My cheeks felt hot

as blood rushed to my face,

partly due to embarrassment,

and partly wine.

You flashed me your phone,

asking me what this was,

and I looked at the screen

with genuine curiosity.

I saw the message,

asking if you knew that you

made your sister, me,

cry, earlier this evening.

I kept this facade, mimicking

a Victorian angel,

seeking refuge in my room

when you’d been too abrupt,

and judged my evening hosting

for not being hospitable enough.

I’ve been living without my litter,

a former rabbit, slowly peeking

from my warm nest,

burrow not to your standard,

walls too thin, disorganized,


Feast of flora set before you, 

lacking fauna

you so crave.

You have upset me often, lately.

I keep it to myself,

buried like a secret,

in a hovel full of trinkets,

half-dried flowers, 

and fluff.

Now, uncovered, 

I uncomfortably stand,

admitting that, yes, 

your demeanor, mean,

your bite, not playful,

and I recoil to a position

where I simply say,

“I’m sorry.”

I apologize to you for being

cruel to me.

It’s easier this way, you see.

Easier than telling you,

the timing of your response,

the way you came 

to expose my feelings, 

in front of everyone, is unjust.

I just

wanted to tell someone

the truth because it eats me up

that you don’t want to see

how the energy you brought

into my household soured

everyone’s mood. 

We were laughing, and singing, 


you got there.


This soft bed was alone with me,

as you walked the rooms, ranting.

Stone echoed your words, 

repeating in a dream of 

discordant language in tones 

of sound and fury.

Why must you always rave?

I’m in constant company of

your complaints. I haven’t slept

peacefully in a fortnight, and

your anger only increases in volume.

I haven’t seen you in so long,

and when I venture to complain,

the very sun will stop

to overshadow the moon.

You do not love me. 

You told me this,

only as you rode away.

I believe it. You love only the glory

of bleeding men, know only the 

honor of swords set against each other.

Restless for action, startled by softness,

even to me, you are not gentle. 

I could foretell your ending,

god of war or warrior of God,

you will fall, felled to your own pride

and arrogant nature.


I wonder what would 

tempt to cut away the life in me.

To feel it rush out, spilling

onto the ground. To allow harm 

to myself.

There is a sick churning in my

stomach at the thought,

a gnawing, nervous notion

that began as a silent prayer.

Would it be better to find some way,

painless, less messy?

But I know the truth of painless,

it would only be painless to me.

No speculation of a car running,

left in enclosed space, 

fumes that lull you into 

dreamless sleep.

And though my loved ones,

my family and friends,

close acquaintances, and others

may feel the eerie effects of what

was done, it is not

their tears that spare me.

To end my story seems such 

a deep shame, I would swear

I’d never recover in the afterlife.

I’d swear it on my soul.


Your side is not your side,

nor is mine my own.

What is between.

Somewhere between ambiguity

and clarity, a sublime awareness

awaits, unintrusive, patient, 

and disregarded in a moment’s 


It is not the literal gate that is built

or not built, a river, riverbed, ditch.

It is within our perception

of “our” people,

of “your” people,

hypocritical nation, loss,

abuse, and pride.

It bleeds into irrational

levels of distrust, hatred,

fear of

cultural diversity,

falling to cultural hegemony

in a way that is so comfortable.

There is no more laughter

about a leader who might

not have become a leader

had we chosen to believe it was not

a joke, comedians smiling about

racy jokes, how we become our


Univited is a notion that we

prepared in our heads,

a dissonant hierarchy in our heritage.

Why don’t you speak your native…

What makes a language yours?

Can you not speak a language,

or only speak a language when

it doesn’t feel uncomfortable,

or do we even know what we 


We accuse without pausing to assess.

It takes up too much time, energy.

What matters now? 

It is the moment we don’t take,

consideration, censorship, 

more ignorance than we’d

like to commit.

To break down hatred, we endure.


When the weight of two gold rings 

became too much for fingers,

they cast them into the ocean,

ponderous deeps to behold.

Night-blue abyss swallowing up

the ardent frivolity in its

arythmic movements most organic,

digesting the notion behind

a ceremonial, albeit commercialized 

symbol, leaning toward a value

based on appearance 

and rarity of material.

Indifferent, the waves pass over

and swell until there are no more

tokens to fathom, and forgotten,

they dispassionately  listen to whales 

and exhalation of a timeless query.


​Time to understand this notion,

this temporary madness instilled within my own,

still a whisper, barely evident in the eve of this

shadow who is listening and taking into account.

There is nothing in this space, but the small footfalls,

unholy thoughts no longer allowed to enter,

come to collect some buried mystery
or another.

Enter and leave at your leisure,

but disrupt and take only what you may account for;

many varied verse will take and entrance

to let the dreams enjoy brief respite

for the realist tomorrow they face,

and fall not for the many faces that it shows,

it is only one who masquerades as two or three,

but is only one.

Rally My People

It does not matter if you loved me,

or if you love me still. 

You can call

to my window. 

I will not hear you.

I spent hours in my fortress,

wondering if you felt anything 

other than the most shallow 

form of affection. When 

I needed you, you did not answer.

Deaf to me, my muse had become.

I embody my own

Lady of Shallot, peering from her perch.

Weaving for no greater purpose,

seeing you only from the corners 

of my eyes, contorted reflection,

never as you were.

Half-sick, I tried to call to you,

but you did not heed my cry.

It was then my mirror shattered,

frustration and anger, its 


No longer do I wait and watch,

nor listen for your voice.

I await the death of love.

Rally what you can, 

but do not hope.

As for my people, 

I have none.