Random poem about physical abuse:

The print of your hand
was a lake on my cheek,
frozen over at the edges but not in the middle.

"This is life," you said.
We stood alone on a landscape of white light.

NO.

This is sanity barricading itself
in a monochrome apartment.
This is clarity struggling to hold off
a technicolor blur.
This is the final battle of reality and chaos,
one small building on a brittle tundra.

This is not life.

**
and... an angry poem I wrote to Matt:

your hands were enough
to send me- cut out- a photograph
of me at two
into the sky in the absence
of light

two weeks of numbness
one week of pain
an eternity of anger
can i hate you?
can i hate you for saying it-
saying it all-
it's all about the past and the way
your heart spins around,
a figure eight on a carousel?

it's not enough.

you are the scissors
cutting through the thick paper
of my life.
you knew better.
you knew better in the dark that night.
i was motionless,
frozen,
melted icicle stuck to vinyl in summer heat.

i can only keep asking myself
what do they think?
the men in the guillitines.
what do they think
right before the blade falls
when the sky is all around
and pale down their throat?