crisp holes in my ears with sparkle that man freed from the earth. I can wear white and not shy because black is a part of me, nightly hues fill my soul but it is exquisite. I yearn to live in New York but more lands so foreign and infinitely more lovely. The desire makes me restless. Blind-sighted, I want to be everywhere for the seasons until they too glint in my skin. All I wonder about I want to make mine until the internalization sets me free. Likewise, I want to pluck beauty from the lips of foes and lovers and add them to my collection where by mending me for the worse I can grow bent but breathtaking. Alone my shards are glass but trust me to weld debris into mosaics you cry musical.

Yesterday was good but today is only natural.

Mind

I don't. I have poetry spinning but I am scared to put it down. Can people tell me it isn't really? How is the form of that which forms not worthy of being penned? Conditions worsen.They are the words that self select in my broken mind, a product of everything that has ever happened to me. Everything hurts. But how can it, when it is I that hurt. But you, do you hurt too? They say they do. How awful. We laugh. Let's be love. Let us go someplace where nobody thinks they know us. I only loved two boys. But the first was a dog and the second was a man. I'm sorry. I am cold. I love you. I am a not worthy child. You love me unconditionally. You move your finger through the air to show me the way you imagine a year. When I was a child I told people spring was my favorite season. Because that's what it was for you. I love winter. Winter was nectar when I met you. It is not dead. When children's cheeks bloom, noses shine red. Who killed winter? You live in an enchanted land. Your love was conditional. I wind up in winter.  It is misunderstood.The place I go back to. Winter passing. So why is it I that am always enchanted? Is this home? Except on days like today when I am unstable. I hate the word emotional. Somebody maimed it and got away with murder. We still blame the victim, ostracize it for being hideous. We are grotesque when the sickly letters sound from our mouths. Neither was a boy. So really neither would suffice. The word for dead is harsh. But is death not harsh? Why do we say passing? Passing is beautiful. Seasons pass. I wind up in winter. The place I go back to. Is placing something beautiful where something harsh should be not a road to romanticize? I have been told that romantic is a condition. I was born ill.

It's true, you know--what they say about holes in the language.