I am the daughter of the stone, which hewn,
became the shape and study of my mind,
But even all the hands which stone exhumed
could never hold a mind so disinclined.
If every hand that traced this ivory brow
could reach into the cavern just behind,
then what of great Pygmalion, even now
who everything but life in ivory finds?
Though many tools did free me from the earth,
it was intent that shaped a finer face
and shadows of the ones that came before
that granted focus to a sculpted gaze.
Though every one created by a few,
the shadow I might cast is longer too.
i am held together by the threads of your eyes
your pupils: needles piercing, digging through
musculature, drawing shattered bones together
my nerve endings skittering like spiders.
you draw me in and you draw me close,
and your white teeth snap together, pull
the thread taut. With it, my flesh, veins
capillaries bursting at the sight of you,
all of me is closed behind your exit,
and all locked inside me itches,
feels wide, empty, exposed
The same carbon in your flesh
creates the stars, and me.
Does that mean that we are
one with the universe?
How, then, am I in any way
unnatural? The third law
of thermodynamics states that
when everything else is lost
you and I break even,
but the second law says that
in the real world, we never can.
There is no formula to calculate
everything lost between us.
There is no science to your hate,
and there is no logic behind the
fact that despite our kinship
on a molecular level,
you and I will never be the same.
the cracks on my ceiling
get longer in the dark.
they crawl like vines,
destructive fingers in
brick and mortar,
leaves made of shadow
photosynthesizing the shafts
of moonlight that break
through my blinds.
what are the things that
only grow in the dark,
evaporating into mist
in the orange sun?
what do I see in the
early hours, when the
blackness teases my