1656.

The steady way you
turn your eyes to whoever
is looking hurts me.

1655.

There are parts of you
so beautiful that I ache,
but their coat is pain.

1654.

My heart feeds itself
on its own discontent. True
cannibalism.

1653.

That love represents
nothing more than your shifting,
slow impermanence.

1652.

Your mouth is a skein
that frequently twists even
the best of intents.

1651.

Everyone has some
mimic of Judas in their
bones seeking vengeance.

1650.

The trusted ones are
also those who we must guard
against most often.