Yes, I am your chosen; my gangling bones,
my sensuous lips, my frightened eyes.
You play in my sandbox, but serenely
store your vision of sugar plums.
Home
We are all born mad, some remain so.
Read MoreWhen day is done, the sky
puts on her black dressing gown
and turns in for the night.
smooth as polished stone
marble bodies like three
for my –– sing! ––
How many times
have I died? How many alive?
I was a ghost. A breath. You
caught my scent. Made me flesh.
my world precious & so small though I am trying—
Read More“I know it isn’t supposed to make any sense,” I said, “but I can tell something in me has changed.”
Read Morei am barely an animal
no divine hope
or angelic voice to fill me