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.

1649.

Mirrors are broken
and turned back for the maiming.
Suicide by love.

1648.

Our hearts' roots are all
twisted and gnarled together
in a tied hanging.

1647.

A storm that sweeps out
everything but the mess
hiding underneath.

1646.

The idea of so
much oblivion lost to
its reality.

1645.

Hollow honors built
for the merry making of
fools and their splendor.

1644.

Loneliness is more
a need for anchors and psalms
than riding passion.

1643.

Cover me in your
hunger so that I may be
completely consumed.