friday

in the bright eaves
or her mind midway
on a journey to

herself

she confesses
to stingy silence
and breaking hearts

of lonely poets

fleeing their tiny
verses

veins embossed
on crumbling

papery skin

kiss
me

thursday

Found my glasses inside his coat pocket
he's so golden and so mean
complains the music in my head
is not chopin

only broken mirrors weeping

lover makes breakfast
then climbs on top
and holds my wrists
so i only get  the scent of food

he enjoys flower stem women
with moist submissive petals
his two finger always to my lips

he thinks i can't read
without my glasses
thinks i can't love without pain

lover likes us to dance in front of the mirrors
when  my legs are in the air
he whispers false notes
takes apart my heart

bleeding her
into his own
terror.