Waking up randomly with the realization that I am unfettered.

There are no permanent friends, only permanent interests

He loves possessing her.
Let her be content in her blue collar bastille.

"I don't let anyone touch me," I finally said.
Why not?"
Why not? Because I was tired of men. Hanging in doorways, standing too close, their smell of beer or fifteen-year-old whiskey. Men who didn't come to the emergency room with you, men who left on Christmas Eve. Men who slammed the security gates, who made you love them then changed their minds. Forests of boys, their ragged shrubs full of eyes following you, grabbing your breasts, waving their money, eyes already knocking you down, taking what they felt was theirs. (...) It was a play and I knew how it ended, I didn't want to audition for any of the roles. It was no game, no casual thrill. It was three-bullet Russian roulette."
-Janet Fitch

the Revolution

I will my clipped wings to heal, my childhood to end.

Tantalus

I am Tantalus reaching for calloused hands-
Inert in the tide of your waning demands.
Nostalgia laps at shore, making mud from sand...
A fresh rapport takes flight then swiftly lands.

Isolation circles the drain like bloody spittle
Riddle, riddle?
Let the rope go slack in your cuff links and black hat
Corsage and corset
But you're still fat.

My Red Friend

My poor, poor, swollen liver
Stretching the surface of my jaundice skin
Taught and bruising
My red friend tells me to live fast.

Diotima Drinks

Diotima drinks heavily tonight,
Slurring her words and spewing Divinity.
You never loved him.
He never loved you.

I.

Swollen and suppurating, the broken axis of youth rips through skin, sinew, sutures, revealing old bones, seeds sown.
Outgrown like Velcro shoes scuffed and greying-
Tossed aside and left where you were playing.
Oh, bemoaned, these seeds sown,
They were your children, now they are grown.

I.

Cold showers pitter patter like tiny tap dance feet-
Fledgling January weakly twitches broken wings,
Seeking unfettered abandonment in premature Spring.
To wave white flags, seeking peace in retreat-
I bear no arms, I lay down in defeat.