this collection is dedicated to the wasteland poets for being the actual loves of my life and accepting every terrible joke i've ever made.

tragic
they call me.
lost, forgotten.
my snakebite heart
growing colder 
by the second.
my gooseflesh skin
greying ugly in the dark. 
so it goes. No matter. 

what awaited me
in the land of the living?
his hand creeping starved
between my thighs?
the sweet stench of rot
choking itself in my hair? 

let me be honest here,
whisper my story in your ear. 
let me tell you 
how I was silent as he turned,
how I never reached for him
as death’s cold fingers 
curled around my waist,
how I wanted him 
to look back,
how I craved it
with all of my unbeating heart. 

let me tell you how I chose hell.

                i.
wedding vows sang 
like a funeral dirge
and hands twitching
something fierce,
something terrified.
a congregation of red eyes
waiting for the passion play.

                ii.
night rushing in like 
a high tide and the moon
pulling you to him. 
hands wandering, 
unsure, careful,
over unknown territory.
sucking secrets through the teeth. 

                iii.
hurricane war sweeping 
him from your bed
furious and desperate.
hands still at your sides,
never reaching out. 
a kingdom stirring 
beneath your bare feet. 

                iv. 
the decade of fear 
and hunger for news.
hands tapping
to the songs of heroes.
picking names
from between lyre strings.

                v.
the lost years
and the ocean itself 
crashing into you.
hands weaving, unweaving
steady like stones
sinking to the bottom.
men like ivy,
relentless, poison.

                vi.
a reunion with
murdered decorum,
massacre instead of souvenirs.
hands keeping
the mouth from screaming.
blood in rivers 
running toward your feet.

                vii. 
history watering you down
to wife, to faithful.
hands clenching
tight into fists.
a forgotten legacy,
the inability to wither
ignored.