Brunch

I slid out of bed in the early morning,
From under twisted sheets
And twisted actions.
And I made him breakfast.
I never liked pancakes but I made them for him.
Sometimes, you give up a little when you love someone
Pancakes were minor tribute
To how I had been feeling.

He always came in the night
In shadow
With rain.
Like something out of
A dreamscape,
Or maybe a nightmare.
I held him
Close
Told him
I loved him
Without ever saying the words,
But with screaming sighs and
Crying climaxes.
And with breakfast
In the early mornings.

I knew there were other women.
I knew there were other angels
Other princesses
Other little darlings.
But I knew I'd be there
When they couldn't.
When they wouldn't.
When they ceased to be useful.

For as much as he loved me,
He still couldn't love me the way
I loved him.
Often I would stand on the sidelines.
Waiting for night.
Waiting for breakfast.
Waiting for him to find the little pieces of himself that he kept buried
After he burned the treasure map.

I remember when the nights came without him.
I wept
Knowing I didn't save him.
Knowing I failed
Knowing I could never trust him
Maybe even love him
The same again.

I knew these things.
But I always remembered
Breakfast.

Babylon

I am a body of water.
I am wet
And wild and free.
You
Are a desert wanderer
You are dry and parched and cracked
Aching
To drink your fill.
I can feel your heartbeat
Next to my shoreline.
You are the conqueror
You will burn cities
And collect your gold
And I am a whore of Babylon
Hell bound
A seducer of kings.
I will be your greatest regret.
You can only hold so much water
Between cupped palms before it escapes.
You can only carry so much gold before it catches the eye of a thief.
You can only burn so many cities
Before the destruction
Haunts you in your sleep.
You can run,
But lust, like water will always find you.
Will always be in you.
I may be a sinner
But if seduction is my death bringer
Can you imagine the stories the devil and I will share?
Lust always burns
So if my soul be damned
At least I am used to the flames
You...
Conquerer.
Desert Wanderer,
Warrior.
You may not understand the burn
You
Understand thirst.
Cup your hands,
Traveler.
And drink.

Moirai

My cards always pull the tower.
A card that symbolizes change. Liberation. Danger.
I don't consult the cards often anymore
Because the only constant in my life
Is change.
I am of the water
Astrologically.
An arachnid
That sheds its exoskeleton five to six times
Before it reaches adulthood.
A clawed
And aculeus armed
Insect
That will violently sting itself to death
Rather than drown.
I was born in the year named Ox.
Under the element of Wood.
Restless and straightforward,
Steadfast yet unpredictable.
These horoscopes I put down years ago,
A personality mechanism
Designed to fit me neatly into a box
Which I have no intention of staying in.
Some days I wake up
And I am a stranger in my own body.
My consciousness seemingly ripped away from the fabric
Of time.
No king's horses
Or king's men
To put me back together again.
So I have become a seamstress.
Constantly making alterations,
Steadfastly adapting to
The changes I don't have control over.
And ripping out the seams
When those particular stitches
Are no longer needed.
I am Clotho.
A daughter of Necessity.
Spinning the thread of my life.
A symbol of both life and death
A fate.
A goddess.

Woman

The last time I was here
In the vast red mountains,
I buried a song for you.
Let the red dirt
Sift through my cold knuckled
Fingers.
Dyed my hands
The color of life,
Though I was
In mourning.
Visiting this place,
Being here
Among the juniper
And the
Angel's trumpet
Breathing in the
Sage scented air
I am home.
I watched the clouds
Roll off the mountains
Like a funeral procession,
A death and dream fog.
I am a woman of secrets.
I am a woman
Who's scarlet knowledge
Will go to the grave with her.
This lake is placid
And though the reflections in it often mirror things of such beauty
Things of awe,
They are meant to keep you content
While something far more sinister,
Far more brilliant,
Far more seductive,
Lurks under the surface.
Like the symphony
I buried for you
In the red dirt
That stained my hands,
And named me woman.