Snap

Blood blinded in
face sweep up the
pieces of pottery
broken useless scrap
of mirror peered into
the image is flaking
at one corner and i
am not here anymore
stepped in the shard
and the bloom is a 
longing of ego shot
with colour of rain
bleeding on a blade
of greenery meadow
madness in a duel 
of personalities which
of mine is stronger 
which of mine has a 
sharper knife a tongue
which curves the truth
into a bone set right 
by no doctor set right
by no bland statement
made in front of a judge
i would not sweep away 
the past and put it in a jar
on the mantle a mosaic 
lip stick stain still smiling
on a piece of tea cup shattered
in a cordial meeting before
it broke into my concious
this disintegration this 
calling of the proper 
woman in me a b***h.

carbon monoxide poisoning
is that a gracious way to 
go. no mess to clean up, 
really. You can just throw
away my jeans. It will be
just like I had a seizure 
except there will be no more
racing for the medication that
poisons me. 

dead. 

there is nothing after this.
these moments that bruise me
were just bruises a show of 
the colours of anatomy. there
is no halo of hope holding on 
to me and sudden like, squeaze
in the chest like, i feel free.

I have a pot of tree, small and
pruned to amuse me. limbs crippled
and caught in a small world. Small
leaves that my cat eats and digests
and s***s and i clean up. 
there is a frozen world when i fall
asleep and it always seems my fish
is dying by my fault or his, and i
am rushing to keep him. in a bowl of
water, in an aquarium or cup of water.
I rescued my fish time and again and 

maybe the moral is to let him go to 
eternal sleep 

which may explain my fear of sleep.
fear of missing something brashly
keen. although, logic should prevail.
the world will remain boring unless
travelling to Nepal. The world will 
crush out certain inhabitants who could
not adjust like our old people, always 
three decades away at least and depressed
that their favourite time is gone. 

There is a crushing of buildings that come
spiralling upward, that come with statues
to inspire our awe and admiration. i am 
pretending in this city, i am having fun.
i can not bear to wear clothing, it must 
be costumes. it must be a bloom. 

I wanted violet eyes but I got hazel that
contains nothing like that purple hue. i
need to learn to love gold, i need to learn
to /feel/ rich. if not in fantasy. if not in
winter where i can rush back and laugh, 
contageous laughter rushed into the snow in
the form of snow angels. gold and crushed and
i would know you loved me if you pissed my
name in the snow. if you made a mark of me,
and laughed like you did when i said something
that reminded you of some other thing i was not
around for. i feel, somehow, like a tourist in your
life.
i feel like i should be pressing the shutter over and over
before you bow out and have to leave.

Do you see what leaving is, I imagine you in exotic
locations with your serious eyes crinkling at the 
mystery of the root system that brings you wine, that
intoxicates.
Would that every morning come in gold and pink hues and
you would be forced to remember me, crumbling beneath you.
A statue forgotten and looking surprised and whispering
remember me. 
There is a fragrance to the air that makes me want to run and dance, and so I snap the shutter shut and I keep this second pure and unfractured. Pure. 
You do not like loved ones in photographs. You would like to use your eyes. I understand that, and it is even rather romantic when applied, but what if you are a tourist and you have to remember? What if the scene leaves your eyes forever?
Snap. Snap. Snap.
Like the dragons in your delicate fingers and my nose is wrinkling in admiration and a kind of mirth that scares me with its intensity. Should you leave it would be a rehabilitation of my veins, I would need to get you out so ordinary happiness would not seem so flat again. Would not seem like driving through Nebraska, on the way to something vaster and mirror like and put together with glue and pieces of trashed beauty.
The stars will inspire me, say dance with me, the sky will light me in a river of after thoughs riveting and shooting about me, sweetly chiming bracelets.