In ritualistic insanity, the amnesiac begins to wail.
He hears the symphonic tune of damnation.
A wicked chord struck on a lyre of bones.
As tears flow, the pain sharpens, his fingers split, adding thick crimson curdles to death's hymn.
The weight is bore, lightless eyes follow the ache of mortal fatigue.
This sad creature screams his terror, as he remember his ode.
Played from his own marrow, from his own calcified soul.

They share hollow thoughts, they're just clones,
Harbouring a plague of bloodthirsty tones.
Violation begins,
Spreading their deadly sins.
Motivated by the cries and moans.

Today upon these very fields
Meadows of green and flowers yield
As breeze stops dead and from the leaves
Comes a young girl in khaki green.
Her dress is light, and her song is sweet
As she picks her way on dainty feet.

But she is not the first to trek
Through fresh-scented woods with curling breath
In khaki green amidst the sea
Of indigo and white and brightest green.

For as she scrabbles amongst dirt and stone
She finds in her hand to be a bone.
Unknowing of the man that shed it like
A moulting woodlark born for flight.

Unknowing too is she of the dew
That clings to blades of grass as slew
Were brothers of flesh and blood and heart.
What once was clouded red is glass.

She rises as the night descends,
Skips home with grubby hands and dress
But she is the only one in khaki green
Whom after those woods was ever seen.

The forest left to whistle and sway
Waits for the girl tomorrow-day
When she will escape its clutches once more
Dancing on the graves of twenty-four.

I am not very good at saying no to people,
                              or at being firm and direct with my patients at work.  
           I am soft and mandible.  
           I tend to let people take advantage of me.  

My physical therapist says the people with the most problems
with their hips and backs are
                                                        the ones that can          
                                                        hardly bend at all or
                                                                                                 that can
                                       bend              too             much.

I am too flexible.  
                              So much so that it is hurting me.  
                                    I fold and I fold and I fold
                                               in on myself like origami and
                                      I let people do whatever they want.  
I can't remember if I've always been this way or not.  

Maybe it depends on how you look at it:  
The woman in the casket could either be sleeping or dead.  She could either be a stranger or my mother.  This could either be the bright, multi-color, kaleidoscopic shapes I see when I rub my eyes a bit too hard for a bit too long, or it could be the dull, grey morgue her body was wheeled down to after they tied the tag around her toe and zipped her into a white bag.  This could either hurt a lot or a little.  It depends on how much you let in.  How willing you are to bend to the emotional blow.  I could either stop writing about this or keep going, but it's been, what, nine years now, and I haven't been able to stop yet—
only able to bend and
                                          bend
                 ­                                      and
                                                                    bend
                                                                                    and

You keep on running back to me,
You sneak into my skin,
Banging on my frail bones, shouting
“Please let me come in!”
I try to keep the blinds closed
And pretend that I’m not here,
But you wait until I yield to you
Before you disappear.

Dark dirt and darker skys
The only light of the pale moon to guide me
This tranquility, forever in this
Realm of dying, deceased, and nevermore to be

I, am the scavenger
With my *** I search
Through decaying birch,
Oak, trees, leaves, plants of all

My goal is the vessels
Of the deceased animals
I collect the ends of their stories
The periods at the end of their sentences

Bones, brittle and left behind
Accompanied by flesh
Decaying, rotting, demolished by
The cycle of mortality

The end of one story
Safely kept in my bag
Forever remembered
I hope they thank me

I'll cry you a river,
so I can bath in salty,
bright and perfect pain.
Let me shiver from
the words you tell me.
Let me drown
in emotional aching.
Let me summon
tenderness in my bones.
Make me cry I said,
and so the monster did.
Breathing like a beast
so much that only a priest
would be able to save
a nun like me.
For I go to church
and cry for my God
every Sunday
to Monday.
What God didn't know
was that crying means more
than sadness to me.
It means pleasure in ways
that are rotten and spoiled.
It means the Devils hands touch me
without God's permission.
Oh God, secrets are fun
and thrills run
up and down
so much that I end with a crown.
And I don't need your approval
for I've done it already
and I dare do it again
and again and again.
Till I'll make you cry and you'll
be just like me.
Even if you don't agree.

my eyes aren't my own, they're my mothers.
my hair is flat, tired and unkept. it's lifeless.
skin soaked with thoughts of what were,
bruised with memories that will never leave.
scars little each road of the epidermis, burned
deep and stained.
they don't make me ugly. no.
my emotions make me ugly. my sick, twisted mind
and the thoughts i shouldn't have. the thoughts i have.
tired, tired, tired bones that creak with each step into normality.
i've built a home inside my rib cage, carved out a prison.
internalized my thoughts. kicked people out.
just me. it's just me and my heart, as it shouts and screams.
my brain keeps me company at night, whispering its dreams and its desires. it tells me who i am, what i want.
but it never lets me sleep. not really.
i wake up so tired, so old and tired.
my heart is restless through the day, calling out for your ears.
it talks to you, talks about you. i'm poisoned. love's sweet kiss.
the kiss of death. ugly to the bones, i'm so ugly.