Middle winter wishes
welling up to cover her indecency,
drawing out the poison blood that
slips between her lips so sensibly;
I'm standing helplessly observant
as her scars rise up in perfect lines,
wane a snowy lavender vanilla.

I used to think her daring,
nonconformist, uncaring,
an island in this endless sea of sameness,
blameless and indifferent
to the whims and wants and would-have-beens
so ceaselessly obsessed over in this
cataclysmic chaos of existence,
subsistence, undeterred resistance
that nothing ever finishes,
no one ever wins.

A pitiful excuse for inhibition,
exhibition of the senses
crippling the arguments I toss
between her teeth in mock defeat
as our defenses crumbled toward each other—
until I found the muse interred
and undisturbed behind her eyelids,
plucked it up inside my fingerprints
to feed unto the wolves
because her words were never meant
to see tomorrow.

But she's just another addict
with a monster in the attic
dictating what she spills in ink
upon a lonely antique desk;
I put my faith in lies and liberty
that blossomed form her palms
inside my head and broke the silence,
fell apart in pretty ribbons
just like everybody else.

And she thought I was unusual.