allow me to wrap you in tailored wool,
sympathy soft against your tiny neck,
buttons gleaming with the understanding
of time and distance, and seams reinforced
by threads spun in defiance to self-pity.

Wear your resilience proudly, its woad-dyed blue
a calm stretch of sea amid the turbulence
of childhood when icy raindrops snaked
along your skin, under your clothes,
cryobranding your tenderness with filth.

Slide your hands deep into the open slant
of pockets lined with food coupons—
brown, purple, and green printed paper
staining fingers the rainbow of poverty—
and revel in the warmth this temporary tattoo brings

feel the cuffs migrate slowly up your forearm,
exposing secondhand-stained wrists to nature,
sun, wind, and rain neutralizing the eau de ashtray film
that’s suffocated every ivory pore since birth—
inhale the quintessential scent of bare self

as buttons strain against velvet butterfly wings
emerging from an amoxicillin-induced cocoon,
their flutter a rush of purpose and determination—
heat that radiates from navel to heart to mind,
incinerating any further need for outerwear

and when your molten eruptions kiss the froth,
igneous islands take shape, grow, flourish—
a spectacular view mirrored in tranquil seas
that flash with supersaturated horizon messages
letting you know, future to past, you’ve always been enough.

Style Score 100%

Bobbing pigtails cocoon,
shrink-wrap the toddler
kneeling on a cold basement floor,
constrict, smaller and smaller
until she segments, earthworm thin,
wriggles between his bare knees,
escapes into the plush lawn
to burrow between their houses—free.

The crack of leather against soft flesh
weaves a raised scarlet gambeson,
cushion for the next whisper
of his belt’s unsheathing—
a base layer of resilience,
its thick, coarse wool
numbing the jounce as life’s stiff saddle
gallops through the castle gate.

Rows of granite molars
glisten, crowd the mouth of Hope
and behind lips of autumn grass,
a dark earthen tongue craves
satin-lined black enamel rest;
snap! the flounce of a daughter’s skirt,
caught, wears against stone teeth,
frays to nothing over time.

Dark feathers flash-dive, screeching,
talons poised to shred,
claim the exposed flesh of a mother’s heart—
fragile, beat depolarized—
sink instead into a bedside prayer,
flex against antiseptic days, wings frantic,
until, drained, worn thin by hunger,
they ascend to hunt another soul.

These places lie in the shadows now—
petals pressed to dirt, scars incorporated
into the bark of becoming,
an unseen root anchoring past to present
among the long-buried bones of soul raptors—
and a weighty trunk branches,
thins into breath on the wind—
filter for the breaking dawn.

Style Score: 75

Do you remember our first funeral?
How terror, unnatural poise, and a light blue dress
bound our fragmented shards
so tightly that they fused like plates of armor,
unyielding and permanent—
a mold to shape past, present, and future experiences?
Ones devoid of the therapeutic scent of lavender?
Yeah, me too.
And we still seek the warm hug of purple blossoms
underneath a smiling summer sun,
taunting us from breezes that cannot touch our skin,
and the reassurance in the face of overwhelming loss and upheaval
that we will be okay because we are loved.
And we are. Loved. Okay.
Despite being an unrecognizable lump of tarnished metal
electroplated and reforged too many times to count,
bits of funerary fabric adding a mosaic of color to the gray,
we are strong and beautiful like Vermont wildflowers—
a sea of scents swaying among long, emerald grasses,
infusing the wind that rushes from now to then
with a healing perfume that will cease to exist after we are gone
and leave him in a molten suit gasping for air.

Style Score: 100

Unassuming, she bides her time,
slumbers curled in on herself,
potentiality’s vibrations encapsulated,
resonance her twilight lullaby.
Dawn breaks warm,
night’s chill melting away,
absorbed as nourishment;
she stretches languidly,
testing the confines of her quilt,
unfurls pink and fresh and strong,
face to sun; rising, ready,
sweet perfume on autumn air.

Style Score: 100

I’ve oft succumbed to subjugation’s crush,
been scarified by sorrow’s caustic calm,
and felt the frantic beat of anger’s rush

—but—

have never dropped the H-A-T-E bomb.

I hold that weapon, ticking, in my soul,
unwilling to unleash it on the world,
to watch it flare, expand with godless smoke,
consume the light and healing I deserve.

An earnest smile outshines the sparking fuse.

They’re blinded by a still and gentle grace
unknowing of the heavy peace I choose,
the strength it takes to snuff abuse’s flame,
enforce a fragile, self-effacing truce—
forgiveness is a battlefield embrace.

You tempt me, beckoning with sugared silk,
allure a golden promise whispered on the tongue.

I cannot resist.

Eyes drift closed,
chin rising as I inhale the intoxicating scent of you—
slowly, deliberately.
Exhale,
desire declared with silent hunger.

Teeth graze my bottom lip,
anticipation building
until your pliable stiffness yields,
enters my mouth in a welcoming embrace,
igniting on contact.
And then the explosion—symphony of maple
melting as I swirl my tongue,
exploring every nuanced velvet crumb,
every crystalline grain of bliss
in a slow cadence of flavor—sweet oblivion.
Each nibble, an encore—
from first taste to lingering ecstasy,
you fill me.

my fear of you is healthy, keeps me sharp
and on alert— a safety net crocheted
by love, not purled with ego’s tattered tarps.

Stay.

I shall not wish this faithful fear away.

Its selfless patterns form organic art,
each line, each curve depicting chances weighed—
a fleeting thrill, or pieces of my heart
protected by the risks I do not take.

For them, I’d bleach my neon yarnscape soul.

The Machu Picchu steps I need not see,
nor paradisal nuclear atolls—
for if adventure wove my earthly leave,
who’d treble stitch my family’s gaping holes
to safeguard from the frostbite of their grief?

Style Score: 100%