you smile at me, sharp
a sweet kitten, with a
lone scared canary, to
move like a razor over
my constricting throat

I don’t have a means to an end, just instinct and a blend of honey and lemon that makes every touch sting. There’s beautiful footage of little trapped butterflies with their wings beating with rage and how they turn into talons and I think they’re actually me. That bitter internal diatribe that rakes your soul with ink and leaves your verses all strewn about.

this world, a pastiche
black and white, tiled
in various gray shades
of sharp shadows, cast
over dappled heartscar

The lack of definition is planted squarely between pink sunsets and death. I’ve developed a reputation for being dangerous and loving so hard I break ribs. I’m dwindling and holy and digging my own grave to escape my fire destiny. But if you come around and make me feel beautiful again I will show you blazing galaxies and soft scorched centers you could never imagine.

your geometrical shape
of rigged lines, rough
angles against my haze
of incongruent emotion
in devotion and design

EC makes beautiful poetry as naturally as the sun shines.