Fall

06/09/12

I want to fall,
unbuckle my arms,
stretch out my fingers,
and feel my bones snap against the wind
as I become elastic, sinking
downwards beneath the bruised
undersides of my eyelids,
heavy with the tears I haven't managed
to shed yet.
But I'm scared to saying this,
spreading voice to these desires,
afraid that if you get in the way
I'll grab hold
and I can't ask you, I can't
ask you the burden
of catching me.
Not when I don't know how far
I have to fall.

beat of this blood

i follow the beat of this blood
curved 'round the corners of this page,
my pen on the line,
poised to fall just before the bullet
is fired.
there's a thick trail of mud
along the backside of my legs,
the dark imprints of my footsteps
a yawning smile behind me,
ready to open and swallow me whole
into the crevasses of this poem,
stretched thin between the moment,
those colours abloom across the
back of my eyelids, bruises forming
against the underside of my teeth
as i bite down again and again
until i'm bleeding along the inseam
of my tongue,
your voice forever a whisper
painted on my lips,
only parted open to gasp
as i start to fall.

organic

for my college professor.

there are these moments
when I'm left with nothing
but a white haze that slowly
clouds through my brain
in an attempt to rid myself
of your voice in my head.
for it's been eight months
and I can't quite let this anger
dissolve along my bones
and wash away into the fresh grass
of summer, my legs
cross into the sky and this page
still blank of all the empty words
forming in the base of my mouth,
my tongue dry against my teeth
in the silence I carried all year
around you.
because I had given up waiting
for this to get better
and am still trying to slowly rebuild,
to strip away the embellishments
and go back to my foundation
before I let you touch my writing
and imprint your voice,
your rhythm, your structure
and design over mine
in an unconscious attempt to please you
and your anger and disappointment
even though I could never have controlled
the outcome of your moods.
because I want to go back to when
this was all organic, uncontrolled
in an all consuming spiral of words,
the pages of my notebooks sticky and matted
with blood, flowers and molted
with colours against the damp of my tongue
licking the ink from the tip of my pen,
with poetry as my lover,
stripped naked to the core of my words
and my voice scratched raw across the page.
there is no need for your words here.