my stars are bursting,
secret fires for secret liars,
the only time i do
is when i hold my tongue.
i cradle a book in my hands,
feel its breath and wonder if
maybe it's alive,
black ink shifted into blues
and greens to bite the
hands that never feel enough.
i meant every word i said,
in worm-knuckled verse;
i meant every word you said,
my eyes fingercombing
through each letter until amorphous
monsters spill from the synapses.
today is a day where i
wash my hands but the
blood is always there;
i will name names
and burn driftwood just to
watch salt writhe in tendrils
to the sky,
it looks like ghosts
and i am so afraid that that is
all i am.
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