the poem is
just beneath the
skin
the skin is pale and
easily opened
what happens though
is this
i find myself
out of words
out of breath on
the front steps with
the roses i bought
already fading
with apologies falling
dead
from my lips
and if i’m not a
person you could ever
love and if
you don’t have the strength
to hate me
then what?
we are all afraid in
the thin air
of passing days
held to the ground by
the sheer grey enormity
of the sky
by the lack of
possibility
one among us just
waiting for the
perfect moment to step
forward and be
crucified
