ars poetica

she is shards of glass
in heel hindering my escape.
she takes the breath
from my mouth, transforms it,
and blows it back in my face.
she makes my eyes sting.
I am not sorry I took her
home that first night.
the way she enveloped every
part of me, the way she
recklessed through my unconscious.
it has been years since
I felt fed and full. she
whittled words into my skin
and left me there to scratch
at the scabs till they scarred
in the shape of tin can,
brown boots, bad luck, a promise
made and then unwoven like
the web of an abandoned window.
I know now she never left.