I wonder what my reflection sees in the mirror.
I look at her and all I see is her flesh that jiggles
and is covered in stretch marks.
Does she look out at me from her gilded frame
and see my bright blue eyes and youthful smile?
I wonder what my reflection sees in the mirror.
I look at her and all I see is her flesh that jiggles
and is covered in stretch marks.
Does she look out at me from her gilded frame
and see my bright blue eyes and youthful smile?

I want to pinch the cold metallic shape between my fingers
As I cut lines through the druggy haze in the mirror.
I want the light to sing a merry tune along the edge.
I want to leave it on a tool bench and find it later,
Corroded and coated in rust, dust, and forgetfulness.
I want to peruse the aisles of a home improvement store
And find a box of ten just like it.
I want to see the worry on your face at the possibility
Of inflicting harm on myself when you find it beside my bed.
I want to have a razor blade of a romance.
Or just maybe I want nothing of the sort.

It’s very nearly like hate, that feeling of…almost.
A faint whiff of coffee as you open the door.
Not yet having taken a sip and knowing it won’t be worth it. Almost.
It curls in your tummy, a bee in a jar, a brief introduction
To a character you’ve barely met, dreading the moment you
Turn the first page and get your heart broken; almost.
That moment of vulnerability, lying in wait, poised to take,
Feeling as if either your own trembling or his welcomed advance
Will shatter you. Almost.
I understand them, adrenaline junkies, almost.
The humming beneath my skin that lets me know
That almost it will be mine. Almost it will be over.

I fell in love with Death
The day I grew flowers
In the arid shadows
of his graveyard under
the blood red flesh of the
pomegranate tree there.

Since you left I haven’t slept worth crap.
The sheets that once slipped, silk against
My nipples, now scratches and clings.
The dyslexic street lamp outside my bedroom
Window taps out “miss you, too” in Morse Code.
Drifting off into the whirlpool of frustration
My mind wanders to those moments of
Post-coital haze. Early evening.
The sun has dipped and amber light
Watches through the gap in the curtains.