Hate-Ku

I'm made of murder,
black greasy evil sleaze,
but found salvation.

You end your sentences with commas,

You end your sentences with commas,
thoughts hanging fruit unpicked - waiting.
Whisper, or mumble, I can't hear,
head inclined, sweat-soaked hands
clinched fists against my hips.
What is this?
Do you require a response?
Some decision to pick your
low-hanging thoughts?
You gaze past faces and walls
to somewhere far, far beyond,
and I wonder what potential future you see.
And does it include an actual me?
Or just a decal you keep around
at least until you tear the living room wall down.

forgiver

i see everything,
looks lingering on hips,
soft seperation of sticky coffee lips,
i see the extra beat per minute
i see the worn molars.

and in a look, a thought, a whisper
you're hung; taught rope brought out
but i can forgive you
if you want me to

i see everything,
green looks on jewelery
planted seeds of disease sprouting
i see the poison ivy vines.
i see the bitten nails.

and in a look, a thought, a whisper
you're hung; taught rope brought out
but i can fortive you
if you want me to

do you?