the state of things

bleeding heart

disgusted and displaced
grubby fingernails scraping
cheeks far too often turned away
until they are blotched and swollen,
hair unhung, awry, indifferent
to the shape of a mouth
or the taste of blood;
and eyes–most definitely
until with a stricken bang and
burst of floodlight
their blue-green-brown wariness is
startlingly revealed for
a world which has already
turned its back
to see.

a break in the lightning

fucking inadequate
the soles of my shoes
in the summer on a pavement too
hot to run barefoot,
the temperature control
in my soul out of sorts
with the weather, incongruous thunder
in flattened veins,
fattened sluggish blood
refusing to pound
for me the chaff of nightmares,
a dirty sunrise
uncovered each morning like
the scratchy wool tapestry they wrapped
me in to get rid of the fever, saying
i had to sweat it out.