Lines Left on The Cutting Room Floor - March 9, 2019

Stalk the need that begs you to return:
the flower blooming on her skin, the course
your finger plotted upward through the source
of what her smile masks. You need to learn

to bear the weight she’s given you to carry,
to season your slow voice and love the burn.
Or, walk away. No matter which you choose,
the blood that flows will be your own.

Lines Left on The Cutting Room Floor - February 23, 2019

Your choice bewilders logic out of spite.
Abandoned words, those withered, bloody petals,

fall to earth. Obey their sly forgiveness.
The slow goodbye filling your mouth with smoke

cracks the shell that hides what you’ve become.
Beat the life you’re sworn to like a drum.

Lines Left on The Cutting Room Floor - February 9, 2019

Immerse yourself without pretense. Disguise
the wilderness you crave. Behind barbed wire,
what you despise, arranged as in a painting,
courts a fire you’ve never seen. You wonder

if you’ll ever speak again, if guilt burns.
The survivor in you claims regret, releases
back to all the men whose sacrifice
you choose to bear the thanks you’ve hoarded. Women

rise, welcoming; the river overflows;
but those faces on the canvas will not speak.
Their heaven can’t contain the words you seek.

Lines Left on The Cutting Room Floor - February 2, 2019

Renounce the cradle. Trade belief for blame.
What leaves the body leaves itself behind.

Make your love a shroud to please your god;
The breath they force into your mouth is shame,

the stain all seekers bow to. Teach yourself
to love that risk. Remember, no safe harbor

waits, so let each death you die become
a feeling you must peel away from lust.

Exaggerate the rhythmic flaws you find.
You must renew each taste that they deny.

Lines Left on The Cutting Room Floor - February 1, 2019

Let laughter scatter what you trust like seeds.
What grows, well-loved, will overrun the weeds.

Lines Left on The Cutting Room Floor - January 31, 2019

In language they will call “a woman’s crime,”
give your breath to each aborted fear.
The masks you wear, the pain you flee, the climb
past knowledge into slime: your will to live
enmeshes you in sin. Disinherit
what they told you you should want to hear.
The stares that brand you foreign won’t abate.
Embrace the knowledge they would have you hate.

Lines Left on the Cutting Room Floor - December 11, 2018

If faith requires doubt, you can’t pretend
the other door will open when you ask:
you need to know. You cannot condescend.
Reciprocity delineates
the limits you can test. Remove your mask.
Make yourself what love obliterates.