This is one I wrote as prosetry (i.e. prose with poetic elements or poetry with prosaic elements, whichever you prefer), entitled "These Frigid Waters":
our arms are tangled and i can't tell where my bony fingers begin and your pink-polished nails end, but i want to become you, become your soft skin and curled lashes with snowflake kisses, so badly it aches deep in my stomach. my ribs are cracking under the weight of my metal grate heart and the green-gray sewer waters lap at the tip of the sandy shore.
but you don't know any of this, you only know my eyes, the ones that shine green when i'm happy and gray when i want to die, and my whittled bones with the notches - one for every time i've cried. there are no smooth surfaces left.
and somehow you still want to be here with me, with the shrieking birds and gnarled limbs and the dead black skulls. somehow you want to stay in the frigid waters, even as they eat at your warmth and leave you pale and twisted.
i want your beauty, and i'm taking it, and all you can say is, do you love me?
and even as i curl my fingers around your thinning wrists, i press my cracked lips against you and whisper, yes.
This one is called "I Sing of Lions":
don't tell me you don't know of love -
i can see past to the smiles you pass
through the cracks in your curled fists,
the little fluttering lashes of beauty
you share like they'll disappear tomorrow.
and don't tell me you're thinking about me
when i'm the last thought crammed
into your heart. but don't say i blame
you, because i know what it's like when
your heart is so full it'll burst. and don't say
i have never sung to you, because every night
my lips move without sound, and i wait
the day when you can hear me.
(Please note this one has slightly inappropriate language in it, just in case that would make you uncomfortable.) I'm not sure how I feel about this one, but it's called "Secrets":
i. there are days when i think i
loved you because you needed
me more than i needed you.
ii. i still read the words you wrote
to me and think about how much
care you put into each syllable, and
i try so hard to remember why it
happened that i can't remember how.
iii. they can say everyone is beautiful
all they want but it's still a lie. only
a few people are beautiful and they
pay for it in happiness.
iv. the world is only dying because
it's so goddamn young.
A short piece, called "Midnight Party":
we are the sinners from the grave,
we are the darkest hearts that gave
(out); and when the sunshine goes
away, we sing to the little dead souls
of the world.
And finally, "Twelve Noon":
i didn't think it'd be so quick -
a brush of silver metal watches, hard and cold
and the ticking arrows grazing
my eyes with every moment, whispering:
all is lost, all is lost, all is lost
and the clock chimes twelve but the last
ring dies halfway through, a groan
uncompleted, a sigh that fades to the barest
corners of memories never sifted through
you are eternal, i heard them say,
holding their prayer books (as if that would
save them), we love you, we love you,
you are always found
and the unspoken words:
we don't care for the dead.