I have a strict diet
of disturbed, delicious,
and dark women.
Like churches conquered by the elements
their
stained glass lies in
broken tears and ripped light
on the floor
around the altar.

and what it must be like, such
bent and sudden power, such
torn and sharp grace, and what it must
be like to be
a distrubed, delicious,
and dark woman.

it's almost as if
my heart weights the weight
of a benevolent forward in contrast
to the weight that pulls
from the rivers of the fractured
feminine and i
beg
to drown.

and so it is
that I cannot move
any love story past
this first chapter, and am left
with abandoned half-books filled
wuth disturbed, delicious,
and dark women.
perhaps one day
I will find my way
into the first sentence
of a second chapter and stop reading,
loving, or writing about
dark
delicious
and disturbed women.