My Life, My Universe

These are poems about my day-to-day life.
My thoughts, my feelings, my words.


As blinds of darkness fell before our eyes,
the heat of San Diego glittered pink
and yellow while I soaked in all your lies;
I never even stopped myself to think.

The smoke strung holy veils of offerings burnt
from lusty lips, a stupid habit you
had taught my flesh; the craves I, faithful, learnt
but, unlike you, matured and then outgrew.

Those chlorine summers sting my body still
like cigarettes that ate my blackened throat
and vodka making me intensely ill:
the youth I lost in cities far remote.

If only I could wash the salt from tears,
so I could see beyond the broken years. 


My stomach seethes and reaches up my throat
with spiny fingers. Nothing can be done
but stand here—Cannot vomit, cannot scream.

My hands are twisting at my shirt as now
my voice repeats, “But are you sure?” as if
they cannot truly know and merely guess.

The walls are hissing slow and measured breaths
that thrum against my eyes and if I close
my lids and peer into the black, your voice

reverberates and beats with broken wings.
The barren door is telling me the truth
so I no longer comprehend their words

which feign the hollow understanding shell,
their eyes translucent so I can see inside;
 electric currents pulsing over grey

and gnarled roots. Their pity swells but I
don’t want it—pity means that you’re not here
but lost; no more. And hearts no longer need

to beat and earth no longer needs to turn
and velvet petals, withered dry as I,
no longer need to drink the summer rain. 


I read once that the rich odor of old books,
with spines cracked and pages yellowed and torn,
is a mixture of pungent volatiles
emitted from the paper and the glue.

The perfume of fingerprints lies deep,
text heavy with the sweet fragrance
of classrooms, dimly lit bus stops, rocking trains,
nightstand drawers, coffee spills, sweat, and grass stains. 


The only time I killed an animal
was driving West through timeless desert sands,
alone; the darkened cactus silhouettes
appeared to be my only friends that night.

Pale, the glowing cones before me melted
together, but the high lactescent moon
was so bright, artificial light seemed dim.
Ahead, something was in the unbent road,

so tiny as it hunched between the lines
and gazed upon the swollen moon, entranced.
I realized it was a young hare too late—
and had no time to think to stop or swerve.

I screamed to God and felt the obscene bump
of its small body underneath my tires;
then it was gone. Nothing could have been done,
but I breathed deeply through my nose and cried. 

Will you still love me when I’m old?

When eyesight decays, and glass is forever between us?
I won’t ever be able to hear you,
I’ll always ache—back, knees, hip—and a thousand
prescriptions will crowd the bathroom cabinet.
Will you still love me then?
When my hair loses its shine and brilliance,
color diluted like paint steeped in water.
I’ll have to cut it to the boyish style that grannies wear,
arthritis denying me from keeping the long hair of my youth.
Remember when I dyed it pink and threatened to
cut it short?
You told me it’d break your heart,
and I never changed the look of my hair again
but grew it long, long, long,
just in case I should ever be locked in a tower
and you should have to come rescue me.
The question still stands:
Will you or will you not still love me when I’m old?
When my skin like paper hangs off porcelain bones
so that you can see through me, past the failing organs
to the spritely girl I once was?
When wrinkles distort my face where smiles were worn,
an overcoat that has since been grown out of? 

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