“I like flaws and feel more comfortable around people who have them. I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.” —Augusten Burroughs

Tulip fingers

You hid it
       exquisitely
bruise behind your smile
your beauty fell like flaking paint
       on an ancient home

I knock gently
             daisy in hand
             shoes removed
             awkward feet holding timid toes in holy socks
Waiting . . .
You're not home today

I left a lick of fresh paint on your threshhold,
       a note for curious eyes that read
'you are a child of the stars, you know'

One hundred and eighty four days into my apprenticeship,
I learned something of the structure of old houses
              how they sway in gentle breezes
              there was a view to the stars in your attic but
I could not stop sneezing from all the dust

I'd look for stray planks of wet wood
     build a bridge up your creaking steps
     hold my breath that you'd answer when I knocked again
You never did.

Clouds are out in full force today,
it's not raining so you stay hidden
           ridding myself of all smallness
           I make cumulus my horizon line
                       step into my wings
                       throw myself off the daily cliff
I know the stars will be my streetlights when i've no longer got nightvision

A blind man feels his way past me
pausing
           to ask why I'm crying
I said, I'm losing my sight of the wonder in this world
I said, I am losing myself in splinters and bent nails
           my eyes need emptying
I left the best parts of me
           safe in the chest of a ghost
           gave myself a wheezing lung
           and its burning
from all the smoke
           bleeding
from all the broken mirrors

One hand on his heart, the other reaching toward me
He flicked a pocketknife open
placed a spring in my palm
drew a ring of blood around it
           'Breathe..
See how this tested metal needs blood sweat and tears
            to become

We run about this life following heart lines and hippie trails
Life lines and tales of to-be children
            but no one mentions the scar line
Have you never seen freckles, ridges and warts
That speak of your mortality too?

The stories of the skin are forever ever-changing,
Do not forget the blood of scars is the same as the blood of blushing
Do not forget that you exist, no matter what condition you're in
Child, feel blessed for your splinters and failures
They show that you have lived.
Know that you will bounce back like the spring
Even with blood on your lips.'

I look down at my hand.
See dirt under each nail, carefully placed
So when you left, your tulips could grow
From my fingertips
Your roots could infuse my nervous system
Fuck
I miss you

Blind man taps out of frame
leaning heavily on my words,
Taking my burdens along with all the others
I am alone again.

I tip toe back past the old house
leave buds in your letterbox
plait some grass together
leave the path to your door free of weeds
           this is my peace offering
           yes it is too late
           no I will not stop trying

There's never anyone home anymore
in the abandoned shack of a memory,
though I drop all my tears in your gardens
nothing will grow there
the ground is frozen
I know it's not my fault, it's winter,
Still, I can't think of anything to say other than
I'm sorry

I'm sorry I did not accurately capture the scent at your neck
that the stain on my pillow 'pon waking is
         wept rememberance
         instead of
         leaked dreaming
I used to lose myself in your smell

We were safe
My nose in your neck
heart bashing against lungs
climbing my rib-ladder
to reach your tongue
'taste my vibration', I'd whisper

I leave incense on your window ledge now,
a glass of sweet water to wet my lips
somehow swallow my dusty vocal chords.

Sun drops
the spectrum
on your stoop
Colouring ciggie butts
Old ash leaving charcoal smudges
in your creases

I've seen so many thresholds since you left
I've found myself a stranger everywhere

I don't know what to do with myself
          so I go on
          playing with the flaking paint
          sanding a rough patch away
          admiring the layered warmth of the wood

I pray you're having good dreams
I pray your new reality is less battle and more beauty
I see your ghost waving at me still
but I thank God you finally got to sleep
though I no longer believe in 'Him.'

The fucked thing is
no one else got to see your
      vintage lace curtains
      broken oil lamps
      the pieces of sea shells by the back door
      hanging on tangled strings
but me

and now i've gone and lost the front door key.