Posted in Art, Poetry


My mouth blooms like a cut. –Anne Sexton

her insatiable death wish

sweat and tears

hanging gardens border on the brow,

a victim of her own thorns

the hand-written letters

left to wither, sent

but never answered.

she waits for succulent lips

painted black

to help her feel better.

he never loved her after all.


Insecurities. We all have them. Don’t we? We sit in the ditch, abandoned. Crashed, broken and lifeless, fantasizing movement beyond. Petals draped, glossed over with death. All that feels good is frozen breath, blossomed. Cut open. To blue.

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