Mind & Body

It’s funny
what your brain can do
to your body,

how a broken mind
equals broken body.

My thoughts
creep around my head,
waltz with the dust mites
in the back corners,
seduce the closed cupboards
into opening and letting out
all the secrets stashed inside.

And then my limbs stop functioning,
my feet stop walking,
and my body is filled with you
because so is my mind.

I feel you in my hands,
taste you on my lips,

and I wonder when the pain
beneath my ribs
will dissipate

because the thoughts
still climb around my brain
and take their pain out on my skin.




When you lose,
for real,
not just little losses,
but big,
frantic losses,

the world stops,
freezes in a tableau
of yes and no,
of right and empty,

and you’re left
with broken
and not full.

You’re left
with tears falling faster
than you can feel them,
faster than you can
weep them.

You’re left with
shells, fragments.

That’s what I am.


Not whole.

Just shards
floating through time
wishing to not be
so sharp,
so lonely,
so frozen.


Addicted Again

I am addicted

to the press of your lips
against mine,
to the tremble of your fingers
against my skin,
to the sound of your voice
as you fill me up.

I can’t stop tasting you on my tongue
even after you’ve gone.

Even after months of wanting,
I can still feel the ghost of
your hand in my hair,
your mouth on my neck.

I’m addicted to how I feel
when I’m with you,
and I’m afraid I’ll never feel that way

I’m afraid that I will always want
your flesh against mine
and I’ll be broken without it.



The ache radiates
from unknown
places, and I’m not
sure what I’ve
become because I’m sad
for losing something I should
never have wanted,
something I shouldn’t

Something is
broken inside me, falling
into dark shadows toppling
through shattered
windows or doors or something
I’m not sure how to name.

But now I’m making no
sense, no literal
words I’m writing can
possibly describe the absolute
chaos I feel for
wanting something so
ridiculous and dangerous
and perfect.

I hate myself.
As always.

I miss you.
As always.



You float between my cells,
mix with my blood,
fuse with my bones,

and when you leave,
I can still feel you
pulsing inside me,
your ache as strong
as your release.

But you do leave,
and your ghost hands
climb my skin
until air leaks away,
until focus fades,
reality realigns,
and I’m remember

they are just shadows
clutching a body
that only used to be mine
because now,

now it is yours.



The danger dances
on my tongue.

I can feel its liquid steps
stomping on my will,
carousing with
the butterflies in my belly,

and I wonder if it’s always felt this way,
if the craving always feels
warm but unknown,
sweet but terrifying.

Torture waltzes through my blood,
and I realize it’s just
the taste of your tongue.
It’s the sight of you,
the edges of your bones
that haunt me,
that tingle their way
into trembles
when we touch,

and it’s so completely crazy,
chaos mixed with catastrophe,

and all I want is
your skin touching mine

just one more time.



I am an ocean,

and I
can’t write,
can’t speak,

because I want
that free,
that epic frozen moment
you relive each time
you close your eyes.

decades later

you can still feel
his hands,
the way you tremble
when his lips finally land
on your skin

but it’s
by reality,
by the things set out
in front of you,

the things that are supposed to be
the things that make you
freeze minutes with memories
so you can relive

each touch,
each fragment

of time.

It’s not that.

It’s not what it should be,

so pain eats
your spine,
your heart,
your fucking future
because you accidentally froze
the wrong moment.



What do you do
when you’re two different people?
When you’re sometimes
one thing
and other times
something else?

Romance turns my veins into fire,
the passion roiling up,
transforming my skin
into oil slicks of lust

for all-wrong
with all-wrong

Ten minutes later,
I pretend to know

what an adult does,
what a mother does,
what a teacher does,
what a wife does.

I beg for American Dreams
and brand new dishwashers
and college funds
and lake trips
surrounded by family
built on years and work and trying.

Two people
raging beneath my skin,
vibrating through my bones,
and I don’t know
which I like better

one makes me feel
and the other makes me safe.



Your morphine
through my veins

each time I see your name,

and I wonder how addiction
could ever be wrong
if it feels this fucking good.

Your skin is my favorite drug,
my aching need,
my want when nothing else can satisfy.

Every word drives
new needles
into my arms,

but I eat the pain
with thirsty tongues,
with devouring mouths
that only taste your lips,
the flavor you leave on my fingertips,

and I can’t let it go.

The chains bite
and I ask for more.

I beg
for your poison,
for your passion,
for your pills

that might

quench my ache,
quell these shakes

that wrack my bones
each time I come down
from this addiction to you.