Bright Colors

If I've fallen now, at least I can say that my eyes can only
look upwards. But that isn't right. I constantly look down,
and I can perceive unplumbed depths that call to me in voices
sweetened by my own lack of hesitation. I am numb. No -- less
than that -- deadened to sensation to such an extent that I long
for the things that used to cut and bruise and turn my insides
black with their onslaught. I am perhaps a masochist. Or is it
that I simply long for bright bursts of color, and I do not
care if they are the reds of blood and the purples of
congealing sorrows? For happy things: the yellows, the pinks,
and the greens seem so distant, altogether garish
and brazen, that I fear they would disrupt the collage
I've built within myself.

You

Yes, I see you
peeking through your lashes
Yes, I hear you
your lips move and I can
feel you
quiet laughter like
fingers on my spine
I watch you and I think:
I know you
The curve of your cheek
color of your hair
so much like mine
You have a look in your eye
that is hard to define
It says:
Yes, I see you
and
Yes, I hear you
and
I wish I did not know you

Love

Love transforms us all.
From a slimy thing to something winged,
or perhaps something that flies
to something that is tethered.
It all depends on perspective.
Are you someone positive?
Or are you self-destructive?
All fair questions when you feel torn
between two selves.
When you can envision so many heavens
but you are caught within so many hells.
Pick a side:
is it easy? Is it fair?
What philosophy do you adhere to?
Do you love smashing the pretty things,
or would you prefer to plant seeds in tiny rows,
so far from yourself that you can believe
they might actually grow?