my shoulder blades were bruised
with everything that happened
since you showed me the flowers.


Death shrugged,
losing moments
to his whiteness,
blinking nothing
into instant everything
low above
infrontĀ before

(( I don’t usually do this, but this is a few lines from a poem that was very format intensive. WordPress doesn’t like formatting, indenting, or spacing very much. If you’d like to see the poem proper, please check out my tumblr or deviantart;


Thank you! ))


spines straight
curled, thumbed
hair scattered
following fingertip
walkings, wasting
time and waists
walked around
with closed eyes
broken chests
and black
ink, pooling
pressed together
palms, trying
failing, holding,

i lost words.

“Forested Arms”

through bark and bough
bursting, demanding
light speckled leaves
fast-growing saxifrage
garlands gladly given,
hoisted around shoulders
which once bore rifle stocks
blooms keep blood at bay,
pressed into wounds
hereto unnoticed; trees
older than bullets break,
blasting splinters through air
cutting flowers and faces

he stops and drops his gun,
propped against a dying oak,
then walks, bloodstained
boots crunching leaves,
into forested arms.

“Fingertip Tapped”

I tapped you with a fingertip –
ink burned
up through my veins,
following village maps
historical genealogies
and scar tissue,
settling at my shoulders
bursting with black blooms,
petals fell down my spine
composting nerves and muscles
building feathered stems,
slowly, brightly, blackly
bursting inky quills
stolen from aged ravens,
used to dress the faces
of the pretty ugly,
where scars burst into flowers
demanding flesh and meat
instead of sun and soil.