I’m sorry to disappoint you

That I can be too sweet and so weak

And yet I can be cold and cruel too

That I can completely snap to my core

And morph into a creature of different sorts

I’m sorry that I’m not white or black

Or immaculate

Or of any matter 

For that fact

I’m not anything 

At all

Not wholly whole

You see,

Incompleteness 

Has been my superpower 

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I know I traded something

A part of me

For the splendid splendour of money

I did that thing you shouldn’t do

I gave myself to him

You know, the soul

Cut a piece of myself out for him

You know, the heart

I cut a piece of myself off for him

(You know which part)

But I didn't feel a thing

I'm waiting to miss it

Miss this

Thing

I'm waiting for the pain

You...

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In the creases of a crumpled T-shirt,
the darkening orbit of an orange pasta stain,
the unhinged playfulness of bright and living eyes…
the golden curls like mazes of cornfields – no way out –
The type you just want to twist around your finger –
I noticed you.
In the unrestrained laughter,
I would recall each word that tumbled from your lips
And hang on them, swing from them,
like branche...

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Your skin like the yellow brick road,

and what is it that creates that rush of blush?

I’d love to shovel out your flesh or drill through your cheeks

to reach those autumn leaves,

that grow behind the golden weeds,

the red leaves that were never green.

No, never new, they never grew,

they stayed and they remained:

Dying, but never dead,

thriving, behind your face of ...

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