From the Poem Draft Sitting on my Desk(top)

You are intelligent, but a fool

I might as well be blank, if

all you’re gonna do is throw me

away in a drawer. Or worse, the trash.

HERE

What do you write me for?

To leave me, unfinished pieces as I am,

trapped on the page or the screen?

So you have something else to avoid

& forget, only to be disappointed in the remembering?

HERE

No. I won’t let that be me.

‘Cuz I’m already at the end of my angel-hair-thin rope,

microscopic threads still hanging on

to the only grounding moment I’ve had all day:

my body in your hands, gentle pokes

inking my skin, turning me into art.

HERE

For too long was my heart locked in your jar

& yet, still–my life ends when you walk away.