Collateral Damage Station

I'm on the outside bright color peacock spreading; I own my street, a path forced discreet by tainted company.

The Death of Ms. Hagley

I thought I'd feel reprieve; some kind of soul relief to find out she died.

My lids are heavy. My brain churns thoughts. I run for home, spooning with dog. Exhaustion. I am aggressive and stalwart.

Wind comes, leaving half torn remnants of color, a pinwheel once moved by breath.

Fear is an illusion. I invite these intrusions to include truth, even if it hurts you.

What does my face look like when I cry? Un-pretty, swollen blood red eyes.

I wonder who you are anymore as your voice echoes dismissive screams disguised as suggestions.

What is it like to be granted a wish when your first kiss was laced with bitterness?

They said they found her drowned below the galley. She had tried to scratch her way back to sea.

There are blue aching planets waiting in line behind this one, and if I blink, I might miss you, gazing at me.

Empath; this solitary epitaph, words come lucid, swept on tides, murky.