Quasimodo

Lonely people
are the only ones who notice those who were meant to be beautiful.
Those who lost their faces to other faces.
Mouths give way to twitches
and pulls.
Salty streaks crease and fold
an ocean of origami eyes.
Can't find a loose edge
to peel back
to the first page.
Crepe and print
tell a story not needing to be heard.
Only the lonely people listen.

After sad

Straight mouth lines

make me hesitate to speak.

When I do anyway,

low head gazes lead my confidence astray.

My eyes pan the room,

nothing else could have caused this.

I set the scene.

We are done talking.

At what point did my words go too far?

At what point did awkward know my name?

my new name is

How Dare You Make Me Feel That Way.

Clear eyes stunt my thoughts.

They are not clear like water,

but clear like a vision determined not to be swayed.

Clear like the blade of a knife wiped clean of its blood.

I go home.

I catch myself clenching my jaw.

I look out the shaded window.

I see the half-dead tree,

and wonder at the years I have just lost.

two

The walk to the bed was one that would

be told of in future rains.

I felt the drops watching me

through the glass

as blood-born questions

felt for warmth.

The outside was more.

Liquid flashing up and catching my skin.

I felt more from it

than from what was inside.

Divide and taken.

I rode on and lifted my head.

I like the feel of water on my neck.

It goes where it needs to

and I am fine with it.

So long after,

yet I can draw it up when I need to.

I can make it as real as it was.

The water on my back tells a different story.

Getting lost in the tiniest bits of life

This is where we go.
How I would love to fly on these wishes.