Joan of Arc

dirty hands, this chapel is closed

indefinite flesh prison/hatred

a blood moon – eclipse

I must have been an angel in the beginning

a raped viking vessel

try me, fucker, try my eyes

like lies and liars and sinners

I must have given myself to the flame

scarlet ink, gunpowder, hitched skirts,

string me up on your bloody bleeding cross

your finger to my lips

how do they taste

the wind laced/poison breath

the harbor reminds me of death

“Be Human”

stranger in my own

skin can be ripped off,

and thrown aside.

what do you do with

these scraps of sadness,

pinned to your lover’s lapel

like a ruby red pin.

falling in the pitch

blackness as an old hatbox.

i think i closed the lid

and forgot how to breathe.

does that sound like nothing to you,

as I curl up on a square of white kitchen tile,

already cut through.

“Divide and Conquer”

Cross-legged in your basement,

arms outstretched.

You didn’t know I was there.

I heard,

your footsteps

puttering above my head.

Can you hear me?

Breathing,

on your neck,

but I wasn’t the one who put it there.

No,

I was in your attic,

lounging on some cans of blue spray paint.

I heard you singing,

in the shower beneath my feet.

I froze,

because she was there too.

Oh,

that just wouldn’t do.

I remembered the carving knife,

on your cutting board.

You should of seen my face just then,

lit up and glowing.

“Through My Fingers”

Close it.

The door,

the one with the crystal knob.

You shouldn’t watch this part.

Your sister,

mother,

lover,

brushing their teeth with red paste.

A thighbone,

cracked in two:

a jewelry box.

The ballerina who broke her legs,

lying in the bathtub,

her bun undone.

The curtains are yellow,

and your wrists are pink,

pressed against the glass.

Make a wish.