What does this say of me:

That Death Requiems

are my favorite things to hear,

that the photographs I choose

to worship are those

with their eyes closed,

that when Andrew Warhola

printed suicide, l listened.

Prepared to respond-

and will spend my life

responding to beauty.

I never knew if you wanted

to be the river, or just

be touched by one. You have

the eyes of a holder.

Obsessing over pulse you turn

Over and kiss me and I think

together we rival reverse symmetry

and that we should write treaties

with lighter fluid and smash rubies

with passion, the reddest kind,

because we are far from any Place.

You Are The Story

That started in my ease—

Out towards the soul

That keeps me Open

I want to be the one to close you.

Union in Albuquerque, or Toledo,

Or dead winter walking

On snow we cried

I want to be the final stitch in your

cell division sunrise

It’s not my fault you have boundaries.

If only I could get you to sing

this curse out of me.

This chemical curse sparks

the tremble in me.

Whimpering

Whispering

sounds are vowels, too Please, won’t you pardon my layers,

I just need the fall.

The ground grinds

me red and I hope from above

To finally be something that

Requires no love

It’s not my fault you’re afraid of madness.

the tears fell in tandem

I watched after the mirror and decided to say something about them, here...