this poem will be my finest, not because it is, per se
mostly because it will do as i say and i do and as i write so
i can make this my finest, name it that and put it on a grand display
nobody might agree but i wrote it and i can declare things like that although

the meat and potatoes don’t matter in words about words,
we are reading for emotion – when is the act, when is the show?
there have been stories all across the lands of this girl,
or woman, at thirty, and how i open my chest and my flesh has this glow

the glow of bloody glistening flesh, rapidly dazzling brightness ensues and no less
’tis better to burn than to fade, some say, but what’s a word misplaced
in a notebook full of pixels and files i need to organize when i’m never less stressed
mismatched, doubled, disorganized, you won’t find one single piece of grace

a pisces mystic took my jewels, and so i found new ones to hide
i wandered through some garden and i wandered from there to indoors
i will always find my home, my haven, my safe space, inside
for i am but a traveler’s tired daughter, who has slept on more than three floors

what if i don’t care about your nourishment, your sustenance,
your false flavors of caring and your bewitching lies
what if i stopped looking at the batons and halted eating flowers grown in abundance
in that garden of pure love and hurt and nothing else but spies

and despair is a funny thing, because you can’t hold it, cannot grasp
but it will sink into your stomach and hold you down with the heaviest weight
the pisces will learn of her folly one day in years’ time, i’ll forgive (without trust) at last
nothing will be the same yet every jewel will remain seated in our minds’ watery viscous space

this poem will be my worst, not because it is, per se
mostly because i will write it then overanalyze and cry, no feelings allowed!
numb myself quick and listen for the sound of the best moment to throw it away
everybody could be mad that i burned those old poems in the fireplace, but i was just a child