an excerpt of one of my poetry collections, because they're all old and i'm just filling up this blog with 395829358 posts in one day

the art of arson
The moon hangs too heavy. Rain falls
like shattered diamonds, little broken pieces
that don’t go together. You say,
“I can’t do this anymore.”

It was only hours ago.
I remember, tangled in the back
of my too-small Ford Taurus, together.
Your mouth sewed itself to mine.

The starshine spilled its thick
opalescence through the cracked windows and
brushedyou with silver. Your clothes seemed to
fallaway so easily, I thought.

And your heated hands reached for
everything, smeared prints on the sticky glass.
Your fingers licked me with flames, your teeth
bit hungry at my neck.

The moon hangs too heavy. Rain falls
like shattered diamonds, little broken pieces
that don’t go together. You say,
I can’t do this anymore.”

Sometimes I think about those sunshine days.
Sometimes I think about the golden, chocolate warmth of your skin,
and the way you would glisten under a sheen of slicked sweat.

Sometimes I remember the deep roll of your voice.
Sometimes I remember your teasing growls tickling the curve of my ear,
when you would trace your lips in deliberate patterns.

Sometimes I wish that she was suffocatingly breath-taking.
Sometimes I wish that she wasn’t so gum-on-the-bottom-of-my-shoe-mundane,
so the puzzle pieces of you and her would fit better together.

But most of the time I think you’re an asshole.

Walking Dead
The trees stand silent, holding their breath
and the birds bite back their trilling warning calls

Watching, just watching, the stretching ribbon of black highway
crowded with dead cars, their insides stripped and shattered

Scavenged, picked apart, for anything and nothing
because what is left behind but bones and oozing pieces

But they move together in a darting, practiced formation
expecting the guttural, gurgling groans and graying flesh

Having learned to move so certainly but still so warily
they start at each shift of displaced air, because they know

Because she has trained them, taught them that any breath,
any heartbeat not quiet enough means infection, cessation

She leads them with a serrated tongue, a steeled jaw,
stalking and curling back her lips when they step out of line

In this empty place she has come to know, to survive, slathered
with her mother’s blood, her fingers sewn to the guard of her father’s rifle

With a belt full of lead and eyes crystallized, layered with frost
because of all the cold, cold things she has seen