The Quiet Wars

the distance hesitated as the miles bit down hard. we shuffled our mirrors. betting on the deepest cracks.

life wore her in heavy boots and weighted gowns. all the useless epiphanies of imaginary gods.

she spent her bridges on escape plans. reveling in the blunt of needles. all their fleeting cures.

the end came and went. a fleeting storm. more sound than substance.

her skin had spent all its flames.

she sat in the smoke. holding her breath. eager for the end.

Sleight of Hand

Greedily I wore your ache. It fit so well. all shattered bulbs and empty hallways. Pretending we could see where we were going. 

There are no words to reconcile. There is no well deep enough to drown. 

the stench of melting plastic as our dolls fell into the fire. the punch of the wind as our bridges collapsed. we’re only sketches after all. lines on paper that someone else has drawn.

we catch the scent of blood and our hunger is awoken. we sense a weakness from amongst the herd and our fangs insist..

want is a disease that sleeps in all of us.

flesh collecting moments like some gruesome treasure chest. 

the edge coyly insinuated that we could fly. but gravity had other plans. 

Solvent Debts

 desperation drew its blood. a curious combination of surrender and revenge.

the doll shed her limbs. the devil colored in her smile. the remaining pieces coalesced in a fury of contrition. 

no arms with which to reach out. no hands with which to grab. only the simmering distance arrogantly wearing memory’s skin.

the truth spoke softly and carried a big stick. the truth had places to be. and we weren’t going there. 

the stairs swallowed our footsteps as we made our way down. our time machines humming as we finally confronted our past.

we tore out all the pages and threw the empty book away.

Cracked Yardsticks

time was confident as it proceeded to dissemble us. a corruption of lazy scabs and rotting bandages.

i spent my wishes on those i knew i’d never be granted.. i wrote too loudly on quiet pages. hating every color as the light woke it up.

the lies drifted away. withered knots. in nooses that had never fit.

the killing still hungry as life lingered on.

we fiddled with the dials. as time fumbled with its engines.

we spun hard against the arithmetic. as the numbers swiftly decided us.

Numbers Still

time paused, but never ceased counting. all that was lost.

a gentle grin took the silence. a soft blade searched its gut. for anything to save.

the skin is full of little thieves. the heart is full of predators.

the choices meant to be our armor have all turned to rust.

the pencils broke. the paper tore. the pictures forgot what they were.

we kept going, though everything that mattered came to a stop.

every monster had a name. every touch came with an alibi.

it was quiet inside that coffin. solving for variables that were never real.

Scholars of If

she searched the corners for the shadows she had missed. all the dull pencil points and wild dragon tails.

she counted how many footsteps between then and now. skin and numbers negotiating the nature of want.

we were close to the edge. though not quite close enough. it gave us a lick. it tasted. but couldn’t swallow.

i lied. pretended i could still feel. gathering the end in leaking buckets. selling the storm to the widows of when.

resenting tomorrow for what yesterday had done.

Natural Selection

the sun was sharp. the wind was arrogant. as i pushed my blade into the horizon. i was going nowhere. the only place i’ve ever wanted to be.

i don’t carry a weapon anymore. the war is over. i didn’t win. but all was not lost.

i no longer dress those wounds. i’m content with the blood.

some words tell us. most just lie.

your rage was impotent. albeit unexpected. that truth long since expired.

it rained. it snowed. life went on.

i understand the chemistry. the tricks the mind uses to convince us. i recognize the animal inside us. how weak we really are.

What Big Eyes You Have

the body is full of little fires. and voracious rains. hollow bones. in heavy overcoats. gathering their discarded crutches.

the past is a stranger. memory a noose. 

swollen tongues in strangled throats. broken words corrupt the pages in our skin. 

but no one bleeds. nothing changes. 

the angles grieve. the shapes spoil. the colors forget

the grass grows over. the graves harden.

the stones break. as our feet remember how they love to run. 

 time digs its tunnels. and we give chase. all fever and fury. even as the ceiling caves in. . 

we play with the numbers. a curious irony of touch. as all those raw edges are all too eager to come undone. 

i watched  quietly  as the world came to a stop. i didn’t care much whether it would start again. 

all its delicate wings and venomous stingers felt forged at best. 

there’s nowhere left to go that is genuine. 

the words you speak are poison. you’re still looking for yourself in all the wrong places.  

Emotional Paradox

the rain always falls hard. never softly anymore. we look out from inside our boxes. wondering when the vial of poison will open.

we’re the ghosts of Schrodinger.

we’re alive and we’re dead all the same. sealed inside the structure of our paradox. we simply can’t imagine any other way to live.

the storms are abrupt and intense. that’s what they’ve always been. what else could they ever be. we wade into the flood. prepared to drown. that is what we’ve always done.

we taste the monsters. their sweaty claws sweet with blood. their matted fur soiled by the hunt. the barking thunder. the gnashing wind. as we fumble with our last remaining weapons.

the singe of flesh an eviscerated paradise. the avalanche of desire. obliterates everything in its path.

we prepare our bandages.

but the wounds are all that’s left of us.


the darkness is precise. it measures every shadow.

the timeline simmers. a kettle left to boil.

the hounds sense the kill long before they taste it.

the hunt is forged in our rage.

broken wrists tug on the clouds. hungry for rainfall. thunder. lightning. all the glorious chaos of thoughtless storms.

time simmers in the cauldron of our skin. equal parts poison and medicine. we spend our lives collecting moments. one penny at a time. indebted to the poverty of flesh.

love spins its stories. it’s a gifted novelist. and we read. rapt. enchanted. immune to the fiction.

i found myself in the aftermath. there was no reason keep looking.

the ghosts search for exits as the walls discard their doors. the faces we once wore shatter.

our new masks, finally, coming into focus.