The pen drew dots in my eyes,
my grip lessened and there I was
Nothingness

No, not bad
No, not good
Nothing

Nothing was...
Nothing

I liked to spend most of my time being nothing
in the bath tub
While the days happened without me
and blurred over like watercolor

My heart was
An empty
Nudist beach
Before I met you,
But now
You are there,
We are there.
     And finally
          Are...*

© 2015 J.S.P.

I remember the thunder
Cascading down your spine
The night that you told me
Our love was now all mine

I remember a bang
Then nothing else
I watched you
The magician
Work your last trick
And out from your hat
A serpentine

How could I not have heard the cries
How could I not have read the signs
Howling wolves come late at night
Procure their next delight

I was a paper plane
And you were the eye of the hurricane
I was a skeptic slip
And you were the robe beneath my feet
I was a butterfly with a fear of falling
And so you clipped my wings

You were the ink
Spread out on sheets of unused paper
Line after line
Stroke after stroke
Vestal canvas
Tainted over time

Now I grab your fingers
Now I run away
Now I'm swirling in slabs of sapphire
Falling wave after wave

Now I'm crouched beneath my sink
Crying
Now I load old pills in my gun
Take aim
And fire
Cremate all of
My desire

Now I walk on all fours
Primal
Sleeping on the debris
Of my defeat

And watch you sheathe your two front teeth to taint your next great masterpiece

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.