funerals for dragonflies

artfully, the silverwings, on the dying day,

complement the red barrow soaked in dapples

of lace-patterned shadows.

the comodification beneath the enchanting words

is enough to fuel the ire of her superficial

auburn strands.

but tremors only plague the corners of her mouth

as the steady gaze reveals all knowledge;

the truth is constantly obscured.

my disputed presence

when it comes to the interrogation

of my hands, there is little still

behind my vacant, searching eyes.

a transient word, curling through

the air of space, silking off my lips

is barely enough to augment this.

my shadow, slave ever to the ground,

responding to the all-consuming light

of your antiseptic, calloused jaw

is a definition in the least, but fares

better still obscured within the

velvet curtain of a broken lamp.

she claimed "it would be incomplete"

imperfection? what is that?

the words spoken from the daughter

unaccustomed to poking, prodding

"you would be so pretty if--" "your

face seems thinner when--" do you

create for me my insecurities? so i

can be one of your group? a cookie

a day keeps the space between my

thighs away, but counted calories will

chase happiness down a swirling,

enslaving drain..

i would my crosses bear to

love the unlovely, to tell lies about

myself so we can live on the same plane--

perhaps my chainmaille isn't

too thick that i cannot find fault.. is it

much? where is my achilles heel..

i fear it lies in utter arrogance.

and then your sweet, sweet words

feeding my soul...