Song of Flames

They tell you to follow the sun
as if night isn’t upon you
as if the shadows aren’t real

but night is still upon you

The thing in your mouth, copper hush
rage whispers
silence screams
until you sing your song of flames:

Let them come
Oh, let them rage
Let them find me in the shadows
Let them say my name
And quake


They tell you to let go
as if you’ve unpacked your pain
as if you’ve poured it into the earth

but hell still sits in a suitcase

The thing in your belly, it knows
the magic lies in the coming apart
in the middle of the wreck
in your every season
and every room
it waits

Hurt is hard to feel
but still the wound must speak
and speak it does
before you heal


They tell you to sit on the moon
keep fishing dark skies for stars
as if hope isn’t hanging by a thread of nostalgia
as if you didn’t notice the rage behind the flowers
before they were plucked from your garden

but his hands are still entangled in your hair

The thing in your center, it calls
little by little
in waves
it comes

Pull up a chair, sorrow says
out of body, slip
you will rebuild yourself
but first, rest

I Wonder

I get to thinking about how long
I have carried things around with me;
things I am not certain
I will ever unload;
things buried so deep
they are embedded in my soul
and perhaps beyond my reach.
Is it even baggage anymore
or has it broken down
and been absorbed?
Is it in my blood and bones?
I wonder

Obliterate Me

To the night I say:
Obliterate me.
Let this quiet brutality
save me.

I undo myself here,
at the edge of my being;
like a hovering apparition—
a dweller.

I come because the woman
in the wall is whispering again:

The longer you stay
The stronger the cage


I come for the ones
who brought me here—
the ones who came
before me.

I come with little horrors
embedded in my bones.
I come to break chains,
to part ways with
patterns and pain.

I come to sit with the
worn and wise ones, long-lost
but certain there is more.

I come here to shatter,
to free shadows,
to breathe.

I Still Weep for the Wreckage, I Confess

Mother said to never let
passion leave without you,
but sometimes you don’t notice
until it gets away from you,
until it’s beyond the horizon,
where distance can only be
measured in misery.

I am half here, half there
half alive, half dead
by the time I notice it’s gone.

I am busy chasing ghosts
when it slips quietly out the side door.
I am teetering between
reality and dream.
I am mourning bones.

The thought of breaking free
from comfort’s pillowy embrace
doesn’t even cross my mind.

I am anchored here,
in the dark oblivion,
long past ruination.

Mother said to dwell here
long enough to make your peace,
but leave before the old pain
sings to you like a love song.