In My Room I Found You

I arrived to find something new in my room. Amongst the pieces of my past, tokens and weapons lay a new doll. It was worn by the many miles it had traveled before this moment. It lay amongst many well know items of mine. They must have brought it along to keep them company. I found myself drawn to its imperfections and marks. Slowly many of my other possessions became trifle besides the time I spend engorged in the world amidst our play. Steadily the doll started to become imbued with meaning. No longer could I hold it in my arms and eyes as a meager representation of life. It had become real, alive and closer now than I thought it would when first I saw it. At first I delighted by the life it had acquired and hastily made it fine lodging in my heart. I had forgotten why I had vacated live from my room so long ago. Now alive, what was once a doll now was now subject to the imperfections of life. These were unlike the tatters that had drawn me to it. No, these were the barbs of individuality and agency. As sweet as its ability to choose me could be, as bitter was its capacity to scorn me. As the blood started to clot, and the wounds sporadically close, I found it inconceivable to recant the life that looked back at me from behind the eyes that were once so vacant. I tried, that I cannot deny. Alas it no longer resided outside of me, but in its being lay a part of my own reflection. I had lost control of yet another part of myself. I am now too afraid to open the door to my heart, for I fear the condition it has been left in

These Sheets Have Monsters

She lies naked in my arms, her hair in my face, annoying me. Exposed I try to cover myself with her skin, clothed in warm contact. Though the closer I move into to her shape, the more difficult it becomes to find a comfortable position. Either my head is too high up on her shoulder or her hair creeps into every orifice in my face. Now disgruntled, I move away into my own space and press gently on her shoulder. She buckles and stares closed-eyed at the ceiling. So, bored and disenchanted, I pull the covers down to her navel, like unwrapping a present you wanted two years before you got it. Unlike Jeannette Winterson’s romanticism, I did not look upon her like young explorer in an uncharted exotic world. Instead, her body was a minefield that threatened to; piece by piece, violently dismantle the serine ideal I made in passion and intoxication. I feel more like a veteran of ugly conflicts, which in their heat drowned my mind and body with adrenalin and fear. She still smiles when I touch her, even though she is not completely here with me. I know I should be flattered. But I am not.

Coming down

Torn between the craft and cast of the ideals I molded from the cooled steel that dripped from my eyes when the heat of your heart turned their fires into streams of incomprehension. What am I now to call shuddering moments of certainty that felt so warm within you? The door, whose key should never have been mine, but in the fleeting moments in which it was, it gifted me entrance to a place, space and sensation I cannot call anything less than the home I was always certain to be mine. Were I to wish any other moment above it, I would be lying to the deepest cove of my being.

Carving, From Fallen Rocks, a Face To Strange To Love

The weight of its features and the taste of dust

are the prices I pay for a face that won’t rust

But also my back buckles and my waking is strained

Still, this face is impervious to the wind and the rain

when I came to the river, I was so scared I’d drown

So I sat by the water, at home with the ground

till I met a man with a face made of skin

He jumped in the river and started to swim

Every road he had taken was carved on his brow

The scars of his travels he wore like a crown

The madness of him, to live so unguarded

was juxtaposed to the life he had fathered

So alone I sat, as even more passed me by

If my eyes were like their’s I think I would cry