lacerations to exposed shoulder blades.
she believes determination can't counter determinism.
she is not whole;
she has a name,
she has a place of birth,
she has friends to back it all up.
but she finds abrupt departure
when faced with what she has to offer.
she sees out of marbled cloudy skies,
blue but so much more grey;
the lids are canvases
with their sun-spiked daze--
she's got me dazed.
it's her flapping hand in front of her face
walking through that chalky haze.
what a waste,
she thinks she can only see
as far as the clouds permit her...
and she sees...
i am the spiked whip,
returning her to her reality,
to realize it's not,
not it is.
she lays me down and goes to nurse her salty wounds.
she's cried away the mascara sunshine,
but it's okay 'cause,
it will be back soon.
[i am her moon]
