Caught

You said my name first,
but like so many times before,
my name was someone else's name,
my skin, someone else's skin,
my eyes, certainly my eyes,
belonged to someone else.

You said my name again,
and here I noticed my failure
to move your name from my brain,
yes, my brain to my mouth, and then my lips.

Perhaps you said my name a third time,
and I could only call you--well--you,
but it wasn't you then either.

Even now I can't help but imagine
it was you,
and it was me,
and it was my hand on your shoulder,
and it was we who walked out of the room
together.

The Undelivered Love Poem

You probably never knew that I fell for you,
or that you cost me that A in geometry,
or that a touch from your unconscious hand
could melt all the snow outside.

Before my path went near,
and yours
far.
Before I knew your secret.

This is the love serenade,
caught in the throat.
This is the bouquet
left standing behind the counter.
This is the last petal:
the one that says:
He loves me not.

An Appointment with a New Patient

I'm usually the last person people want to see. Granted, I'm not pleasant to look at. My pale skin would blind most people in direct sunlight. Honestly, I don't wear a lot of black to scare people, but to protect their eyes. It's pretty uncomfortable on hot days and nights, especially in summer when people are dying of heatstroke. I find it more bearable in winter, to keep out the cold. After all, I'm not a very warm person to begin with.

I wouldn't say most people like me, though I've had my share of stalkers. I guess I understand. I'm not the most pleasant person. I kill a room when I enter it. Most children cry when they see me, but the elderly seem to like me well enough. They smile at me like I'm a familiar friend. Sometimes we talk for hours, sometimes they have nothing to say, but the old always take my hand.

It's hard to get a date when you're like me. My hands are ice cold, so no girl wants to hold them. I have a morbid sense of humor that girls don't appreciate. Goth girls seem to like it, but it's been my experience that they prefer to talk about me behind my back than see me face to face. At least we both tend to like dark, cozy restaurants.

I may show up unannounced, but at least I'm a gentleman. No matter who the person is, I don't discriminate.  I think I'm a basically good person, though you might disagree.

Thanks for listening to me, Doctor. I think you're a great therapist. Unfortunately, I have to admit that I came here to this appointment, for more than one reason. You see, today is your deathday, and it's time to take you. I promise this scythe may come as a shock, but it won't hurt you. It will kill you, but it won't hurt you.

Changling

You left as a man,
and returned as a beast.
Sometimes your fur's soft;
sometimes your claws come out.
I don't recognize your pupils,
as they've transformed from orbs
to slits.


You left your soul in the desert,
and brought back a dead man.
He does not see,
but he consumes.
He does not hear,
but he spits out acid.
He does not feel,
except for a bloody, explosive rage.

I can't rely on my mine-detector,
and I fear losing limbs.
So save me the trouble of asking,
and tell me:
Are you back?

Preservation

Oh to be a myriad of brush strokes,
A spectrum of color!
Oh to be the sparkle in her eye,
the blush upon her lips,
the corner of her smile.
I would be forever in love,
never hurt, always hugged by a golden frame,
surrounded by a cloudless sky,
with fresh grass blades tickling my feet.

But ah, never to be painted,
trapped with only a sight of my lover,
never any closer to him than the day he painted me,
never hugged by his arms,
never spoken to by his lips,
never kissed.

Through Rose Stained Glass Chapter I Scene IV

The door closed with a bang behind him, but he walked forward without jumping. His eyes narrowed as he turned down a hallway, unfazed by the buzz of the fluorescent lights. Brown bulletin boards slipped behind him along with the brick walls they hung on. Even his feet barely touched the brown carpet. He passed doors with windows, already knowing what he would see through them. Finally, he reached the end of the hall. Both of his eyes scanned the papers hanging on the bulletin board, darting each way like a hoard of bees. Then they stopped, focusing on a prize sweeter than honey.

A grin swept his face as he ripped a small stub off the flyer and stuffed it in his pocket. He marched back down the hall, only to jump when someone tapped his shoulder.

"You looking for something, son?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well, you're looking at the community board. Do you need some community service hours?"

The stub in his pocket chaffed against his fingers. "Not really."

"Well, in case you change your mind." The man opened the young man's hand, and closed it over a business card.

"Thanks." The young man muttered, as he opened his hand to look at the card. Save for a hand-written phone number, the card was blank on both sides.  He glanced up to ask the man about his card, but the hallway behind him lay empty.

Gifts

Why do we give flowers to those we love?

When those flowers were once
lovers scorned, or lovers killed.

What are flowers but lives cut off,
dead things we call beautiful.

They have but one purpose:
to distract the eyes and the nose,
from a less beautiful, a less innocent
purpose.

Why say "I'm covering you in pollen"
When you can say "I love you"