You have an appeal to apathy,
bipolar bride don't blush...

Her heart froze
years ago, slowly...

My heart is an open book
lone in a dusty library...

Matador,
my horns...

Precocity rarely ages well, and I've
entertained the impulse to measure change...

Gardener,
you eradicate...

Harboring denial in every crevice
of her skin, similar to weeds seeping...

There is a blaze
rumbling in my gut...

His touch electrocutes the air
circling me, his hands are vultures...

The rain is a living glass disguised
in sheeps clothing as a dew...

Our agendas were written by two different hands,
in two different languages...

I back-trace
the series of seemingly...