Maybe it's the astrology—but I swear to God this is the baddest bitch I've ever been 

trauma response (self-interrogation)

You say you haven’t fucked like a freak in forever,  

but I think you mean never—  

because what counts  

when you’re barely there?

Even infants suckle:  

the body’s first reflex,  

natural, instinctive,  

seconds out of the womb.

I think you were just a little girl  

rehearsing a movie scene,  

watching from between your mother’s fingers  

as she covered your eyes.

Ta-da—you bowed  

for the applause  

that never came.

Neither did you.  

Everyone else did.

Is that what you haven’t had  

in forever?

My worst mistake in life was mistaking my compassion for passion.

Conditional Play

When the womb is as empty as the bowels
and the sun hangs lighter in the sky,
maybe we can banter and play—
tug-of-war, Red Rover, Red Rover—
can you come over?

but only if I am on top
of the world, which keeps spinning
from one morning to the next night,
regardless of what we say or do.

Out of Season

Don’t forgive me for what I am.

Nor turn away from what it is,
as I have done.

Let it melt upon your skin
like snow falling out of season.

1969 Vietnam ain't so far, is it?

What is your heart taut with, dear—  

what keeps you silent,  

looking over and past my shoulder  

as if assassins wait behind me,  

bows drawn and waiting  

almost as tensely as you,  

perched on edge,  

unsure what to do next?

Me too,  

me too. Perhaps there was no  

next step, no bend in the road—  

only the wet bog marsh  

where I imagine us lying,  

as you once did, patting mud  

around your young body for warmth.

You were somewhere  

you’ll never go again,  

when everyone was new  

and, for a moment,  

the world felt too big for you.

But now your back aches in bed.  

Your shoulder curves  

as you slump in the chair.  

You groan when you stand,  

filling the air with noise  

to remind us you are still alive,  

still fighting—

but no longer sure  

what for.

Vermilion Suite

“Today was like a shadow. It lurked behind me. It’s now gone forever. Why is it that time is such a difficult thing to befriend?”  

—Mary Casey

If you want to love a rose,
you must respect the thorns.
So I flirted with the limits of my humanity,
returned tired but unscathed—
by sunset, divinity, not myself.

Within my mind, I was seeking
a reset—a factory-reset button—
but instead, I only crossed a few wires:
double knots, twist, twist, twist.

The metal thread ends,
but there is no fresh start—
only adjustment, rearrangement,
as if the feng shui were off.

And just like that,
I might fit inside myself.