When I packed my bag to leave, I wrapped you in brown parcel paper and string, like my package delivered from Russia. I carefully stowed you between socks and sweaters, crowded you in with unmentionables and my other loves, as a souvenir of time spent away from my life and obligations. I was a passenger then, a traveler in a life dappled with headlights and smoke, a life of obscurity and illusion, a life that wasn’t mine – but me disbursed through yours. Today, as I unpack my suitcase shaped ...

What I want is your heart. You can keep your soul, what would I do with a soul, anyway? Fill it with gawdy trinkets and wasted time. But your heart, plump and sweet, I'd fill with promises, sweet nothings and pain. What I get is sticky sheets, a phone that refuses to ring, a pet wolf that I can't tame, and the joy of knowing I've abstained... from abstinence. Just your heart. But if I can't have that, I'll take what I can get.

Outlaw not for love, but for impropriety - collaboration horizontale. Abundant indiscretions, poorly placed affections, tether you with barbed wire to lovers and wolves. Tarring and feathering as means of escape. Icarus with molten, sticky wings did not soar as high as you. Quills pressing through flesh are not as impeding as self-righteousness, due process and law.

The devil says “Maybe.” I say “Oh, of course. Where are my manners?” We agree to disagree, parting ways at the corner of Detox and Hope. But I don’t have the devil’s sense of direction. I’m on the wrong train faster than you can say “excuse me, Miss, you seem to have forgotten your name tag and your halitosis is offending the other passengers.” Twenty-seven detours later, I’m home. I’m naked in front of the mirror seeing what the devil saw. It ain’t pretty, but then, have you seen that forked...

Compressed. Compacted. You're squeezed tight into a space that wasn't designed to hold you. How's the saying go? Ten pounds of shit in a five-pound sack. How can you breathe? You're not? You're holding your breath. Suffocating of your own accord. You're overflowing. The seams are coming apart – some of your squish is showing. You're waiting for a rescue. Baby, it's gonna take the Jaws of Life to pull you out. Or maybe they'll have to cut down a wall. You'll come rolling out. But who has time ...

“I’ve sold my soul.” You state without any lead up or formality. “Your soul or your sole?” I ask, pointing to my shoes, grinning at the oddness of the statement you’ve just made. We are sitting on the edge of my bed. The sheets still tangled together from last night. The mess reminds me of all the time we spend together. Pretending love is nothing, or that this something is not love. “Soul.” Your fingers push into your chest in order to illustrate the proposed location of an artificial invent...

“I don’t have anything.” You declare as you lay your four queens on the table, play your four queens for fools, flay your four queens alive. You’ve crammed her majesties into your pocket, and your charisma down their throats. Three of the four sovereigns have knights and white horses waiting for them a few blocks away - getaway vans and backup plans. The fourth, Judith, wears your heart on her breast. Queen dowager to the world’s foremost suicide king - crowned head of the living dead.

Your lips are like cinderblocks. I swear, nothing good can come from between two cold slabs of concrete. Lies, perhaps. Harsh truths, sure. All affection gets crushed between the “fucks” and the “god damned sons of bitches”. I think you said love once. Or was it tolerate? Maybe you didn’t say anything, I just heard the grinding of stones against one another.

You’re just gonna set the dove free? Let the bird go so that it draws the friendly fire. That line you drew in the sand - that was me. This new line on my face - that was you. I get trampled while your doling out dares. I wanted to be the name in the sand that waves carried out to sea, not graffiti on the West side of the wall. I wanted to be the voice of reason, the voice on the other end of the line when you thought you were talking to yourself I’m the free-lovin’, third wheelin’ friend of ...