Afterlife

It was dead

and they were soft.

I plucked them.

And in-between my thumb

and pointer it felt like

the thinnest, most delicate

sheep’s ear.

As I let it go it glided

in the wind,

a wing without its body

still able to fly.

You

You told me

I was like

hot honey

poured

down your

throat, you

said my pain

had the power

to lock eyes

and you told

me I possessed

a sickly

sweetness.

And now as I

pour my hot

honey down the

throats of others

I’m amazed that

a sweetness

could have brewed

inside of me,

and even if it

is wrapped in

pain or is sickly,

 

it is mine.

thread

She watched him play

with a thread

in-between his

fingers,

twirling and twirling.

As she stared

she couldn’t tell

if it was him spinning

the thread,

or the thread spinning

him.

She imagined the

loose sweater thread

unraveling

and twisting up his arm,

back on to him.

And who else

would be able

to tell the

sweater was

actually wearing him?

real

You made me

feel real

and with your

skin pressed

tightly

against mine,

there was no

questioning,

I knew I was

there. And as

I run my hands

along my own

flesh, I’m left

wondering why

it doesn’t feel

the same.

Left wondering

if it is you

that makes

me feel real,

or me that

makes me feel

unreal?