Stuttering Ravens

warmth comes in trickles. cold comes in floods. such is the nature of existence. each of us. a pebble lost in an ocean of sand. shouting at gods that don’t exist. fighting wars that can’t be won.

our hurt creases the paper. our ache chooses obvious heroes.

convenient lies that circumstance dismisses.

the winter scratches its expectations into our skin. and waits. for the the wounds to crust.

the universe chokes on our blood. and we imagine our power.

the bridges crumble. and we are stranded. confronted by the permanence of our isolation.

the world is dark. a limitless void. content to swallow us. time is sharp. all icicles and thaw.

the choke of waiting. for the frost to forget.

we broach the precipice. determined to jump.

certain our resilience will absolve us.

even as our frailties continue to accumulate.

hope is a minor star in the vast expanse of our contrition.

The Failures of Evolution

the cold snuck in before we had the chance to insulate ourselves.

we’re mostly numbers after all. ratios of time and distance. our frayed maps slowly disintegrating in our hands. as we shout at the manic intersections. little dogs carrying big sticks.

as the weather inevitably turns against us.

the winter arrives. ready to smother. the tide rises. swallowing our intentions.

we write our names in the sand. and wait for it to erase them. to teach us how insignificant we are.

we load our bullets. we cock our guns. but we can’t kill the things that hunt us.

we’re powerless. we’ve always been. it’s only now that we’re learning it.

the whims of imaginary gods. the strokes of panicked religions.

none of them can save us.

we’re alone. as truth hunts us.

we’re sober as life sticks its needle in.

addicted to the illusion of our superiority.

spent by the numbness.

poisoned by grief.

The Whims of Gravity

the summer always leaves us much too abruptly. we’re never prepared.

our fragile arms collapse under the weight of tomorrow. our brittle hands lose their grip on the things we wish to keep.

the words we say sink into the gap. the lies we bargain with slowly begin to collapse.

the winter hugs us so tightly that we almost can’t breathe.

our wooden legs stab the mountain, but never reach the summit. our frozen feet shatter against the strain.

we’re not moving anymore. we’re just trying not to fall.

Ashes to Ashes

she left this world a stranger. her flesh full of empty pages. leaving me with the weight of all her unwritten words.

time slithers inside our veins. a magnificent narcotic. simultaneously turning us old and making us young. the burden of flesh becomes us. salvation becomes surrender.

we’re soft. fragile cocoons on the precipice of metamorphosis. we’re hard. full of stones we can’t let go.

we try to know each other, but we barely come close. all those dense corridors carve their mazes inside our minds. how can we know anyone, when we still don’t know ourselves.

she left this world as helpless as she had entered it.

a scab in the back of my throat. that still bleeds when i remember.


Broken Toys

the cold was sudden. we shivered beside our empty skins and wondered if we’d ever fit inside them again. angry gretels with our knives at the ready. timid hansels ready to crawl inside the oven.

choices we made ripen and eventually turn black. fruit picked from the vine left to spoil.

life thunders forward in spite of us. its faulty time machine leaving us stranded so often.

the cold was sudden. but not unexpected. we extrapolated life from fractions of euphoria. little children. in clothes too big for us. angry because nothing fits.

we’re quiet. broken dolls. with shattered faces. ambivalent to truth’s many hammers.

it’s nothing really. shades of skin like tissue paper. flecks of ink desperate to find the other side

it dies easily enough. but those ghosts still persist.


he said nothing as i cinched the knot. it tightened on nothing. it didn’t know our names. it didn’t care what we wanted.

these arrogant ghosts discarding their sheets. cold, but adamant. as the void spoke up.

the formality of skin shrugged off. our bones so much lighter. as our skeletons continued their search. for someone who might fit.

i didn’t think. had never imagined. that the colors could be that blunt.

no soft pastels for broken hearts.

just truth tapping on its watch.

Soft Corners in Rigid Shapes

an empty space. a broken lock.

she slipped inside yesterday. like a worn pair of shoes.

the map unfolded. the path traced in ink.

i met her there. in the frailty of the creases. a war of choices. truth our only weapon

we ran. fortified by the euphoria of escape. we feasted. on the carcasses of the lies.

that lingering hunger finally sated.

i warned her. that this paradise was only temporary.

the fuel that feeds the flame is slowing starving it.

we always travel alone. no matter how many places we visit.

Points of Entry

imperfect thieves baste in their hunger. cats without claws. voices too soft to be heard.

gravity starts the clock. time moves all the pieces. our clays hammers rendered useless. as everything goes hard. our long nails fastening nothing in particular.

the curve spends its changes in spit and pennies. a series of poor choices where language defaults to touch. all the June in her thighs obliterated by the October in her head.

we say our words. tiny knives that barely break the skin. we pretend to listen. when all we really want is to be heard.

the angles sharpen. we bicker over the degrees. Convinced the math is mistaken.

she slips out of her September skin.

his winter almost forgotten.


Words are delicate weapons, but can kill just the same. Time whispers. In eager numbers. And broken equations. We’re only lost when we’re looking for somewhere we’ve never been.

every war is started by cowards and finished by the brave.

the body is a currency measured in blood and scars.

the edge took its time getting to know us. shallow cuts broken umbrellas.

while we picked at the scabs. chewed on the gristle.

hungry enough to want whatever was left on the plate.

but still not desperate enough to swallow it.

Echoes in Skin

I let him slip inside me. A dirty needle ripe with all the best diseases.

We played the songs. We danced to the music.

No story. Just the lingering words. The little lies and the big ones. Desperate for an audience.

we waited so long. choices simmering on a low flame.

we said it was nothing, when it felt like everything.

and then it was gone.

and still we wanted it.

but it wasn’t listening anymore.

those cuts became permanent.

the miles accumulated.

we counted the corners as our maps fell apart.

we ran as far as we could.

but it wasn’t enough.