floriddecay

these days, i see poetry as a bone buried deep in my flesh, one that's been broken and was never set quite right. i roll words around my tongue, swallow them, and slide stubby fingers into my throat to catch them while they squirm.          (but they always slip away) alternatively, i will hug my knees close to my body, shoving them deep into my guts until my skin flowers purple, i will rake my nails across my breasts, i will hang my mouth wide open over the empty pages of a notebook hoping to somehow give birth to something meaningful. at least failed poetry can start a small fire.

this morning as i watched the sunrise,  i revelled in the dawning of my own realization- felt my heart stumbling over itself  for sheer lack of understanding at the joy i felt. this morning  i finally felt i had let go of the past, and looked to the morning sun with a smile. and just now?  i heard your voice- heard the scathing doubt poking through your words, quietly bellowing your confidence    in my incompetence. now my heart's having trouble with digesting its bruises while i'm standing upright. now i remember that i should be on all fours, howling to the moon, turning my body into shadows  so you don't h

last night, i was stitching your soul together bone by bone, holding each white curve together on my lips while my fingers worked the needles: weave, weave, loop, poke, pull the thread through - there's an infant forming at my fingertips. and that's my purpose, no questions - i give life, feed life, and watch my own flame get swallowed by the time and joy i piss away just so you can make it to your first steps. i've got to keep my jaw tight, now; 'cause i'd carve off those babyflesh heels of yours just for an hour of sleep.

molly walks by the corner convenience store every weekday at 12:03pm, making sure to keep track of the old sign hanging off of the brick wall to see how quickly the words fade into nothingness. just one block  away from old store there is a small park where the sounds and smells of the city played along with the sweet scent of old trees to create an odd mix of gasoline and maple leaves, and that's where she chooses to have her usual lunch of pickle and jam sandwiches. the small park is her favourite place to sit and eat lunch; people are always rushing back and forth that time in the afternoon, most of them the working types on a mission to