IX-XXIX-MMXVI

i want my collarbones to collect rain;
turn their valleys into vases
for the bouquets i make
of tropical debris
& madness
weeping while i sweep the dust
& feathers
from within the cage i have carved for myself
where belly should be: now concave against ribcage

i have created caverns deep enough to climb in

i have cradled clean like it was a clumsy word that i could not survive in

                and i have made it cleaner, 

clothed myself in it with careful precision
and never kept the compulsion silenced.

i am gossamer weather-vane 

for my own homemade hurricanes
sealed in glass canisters, neatly labeled, tidy
arranged in alphabetical order or by colour coordination

or by how many people i have hurt.

or by how many people have hurt me.

in the pursuit of perfection,
i have prayed myself into pieces,
become a thing that flutters wings
on the perch of purity

and purged my way to clandestine states.

i want a winter-forest frame;

i want icicles and empty
and hollow where i still feel full
palpable non-existence,
thin like wedding-veils

i want to be hidden
to be seen-through;
to be an ice-bride