TheCourtRose

(A response and agreement.) I bluster a lot, puffing up my feathers and saavy- mostly because I am further away from my personal truth than I ever imagined I'd be  With a wiggle and knowing wink, "Man, if that fucker ever touches me again, I'll kick his balls into his throat" with my cocktail tray cocked on hip, gliding across the floor, hands shaking, rattling snifters against each other But let's be honest, I probably won't because this is a job, and his tip counts more than my integrity All crumbs in the water when there's rent to pay, and simply keeping out of reach will suffice to keep his touch at bay Bosses will shrug, "Well, it's the industry" they say When walking to work, one polite smile on my side turns into a slow crawling car behind me, hanging out the window, spittle flying for my attention, eyes enraged at my silence I could say, "I shrugged that shit off and flipped t...

The soft animal of my body, she knows Always does While everything else panics about, she waits Gentle breaths swooping in out in out on blue feathered wings There is no hurry , she intones Pushing is a punishment, only causing meat and bone to convulse and stagger Shhh , she whispers Come here Inside the sinking velvet of her, surrounded by sunlight and ribcage- I am too large to completely contort, yet not small enough to be dismissed

A. After much derision and research Through loads of therapy and reams of poetry I can finally admit to having a monster in my closet She's large and purple and fuzzy and rather shy She has three big green eyes, instead of one and wild pink hair Isn't fond of eating people but is very fond of cats (For petting, rather than eating) She does have an abominable temper, I must admit and it comes out at the most awkward occasions It's just that she hates being ignored almost as much as she hates being seen She doesn't fit very well in my closet these days (I don't tell her this, but she's pretty big for her age) I mean, ever since I found her it's been rather hard to put her back Even though she's prone to envy, pouting and insecurity Has selective hearing, falls in love too fast, has a bad temper and low self-esteem, with tendencies towards over thinking and moodiness Well, she's mine after all and it isn't her fault she...

My mind read "fever" which is why I was so confused How did the universe know my mind was aflame, my heart sick, my limbs tired? The poem by Lauren Zuniga says "This is the year of Quit the Dumb Shit" (So, I guess lever fits if it's my intention to open a new way) and I never argue with Zuniga I always forget, though, how much real change feels like breaking bones and the flu

At day's end, the body is crusted and crepe-d with a thousand collected words Clinging, barbed and desperate, to skin are letters, phrases, excerpts, insults, hopes, emails, curses, or any mutant combination of the above Unless, of course, you despair of human interaction in its entirety and currently live in a cave (Understandably so, good sir) Only fellow humans to could sling such words Hobble forward beneath a shower spray to scrape clean with pumice-d vigilance Yank those suckers loose with tiny, shrill cries of indignation and crossed little arms But what happens when the water sluices down, only to clog the drain? Sure, some words head straight for the pipes, like barely tolerable prepositions and unremarkable conjunctions Even a super cheeky determiner may grip the drain, squaring off in its many-limbed form, a desperate ninja, wanting only to be close to you (but a slight toe shove will send that sucker swimming) But adjectives? Verbs? NO...

Do not presume to fix me, kind ones Because, truthfully? There's nothing to repair here under your control Nothing more or less than a shattered heart mending Please, please just stand vigil in the dark A quiet witness to the ravages of grief My grief Hold a candle, hold it high Surrounded by light, there is a way through Enough to know you are here, a silent sentinel to this pain, reminding me I am not alone Weight lessening even now as we speak Already smaller than it was a moment ago and a little more whole

Heel prints on the ceiling Bracing, for the love of God Or you Not sure if any difference matters considering the breathy sigh of mingling names gets more confused as we go And go And go A little to the left... And go Until the floor is the ceiling, the wall a spiderweb of silk I, a desperate, ravenous, many-legged beast You turn to me, turn inside me I am seeing you, a pillar of flesh and love that I scramble upon Beside me, residing in me I thank God one more time while screaming your name When all goes quiet and the ceiling returns to its place above us, I wonder for the eighth time- How is there a me without you, a you without God, and what really holds the ceiling away from the floor if not the jagged limbs of creatures making love? And why on Earth would we willingly separate any of these things at all?