All my 
ex-lovers
are authors
Their  Selves 
Line my shelves.
I lie with them,
still admiring,
absorbing, 
uplifting
all of
you.

I thought another was a lover
Instead a ghost
sent by an angel
To tell me lies and taunt my dreams
It seems of everything,
I’m scared to death of
what I can’t recover from
Can’t seem to smother
the corpse ‘neath the blankets
her dusted frame is rusty,
unfit to wake you from
your dead

To me,
From me,
In me forms Life
I feel the power within
Please be gentle, it’s my first sin.

Oh,

it’s

Vibrant,
labyrinthian
Riddled with marshmallows
like Candyland,
Oz,
Humpty Dumpty.

But also foggy,

like 

Memories sifted through VHS tape,
his snarl,
or the humid glass that separates
the most vulnerable version of me
and all the world to see.