16 February 2010


The shortest distance between two points
is the line between the past that is
and the present that was.

I could see evil,
a crouched imp stuffed full of nothing
perched at the foot of my morning preschool bed.

I have wrestled its stories
and believed the claws
and warmth of the embrace of madness.

Inverted prayer knees
pulled to chest as it rocked with
hyena echoes.

There is a sickness there.
Eyes painted on eye lids.
Lies blood-tainting white wedding dresses.

I slept with my door cracked
so I could put the puzzles together—
what they said in the darkness of a grownup world.

The rose-colored, rain-coated window panes
shade the view,
a palette of crimson blurred.

Teachers could not hurt me
with their cuts of bleeding red
over rogue pencil etchings.

After a night of adult words spilling from wine glasses,
even though every power line slashes the throat of the sunrise sky,
and the morning sun was blistering, nothing could hurt me, and
the wings are mine.

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