do you think im pretty?

i know i
            have candle stubs
                        for irises
            and wrought iron door hinges
                        for a jaw
where other girls have
            mirrored ponds and
            flower stems

but i scrape the hardened wax off of my stony cheeks
            every morning
and sand down the splinters
                        on my wooden fingertips

it's all i can do because
            the moonlight i carry
                        turns to steam
            and the knots i tied in these flower stems
                        dont withstand the weight

do you think im pretty?
i promise my
            rigid joints can still bend to hold your waist and
            caress your midnight waves
            we can
                        stay here
                                    close
                  ­                              together
                          ­          and
                        breathe the same air
            dont worry about the

scorch marks on my neck or
splinters in my chest
darling they come from inside-
            right
                        here ...
            if you stay close
            i'll keep you
                        so
            warm–

and theres no need to worry
(because
            im
the only
one
close
            enough

to burn)

my Poems are not about me
if I were sunshine
            my poetry shines brighter
if I were thunder
            my poetry rumbles louder
if I were rain
            my poetry weaves into thin films of gossamer
                        and glistens around my edges

my Poems are not about me
when I write
            I separate a sparkly heartstring
                        from the rest
            thread it carefully into my needle
and hurry to weave a story embroidered with colored confetti
            and shimmering sequins

before the glitter
            like snow
            drifts
and sticks
            to the remainder
of my dull
honest
heart.

every part of her
is in
          flames
even the tiny beads of sweat
glistening on her forehead
          emanate pure
                    pulsating
                    passion
it­ is an entity
          tightens around the muscles
in her wrist
her delicately fierce fingers
          weave scarlet stories
                    in the stuffy air that
          SNAP shut
stiffer than the wood of her stage
          sharper than blades

the fire escapes
          in sparks
          through the bottoms of her shoes
tapping
          clicking
          pounding
             ­       madly
the frills on her vibrant red dress
          trembling
          with every step
the colors fly
          golden scarves
          red and black lace
          dim green lights

the guitar throws his crimson and amber chords
                    into the air
they sparkle in flight
and land softly in her
          thick hair
like jet black
smoke

her deep breath flutters
            each quiver
                        a frantic
            flicker
            and            snap
     ­                   of a shivering sail
in the relentless
wind

her hands tremble
            pulse desperately
            echo the panicked heartbeat
                        of the splintering hull

I reach to hold her hands
            to settle the raging storm
and as my fingers close around them
            I feel the bloodcurdling shrieks
                        of the crew and passengers
            the wood creaking
            the swaying with each massive wave
            the heavy rain pummeling the deck
I look up
            to see storm clouds
                        in her irises
            casting shadows
over her eyes

there is nothing I can do
I cannot see where the skies
            brighten
I'm not sure if they do
but I will hold your hands
            grip the mast
and stay on board
until the pulse

stops

cold

all this time it never mattered how sensitive the ridges
in my fingertips are to metallic surface finish,
inspecting the cold aluminum like braille for defects,
how fluent I am in composite porosity repairs, how many
material allowable properties I can rattle off the top
of my head, because I

used to sing the Oh Hellos with you in the basement,
thinking that the air in my lungs would fill the space with much less exertion once I
could watch a rocket engine hot fire with boots on the ground in the
slimy large intestine of july in some remote part of texas,
and at 17 I never imagined that rumble to be like a cataclysm, it is
glorious but somehow at 17 I

pictured 23 to be happier than sitting on a dorm bed next to you illuminated by star-shaped string lights on the walls,
or maybe just less painful than watching your face
change shape from halfway across the country, wondering how different
your voice would sound singing the bridge, and
afraid that my voice will never sound any different than it used to

what better day than today--

I can't sleep and I can't
stand the daisy bushes at dusk with their
orange glaring eyes glaring
at my fingers turned robot joints back when
they used to--

feel differently
and I

swear I
haven't changed so much and to
prove it I'm trying to dig the eternity out of
algae green and deep walnut irises stranger
and stranger with spoon shovels made of
shallow questions and polite interest without
getting so bored or
wishing I was--

what better day than today to die

I've tied the limbs of my
spirits and monsters alike into knots and
dizzied them in labyrinths of my own muddied judgment
paved with crushed clocks and compass needles and
they are all so far gone, I am
untethered--

even far from my dear music and poetry--

my soul is already split like colored mosaic glass, each of
a thousand fragments not just belonging but
borne out of some piece of art that will long outlive me, so
anyone that minded could
easily piece me back together in death

how I wish that death were the end,
the end, and not a passing over into
some other unknown rumored to outlast everything,
what more terrifying than that and if
I believed there were a true end I might have sought it
much sooner--

what is left for me to do but
papier-mache my body with my old poetry like a
sarcophagus absorbing the things I
trusted to hold me so much closer

I have neither raincoats nor kneepads,
no snowboots or hands for fighting--
they have torn and twisted my limbs, Lord,
the body you crafted from the glittering fabrics of light and time is
guilty and violated and battleworn, rightfully convicted of her own destruction--

I come to you sickly and pale and polluted, having
pumped my own bloodstream full of acid and toxins, I have even been fighting poison with poison thinking I’d found the antidote thousands of times--

I come to you with nothing in my pockets and
nothing in my heart but shapeless ashen remnants of things I set aflame in worship, now spent and burnt up in the fireplace leaving it
cold--

I come to you like a torrent,
whirling like mad having ripped through acres and acres
of manmade pleasures, through distractions and aspartame and
sleep aids, through souls-- those that are yours, God-- I have torn recklessly into other bodies and souls of your making, leaving everything decimated--

I come to you like a wild animal,
injured, weak, and frightened, with no recourse,
there is nothing that will save me
there is no one that will even see me in the dark
I have never been loved the way you love
I have never been pursued the way you chase after me
I have never conceived of a joy like the one you promise,
a peace like the one you promise,
a comfort like the one you promise--

I come to you, God,
a puddle of mud at your feet, God,
afraid to speak your name because
it is the only thing I have left,
unable to even utter the word daughter,
and undeserving I will let you feed me and clothe me,
clean and bandage up my skinned knees,
carry me, God,
walk with me, Father