O.I. poem #2

there is a woman whose spirit is paper thin on this phone
the plum of her lips is hugged dry, chapped
death is inching at her god and the "i cant do this anymore"s
linger in the air like an awkward silence gathered humid thick
she is a novel beauty struggle story living where life is an absent-minded gift
a miracle is fucking wild in her blood,
torturous insane magic murmuring in her needle plucked veins
and she should die the way life dealt with her
like this, like some victim.

Where the hell are these angels
conjuring these mornings she lives to see,
who are these cosmic forces pinching at her skin?

Her heart is yelling at me a deep shade of blueberry blows
and i feel the confusion stretching in her shoulders
window broken self-esteem,
can hear the deriving tear yawning on her cheek
her hands are gutter, drain spouts
I wish I knew how to hold a home this broken, together.

This woman is where I curb my face, the only coiling power person
that can bend my shape, so backward, so straight.
I am sudden struck affected at the soft sheer peel of her words
and it will always be so, no matter the lift or draft.

This woman on the phone is my mystery flaw, my compliment beauty mark.
I know the tender “I will do whatever it takes for you” love of her being,
still staring into the brown of my no good father’s shaped eyes.

A woman that owns her heartbreak and raises its child,
Is an all too strong spine of a life
I wish there were words I could offer this woman
beautifully disastrous as her love
in these splitting fragile moments,
each billow of her pain hovering in my chest like a celestial ohm.