old bones, older eyes,
all things cracked and drying with time.
a single incendiary word
lights layers of dust, dirt, accumulated age
into one bright burst of red.

when i am reborn, i want to be one of those women
who does everything with three inch acrylics,
darkened skin that reflects the sunset orange.

epiphany, destiny,
black eyes and sharp gaze.
rake me over,
i will start again.

in health, she thought that she might die
when sick, she yearned to live
a lesson never learned that meant
her life had more to give
than empty pages, empty guilt,
or empty cans of food:
each life affects all others and
each heart beats common blood.
so when one night a stranger came
and battered down her door,
she thought it somewhat common since
the man had come before.
he stood atop her doorstep, brawn
and brazen to the touch
and said he'd like to take her home
and give her back her crutch.
she stood a moment, studied him,
then peeked around his frame
and saw, now that the walls were gone,
that everything would change
but only if she stayed alone
and rebuilt her own walls,
and ventured into worlds unknown
to walk, and run, and fall.
so she looked up into his eyes
and said, it isn't time
for peace or love or solitude
or writing down these rhymes.
the time has come, she said to him,
to talk of many things:
but nothing here remains for you
or wedding vows or rings.