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i’d look down at heaven

from above

when I’m done being a sick

lonely dove.

what is above heaven

you ask?

winds and storms of the invalids,

but not a sign of shame

no gorgeous mask.

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It’s so strange that the people I’m most comfortable with also make me feel like they’re going to go away from me at any given moment. They make time feel like a vortex that they like to edge closer and closer to just to keep me on my toes, no, to keep my heart pounding in my mouth. It’s an existential game. “How Long Will It Be Until She Stops Dreading?”

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Dingy dusty corners

were once places

where the specks danced in the rays

fluttered to the ground

and sighed deep

a permanent sort of fall.

If I were to gather the specks

in my hands

they’d be stained

and I would start to dance

until the rays pierce

softly through my excitable flesh

Particles, particles,

spread across my palms

dancing, dancing

cutting through light and places

dingy, dusty figures

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Do you believe in your worth

when someone picks you up

from side walks and alleys

and dungeons of guilt?

Is there a way to steer clear

of the singing mermen

with their glistening chests

undoubtedly sprinkled with

laughter and gold?

What age have you reached

where you see and feel

only the froth of the beer

not the rush to your head

even if you’re still an early twenty?

What other words exist

to describe a fallen bird

with a clipped wing and a bleeding eye

and a passion for song?