Pupa, breathe out

Blink to click

It’s easy feeling unloved.
Shores of home outgrown,
a heart sounds with fear.
Scared in the dark,
self slips out of sight.
Asking me what is left,
I shine a light off-center.
You must blink, let go,
tiptoe the edge of the sword1,
the knife to your head.
A piercing thought:
Jump2. Don’t fall, don’t get cut up,
don’t get caught up.
Washed up on your beach,
you must sheath what pokes.
I signal a way and observe.
Your 1blade is glass,
a beautiful sting.
Fragile, fresh, firing at will.
Your hands dig into the sand,
and waves cling.
You. Are on your own.

(needles my heart, tears dilute blood)

Pupa, breathe in

Click to blink

The busiest boulevard, the warmest bosom, the brightest ride or even the most fortified island, still finds: to nurture a star-studded talent for feeling unloved is easy.

Latter self-imposed confinement by salty waters through distancing shores of homes outgrown and past, hardly silences the menacing sounds of fear the heart creates.

In spite of wanton loneliness, the recluse gets petrified, scared in the dark of light. Though circumscribed by unaltered affection, presumptuous lost love for yourself, slips you out of sight.

What if nothing is left for you to create, in the shadow of that yearning for light, your silence asks. I only lick a stamp and say: remember not to stare directly into it, let it hit your retina from an angle, off-center


make as if it’s not there, though you want it badly. It’ll materialize, find you. Just let go. Focus, balance that edge of the sword1, tiptoe to the tip. Jump2.

Don’t fall to either side.

Don’t get cut up.

Don’t get caught up.

1Embedded in your head, that knife was born there with you, it will stay, stuck. Put there when you were not even an ovule. Then conceived, like a piercing thought, without a thought.

And as you will wash up on your own inevitable beaches you will need to sheath what pokes out through your crisp frontal lobe. 2 Learn.

From the cliff I observe the horses hair and call down, signal to let you know the way to the lighthouse.

Realize your blade is glass, brittle crystal, zinging with its own opaque and beautiful slippery sting, seeming fragile, so fresh from its myelin womb, electrified synapses firing at will.

And you, we, I? Will come to understand your struggle — dig your hands deep into sharp soggy sands, waves snapping their dark fangs at your tiny feet, assisting your beach to cling to you, and

that you. Are on your own

(tm demands from others like needles to my heart. tears trying to dilute and wash my blood)