cumulonimbus
bringing of rain
bowling gods
beware Auntie Em
jutting high like a mushroom cloud
look mommy a castle in the sky
poufy pillows piled into the stratosphere
cirrus
wispy feathers touching space
lightly floating on jet stream currents
resembling the wings of angles
always so far out of reach
morning mist
dragons breath
ground temperature mingles
with slight variations in the air
sending tendrils stretching and elongating
shadow monsters spin the shroud
and faceless nameless shapes
distort in the low laying fog bank
altocumulus
rows of bubbles fading to infinity
contrails
and chemspray
naturally
snaking across the heavens
maintaining form against
surface wind gusts
lines front the cold front
look mommy
racing stripes –

I've come to the intersection of
false law and steal bolt spines
My blood keeps pumping kerosene
and my lungs can hardly stutter
but they still beg me to breathe
No one ever tells you when it's
a good time to break and the last
time I tried to swallow it was a
handful of rispodol and my brother's
fingers down my throat
I woke up in January with a father
and the seams to my soul
But now I have neither and they
ask me to be still
I could count the apologies I
ever got from both on one hand
and none were from this man
They tell me to write because it
gives voice to my speech but I
found the library of my mind in
ashes when I asked for a plea
And I don't know if maybe she just
gave up on me or us both
But I've left laders outside my
window for all the hands that couldn't
hold me and all the lips that never
mind to tell me why
Does one bleed at the knees for a
shoulder to sleep or do I blister my feet?

I have always been drawn to destruction;
air too thin to breathe-
I carry a pain eyes can't receive.

life and evil are only a letter apart,
and I've come to believe
this was no mistake;

the devil wears sweatpants and a rosary.

he weaves his fingers
through yours tightly
every time he holds you down-

and he shines-
stolen halos line red wrists,
they bang against the drywall-
its four in the morning
and he's come into the room again-
he forever invites himself in

maybe this time God will hear the ringing,
clinging together,
the halos,
the angels
will flee to ****** back
their innocence.
brilliance.

and the motion will cease.
the clouds, close.

claiming "possession"
is out of the question
for he did not seize my soul-
I extracted it, split my skull
all for a taste of the afterlife.

he loves mirrors and other pathways
of reflection;
the evil only seem to love themselves.

I am used to blinding confusion
and bittersweet illusions,
I crave the burn that follows pain.

he likes to leave a mark
beyond scarring the skin,
but I promise,
the worst is within-

life and death are only a day apart
and I've come to believe
I am stuck in between,
and the devil continues,
blissful and free.

I stitched each of them on to me, knitted
It tight on my flesh. I bleed for a moment
But it was just another etched on my flesh.

Each perforation was another that joined my flesh,
Entwined on my soul I made their hair in to fine
Cotton and each was given a place upon my being.

"Eye,
      "Neddle,
                    "Backstitch­,
                                     "Scissor,
                                                   "Seam,

A honour of their offering was felt as I seeped on
Their twine. Pain was a lust that was sort but
Never harvested and my culling was full.

Flesh was just moment of time aging ever moment
Decaying since birth. Their hair lived longer than
What was but food for thought now no more.

My limbs like a puppet on stings, but I am their keeper
Of life on me, in me they live on. I stich their memory
So many colours do  I weave on to myself.

Blonde,
             Brown,
                         Chestnut,
                                     Ginger

But the ones that are lucky that never grace my being,
They are those of least crowns on their scalp.
I am one of such no hair on myself. But weaves I
Sculpt upon myself, they live on even though bodies rest.


I have many stitches on my flesh of weavings not my own,
But their essence will always be here as long as I live on.
Seeing those moments which will be etched on myself,
I will weave all into the picture etched on my skin.

*"A stitch in time ebbs your existence your soul to mine,