my funnygirl

lying in the drawer where she hides (oh, my funnygirl).
puppet strings cut and strewn about her, entangling
oddities and freaks, lost marbles for companions—broken thing
reaching inside, i try to draw her out, but elbows push—away
she shrinks farther back, knees crawling, fingers digging. harder.
nails bleed as wood splinters, signaling warning (staining remorse)
the lines of her palms now forming the grain of her coffin.

her eyes dark and full (of ebbing sorrow
spilled secrets) from fearful eyes carrying a chronology down
her face. (small panes for such a large soul)
small hands that hold much.

her breaths come heavy and she heaves with sobbing silent screams
(and He shouts in her pain to awaken)
but like that couple who hid to cover, so she retreats
barring herself without (within), flinching as i hold her
i lean low and close to her grief (and my fingers do gather
as i sit to bleed.) her own story mixing with my own.

she lays in her drawer, no love or joy
a hell of absence—cry for peace
and all i can do is struggle to lift the corners of her mouth,
oh my funnygirl.


  1. I'm sorry to cuss, but damn that was powerful (and propelling.)

    "...fearful eyes carrying a chronology down
    her face."

  2. thank you. you don't know how much that means to me.

    and the section from the sentence you quoted is my favorite part, too.