eyesofIris

like bruises, 
the sunken ships
sit under my eyes. 
treasure has long 
since been stolen,
gold doubloons 
counted and celebrated, 
in turn. 
heavy footsteps held
below my bottom lash line,

i think i've been lying to myself lately. 
i said i wasn't afraid of the future,
of the open doors and chapter beginnings,
yet i stand in the pluvial dusk
and i know my words aren't true.

i don’t have the words to tell you
about the cacophony of
feelings that tiptoe to me
in the rain,
in the dark,
in between the pages of books. 
i’m a writer so i should know
how to talk about feelings by now-

sending messages into space:
i’m not used to potion-ing
feelings, but lately
the only signs you
leave are recipes
for love, revenge, hope,
and better skin.
i’m not sure who you are,
but when my name
appears on envelopes

 if i wasn’t a writer,
there would be smashed glass
all over the wood floors.
i would carry a bat and
a pocketknife
and swing my arms as fast
as possible at the most breakable
objects-
if i wasn’t a writer,

all of my words are fighting.
they bicker and shove one another,
they toss lit matches into barrels of gasoline
because maybe it will catch my attention.
my words are in a struggle for their lives.