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Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

I shovel the dirt
over paperback dreams:
I have creased them enough.

I have nothing to say
that you’d want to hear.

Sometimes I play with ideas
like deserts play with mirages -
fire in the air, on my lips,
before I remember:
I don’t know how to put them out,
disseminate to reality without dissipating
under the realization I’m just asleep,
fishing distant moons from horizons
to release them and watch
the riptides consume.

I won’t find healing, here,
only the stomach of the ocean
attempting to digest me.
That hurts. It hurts too much for words.

I keep pulling on the hands of time.
This is a fine line of memory, suspended,
and as tightrope walkers, we don't look down.

We always look down,
hanging like wires in hospitals,
like red trails on a map winding like veins
being dragged across everything else,
because life goes on.
Life goes on.

So when the clock’s hand slides
out of mine to reflect the present,
I remember that version of
The Little Mermaid - the one
where she turns into sea foam
to avoid killing the prince -
and it won’t kill you...
but I don’t want to face
the hurt in your eyes.

I'd rather be sea foam - silence -
hanging over the crime scene of my body
like a distant moon.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

I shovel the dirt
over paperback dreams:
I have creased them enough.

I have nothing to say
that you’d want to hear.

Sometimes I play with ideas
like deserts play with mirages -
fire in the air, on my lips,
before I remember:
I don’t know how to put them out,
disseminate to reality without dissipating
under the realization I’m just asleep,
fishing distant moons from horizons
to release them and watch
the riptides consume.

I won’t find healing, here,
only the stomach of the ocean
attempting to digest me.
That hurts. It hurts too much for words.

I keep pulling on the hands of time.
This is a fine line of memory, suspended,
and as tightrope walkers, we don't look down.

We always look down,
hanging like wires in hospitals,
like red trails on a map winding like veins
being dragged across everything else,
because life goes on.
Life goes on.

So when the clock’s hand slides
out of mine to reflect the present,
I remember that version of
The Little Mermaid - the one
where she turns into sea foam
to avoid killing the prince -
and it won’t kill you...
but I don’t want to face
the hurt in your eyes.

I'd rather be sea foam - silence -
hanging over the crime scene of my body
like a distant moon.