Purgatory

Dipping your lips into the
hollow of my hipbones,
brushing fingers across
this plain of uncertainty,
pooling like blood, warm
and thick upon the satin
of our shoulders turned
to glance the other way.

I anticipate your touch,
the inferno in our hearts,
licking flames up to loins,
melting glaciers in veins,
the heat on your tongue
could release us both from
this salted kingdom come
we keep trying to outrun.

– B.

Antihero

I am the finger on the trigger
that pulled and did not beg
for forgiveness after.

I am the silver bullet lost
deep in a villain’s cranium,
echoing on repeat of a past
I am doing everything in my
power to extinguish.

They say you’re supposed
to have an ability but mine
often leaves me bloodless
and numb.

It’s true, they’ll say there is
not a heroic bone in my body,
but saving everyone around me
has become my passage right.

– B.

The Phoenix

I over-lived, I think,
I lived endlessly,
never in the same
loop, never the
same pattern twice,
brutally courageous,
inherently selfless,
crashed into a flaming
oblivion of passion
and love, and hate,
youth on life support,
rounding continuously
sharp, fast angles,
success, loss, power,
exhilaratingly spurn
solutions blown from
glass and regular
boxes presented as
Pandora’s in a very
slick set of palms.

A blaze of glory only
lasts a millisecond
before it falls to ash,
but what happens
when you’re reborn
in the aftermath?

You lick the flames
and taste immunity.
You use that fire to
fuel life’s inferno.

– B.

Bacillus

I feel calmer now,
eerily peaceful,
as if I decided to
spore something
in the agar of this
petri dish.

I think it was the
snow this evening.
Something about
the way it freckled
across a dark sky
had me reminiscing
strep in 2nd grade.

My throat was buried
by a blizzard,
voice frozen six feet
under the saliva of a
frostbitten tongue.

I think that’s when I
realized I had to endure
the cold if I wanted to
survive it.

Ah, yes, the 2nd grade.
Those were eerily
peaceful moments, too.

– B.

An Ocean

This feeling is an
all too familiar
burn in your nose,
the heaviness of
fog in your head.

You try to breathe,
to steady yourself
against the tidal
waves that rock
against the sides
for your control.

But as the storm
clouds encroach
on the horizon of
days spent waiting,
You grip the sails
with a bruised fist
and swear you can
almost taste the
ocean pooling
in your own eyes.

– B.

Concrete Prisons

I watched the pines sway,
each needle pressing its back
against the wind.

I am only grateful there is still
green in this town, during these
months, this year, my existence.
Some day I bet you it’ll all be
a hologram, swipe a card to see
a mistruth, the tree of life was
uprooted in strife long ago.

Someone mentioned I’d do best
in New York the other day, they
raised their fists and shook them
to try and portray the intensity in
which I live my life.

I told them there are not enough
trees there for people like me,
We need the grounding,
We need reality.

Go visit a city and you’ll see
what I mean.

– B.

Imprints

It’s so odd, don’t
you think?

The first thing I’d
like to do when I
exit the shower is
put on your worn
crewneck.
I’d rather wrap my
senses in the sweat
and the salt of our
own ocean than the
essence of warm
argon and amber.

So odd, isn’t it?
How all of the small
details in life can
fall to fabrication
with the cost of
something real.

– B.