my soul yearns to write something beautiful,
fingers itching for imagery and tongue
stretching for the honeyed taste of lovely words,
sweetened vocabulary, sugared intentions.
but i am only hopes and dreams right now,
lacking substance, whipped beyond
recognition and starved and flayed and burned:
in my skin the carbon laid footprints,
in my heart the fire still burns.
it is much easier to slather butter, cream, cocoa
over everything and imagine that
the wounds are not lurking behind that layer.