You are digging your own grave, girl.
And I will not stop you.
Here—take my hand.
Not to pull you out,
but to hand over the shovel.

What will you do with it?
Claw your way back to the surface?
Or bury another truth beneath the soil?
That’s your game, isn’t it?
Covering lies, hiding secrets,
packing dirt over everything rotten
and praying no one notices the smell.

But the truth is not dead.
The truth does not rot quietly.
It breathes.
It writhes.
It scratches at the coffin until the earth splits open,
and when it does,
you cannot silence it.
You cannot chain it.
You cannot **** it.

So dig, girl.
Dig until your hands bleed.
Dig until your arms break.
Bury every truth you fear.

But remember this—
a grave is not only a hiding place.
It is a trap.
And one day, when the earth swallows you whole,
no one will hear you scream.

And me?
I will not throw you a rope.
I will not lend you a hand.
The only thing I’ll give you…
is the dirt.
So you can bury yourself
alongside the truth you tried so hard to ****.

My cat child
brings order where there was none.
Let's not talk about the walnut shell of my womb,
empty birthplace of dust.
Let's talk about my cat child, proud with powers, handy with struts.

Now, listen--
I have forgotten all about you.
I've heard that I was in love once, but who knows?
Show me the evidence; I'll yawn elaborately, and my cat child will agree
that such stuff is dull in the extreme.
Dead fish, on the other hand, become more riveting every minute.

You would not have understood my cat child.
At least, that's my foggy instinct about it.
You would have objected to the damage, the **** and the fleas.
The rumor is, cats were royal once,
and I need the reflected glory and the chance to sleep during the day.

Right now, my cat child is away.
She is hungry for mice, songbirds, or someone's leg.
Me, I don't eat anymore, can't recall why I ever did--
I remember nothing, value nothing, aspire to nothing.

But once,
The feel of my mouth closing gently over the curve of your soft lower lip
seemed such an urgent thing,
like warm waves for mermaids,
a place I would do anything to get to.
Yes once,
the sight of your dark hair sent warm honey over my heart,
my belly,
my ***,
and everywhere, my love, from my skin to the stars.

Now, though,
I have forgotten all that.
What were we talking about? I have no idea.
Now there is only the glare of afternoon
and the magnificence of my cat child who has given me nine lives--
none of them worth a ****,
all as dead in the mouth as a finch with a broken neck.

Before lights out
a small pleasure
milk and a cookies
childhood revisited
yet
wracked with guilt
for the child
cowering from bombs
on an empty stomach
Bethlehem forgotten

A voice of softness
in times or darkness
an epistle loud
it carries anger and strength
for the suffering
the children
the ones taken away
by the devil
love of humanity
beauty that widens my eyes

how may I ask?
does one hug an angel

Stained are teeth, and fingers yellow,
Softly whispered lies we keep.
Smoke unfurls in breath so mellow,
Promising but sinking deep.

Coiling tendrils, soft and clever,
Lull the mind in fleeting grace.
Cinder ghosts that warm, yet sever,
Leave their embers on the face.

Every spark—a pledge unwinding,
Every drag—a weight we bear.
Sworn to comfort, yet confining,
Clinging to a thinning air.

It is the open arms that we long for;
the bright lighting up of the eyes when we enter the room.
An old man can deny it, but the 5-year-old within still knows.
We want to be welcomed like a sunflower field,
or the sweet voice of a grandmother at the door.
The need to truly belong is a force in itself.
You see everything in life has an impact;
the power of love and the compulsion of hurt.
The open doors and the slammed ones,
the last words spoken and the welcoming's,
our heart never forgets them.
You were too weary for open arms,
and too hurt to truly shine.
Truths an old man can discern,
but a child
can only feel lost in the darkness of it all.
For it is the open arms that we long for;
the bright lighting up of the eyes when we enter the room.
An old man can deny it, but the 5-year-old within me still knows.