Occasionally I come across a person with brown eyes,
and I compliment them on those peepers.

More often than not, they laugh and say,
"Oh, they're just brown."
Or
"They're **** colored."
Or
"I wish I had blue/green/hazel eyes."

I want to grab them by the shoulders,
pull them close to me,
look into those eyes and say,
"Your eyes are alluring, deep, and warm."

Eyes the color of delicious coffee,
of which I want to gulp every last drop.
Eyes the color of ancient leather,
the binding of the best books.
Eyes the color of the soft soil,
from which everything good grows.

I say,
"Love your eyes, it's how the rest of us see into your soul."

Brown eyes are my favorite eyes.
Brown eyes make me feel like I am home.

"I can see my door, my bed, my window, my chair, and my table.

"I can feel my spine against the wall, my feet against the floor, my jaw tightly shut, and my fingernails buried in my arms.

"I can hear the wind coming in from the open window, my heartbeat rapidly thumping, and that familiar voice in my head, shouting once again.

"I can smell the dampness of the ground outside as the breeze carries it to my room, and the sickly sweet odor from the soap used on my hands.

"I can ******* blood spilling from the bite in my lip; my last harsh reminder that
        I
        am      
        still
        alive.

if i read/write one more ******* poem about bed sheets i am going to hang myself with mine

Once a lover said to me “I’d like to pick your brain,”
“You’re a beauty darling, but I think you’re quite insane.”
I did not doubt a word he said so I opened up my mind
I think he got a little scared when he realized what he’d find.
Empty bourbon bottles, littered in my head
Crumpled up old ***** notes, wishing I was dead.
Then one of the voices that once belonged only to me
Snuck into his consciousness out of curiosity
It whispered scary sayings right into his ear
He clutched my hand tightly, said “Never leave me, dear.”
I looked into terrified eyes with sincere empathy
But felt nothing but relief that the terror had left me.
Before it could crawl back to me I shut my mind quickly,
I will be ****** if I’m the one living life sickly.

in the icy swirl
          of deep-inhale
            I reach down inside
                      to darkest
       heated flesh-fabric
removing the clothing
of my soul,
feeling the layers
                slowly  undone
                      the flay
                        of my own fleece
                          the peeling
                    of my own pelt
            penetrating
                through tissue,
                     a journey to the
                          deep heart of me,
                         cut in one clean move
                         and yet, like a miracle
                  there is
             no pain
                   just magnet-connect
                     beyond the cusp
                            of words
                              that curl from our
                                             tongues
                                      rising up in
                      latticed affirmations
                    a cleansing in frost
a constant, aquamarine renewal
and there is no past
no future
      just this prism
           of crystal liquid jewels
      flowing in
gentle,
         cellular music
             straight into the strands        
                    of our veins
and I miss you
like you have gone
on the long winter hunt
my longing splayed out
like an animal skin on
                    four poles
its tendons stretched
beyond measure
yet holding fast
with a roof over my head,
                    I acknowledge
             my restlessness
I am my own
       hunter-forager,
         both searching and found,
                     gathering up bits  
               of velocity
stroking the ribbons
of passion
stoking the fires of my
              heart and hearth
protecting what is us
like a lioness
for we are overflowing
with both strength
         and tenderness
              our own bones
ingredients of the wild soup              
of our feral union
of our constant rebirth
our very dna
          weaving itself
like heartstrings
               in the rush      
of
       time

i.


there are days
when my stars
align just for me.


my inner cosmos
telling me to write
about the pain.


my inner cosmos
telling me to expand
the universe within.


ii.


there are days
when my stars
collapse.


i am made of pure
darkness.


i am made of pure
anxiety—


terrified of not seeing
the sun again.


iii.


there are days
when my stars
rise—


like the infinite suns
that they are.


illuminating my being.