I embellish myself with your skin,
if not for you I would be naked,
because of you my heart requires
barricade and armament.
You have made me a soldier,
you have made me a scrimmage.
I dress myself in your clothes,
a virgin thirty times over.
I am accustomed to sacrifice,
to the diminution of my beliefs.
The tears in my eyelashes do not hold
they collapse over my cheeks and hands.
I am too old to start from the preface.
You say that I am hysterical
whenever I speak my mind.
You say that I am preposterous
whether or not we disagree.
Does being perfect compensate
for the privation of your soul?
There is arsenic in your kiss
and malice in your tempered grin.
Intention can be either palliative or poison.
You fashion armies of my former allies
and all who would attend me now
have only euthanization in mind.
I consider every covenant
that we ever professed
even those said in jest.
The tapestry of us is moth-eaten
despite prodigious care.
That’s on me,
I paid above your worth.
I trace each laceration patiently
as though defect held
an incantation that when whispered
would resolve all distinction
between my life and your departure.
I really did love you, you know.
I think I’ll take the shears
and cut strips for my diary.
The faded prints will look beautiful
pressed inside your sly love letters.
This is an old poem as well but I have added a lot to it. I actually wrote this one originally when I was in the process of writing/editing my first book (I always felt it was unformed/unfinished).
I recently submitted 2 poems for publication in
They are currently open for submissions. They are seeking confessional poetry similar in style to Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton. Stop by and check it out!