First Time Haunting – A poem.

Sleeping, must you lie that way?
Stiff and sweating?

The living trope.
It’s rather unnerving.
Are you supposed to resemble
the body’s starched suit?
You swish like a striding
business man’s slacks,
like the sheets of a hospital.

You’ve become even more
inanimate in life,
exuding the whiff of formaldehyde jars
with your exit,
or of dusty chapels.

You will never be satisfying
while you remain alive.

Only that one night,
the knife trembling against your wrist,
tasting blood, did you tease me,
and then, typically,

you stopped short.
(I sigh angrily.)

I was throwing knives in your
kitchen for months. To remind you.

The smell of flowing blood
still clings to you:
stinking odor of breath
and soul—

spurned phantoms.


Haunting Me Only Makes You Seem Needy – A poem.

I am the one that holds the knife
to your throat.

Because you are afraid.

I feel it,
in the coiled snake when you swallow,
pulse hammers against your thin veil,
the stream that keeps you alive.

Your almost translucent barrier that separates
you alive, from death.

I am the one that frees you,
spills red that holds you tighter, knows you
better than I ever can.

Watch as you squirt through the cracks
in my fingers. Escape into the bleached
sink below the mirror.

Where it’s just me.

Covered in you. And I have never felt
more apart from you.

I hate you for that.


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