I began writing about your eyes, how I love the lines that live beside them, the juxtaposition of the youthful glimmer and the aged glamour. I was going to write about your eyes, but I saw them watching me, shining, sweet, so nervous, begging your lips to ask, if I was bored. I think about…

Inside my corpse, is a gallery. Haunted, harrowing harm, that I inflicted on myself, a collection of corpses, within my corpse, that is kept warm, by my eternally beating, broken heart. I don’t know that I ever existed, sometimes I looked at myself as a museum of my muses, how they slipped through my fingers,…

Your ashes take flight, flirting with every flower you find, in a garden that is mine, mine alone. It could have been yours, if you didn’t descend, desecrated plastic, permanently banished. Photographs, promises, leap into the air, as ashes, and I give birth to a girl, Bambi legs, brown eyes, that find the future, in…