at night, with ghosts

the candles are the color of suns if suns were the color
we think they are. suns are the color

of souls left to wander, matchless. trimming the wicks
is a job for the devil, her precise vision

and razor nails. we all want a hand on the ouija board
because belief makes up for the lonely.

the candle lights of its own accord, fills the chest
with the scent of honey and milk.

hold it behind you so i can see through your skin,
thin and whispered as a sinner’s prayer.


Palm Reading

Image taken with iPhone at the Geek Seekers shoot.
Words written at Jewel Box.
Ears On Chely Wright’s conversation about being Christian and gay.
Time Taken ?
Brain On mmmm. Pizza. I’m such a food whore.

This entry was published on June 30, 2012 at 11:50 am and is filed under June, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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