Poems

i was never properly wired to understand the difference between wrong and write. and so I left. lovers on bridges often fasten their locks. then throw the keys out to the incoming tide. our captivity was a different variety— the only skeleton thrown out was me. i watched her, watching me, in black and white. because we dyed together in the colours. and could never seem to get the palette quite right. just a smeared mess of pigment, bleeding into Indiana canvas. the crooked one she kept, still hanging on the wall. when once— she hung on the words. there was a time when she found the edges of my language soft— the idea of that made me hard. she thought the burns on my arm …

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