Nikita (July 2017)

I felt this delicious playfulness as I left you. 

The moon tickled me somehow. 

Your white satin shoulder. 

That childish feeling one gets when watching Baron Munchausen woo a bodiless giant lunar goddess or Gene Wilder's Wonka finally realizing that Charlie is a good boy. 

A sparkly champagne nose tickle that might as well be fairy kisses. 

Highway lampposts echo brighter yet softer. 

The heat at my back is reminding me that you love me and want to ease my pain. 

I remember I can do this. 

I am she. Jessica. She-Jessicah. 

I think less of I. 

My heart and all its arteries are played like smoking violin strings until the contortion into reality stretches toward the vast pain of others. 

Yet not hopelessly dismayed,

Rather intensely capable of making a difference. 

waiting for flowers

it's all i can think about
like taking my breath away, clenching my diaphragm, digging my nails into my palms
thinking about it
each scenario flows into the next
reality and fantasy swarm like a funneling dust devil that drives you from 2nd base.
i want what i can't have
and in my stronger moments assume that trivializing it as such easily names this feeling
comfort in cliche
but then complexity pushes my platitudes aside
what if
why not
why now
how much of this can i manage
how close to the edge do i dare
what choice do i have
the thought of it pursues me
what is it really
it is novel
like i've never fucking been here before
i risk everything to turn it aside
i risk everything to turn everything else aside and fall into it
it feels cowardly not to grab at what my heart wants
it feels cowardly to indulge in a potentially fleeting appetite
it's pumpkin time
my life is
my choices make me what
the choices are not as pressing as the way we live with them
does that hold
am i moralizing
perhaps it is a question of restructuring my life with intention
if my life keeps leaning toward this kind of longing
then it becomes of question of preserving the things i love
by introducing new boundaries that permit the things i desire
lest resentment take root, nay root deeper
i have already compromised
in the repressive reflex shame instills
right now, however
it's all i want
i waist an afternoon waiting for flowers
i hope, for my sake, they never come

an aroma: putrid, if not earthen
emitting bubbles and it slurps the dead
and the living between the dialogue
listening to the metamorphosis
its fragrant movement
noting, the alchemist observes
as the prima materia boiling
the cauldron ignites beneath
flame: blue, the fierce of fate
with a match, I strike in part
only exhaled, painful inhale,
a reluctant plying with consciousness
recovered apnea breath sipping shallow
each day again
with them I die
time of infinite pulse by the elements
to return a decomposing soul
for an oubliette made rather flame
awaiting vessel
a cold, dark in the unturned, left memory
shadowy in molding lichen musky chaos
to syncopated rhythm

You occupy peeling paint shadows
in the corners of my mind
bent by sills collecting the sacred dust
of secrets long since held and forgotten
lighted by bourbon soaked lamps
of black iron and thick, hexagonal glass issuing
amber light through a small, antique window
held open by the flashlight we brought
to let in the rare, gracious breeze
carrying the song of an historic street.
We press into each dark promise,
the heat of night unforgiving
like the choice we make;
raucous waves of voices raised in transcendent praise
thankful for the night they will soon forget
to Dionysus they clamor
and their worship covers our indulgence
at her altar.
We do not choose our calamity,
but join in the song that was ever sung of us:
somewhere a trumpet
then a horn takes its place
soon the stomping gives us rhythm;
we pause into into into far into the eyes of the other
deeper we scope where we dared not before
lest we, brought to this temptation, fall hungry,
but having embraced the inevitable we plunge.
Another corner of your mouth invites mine.
You whisper words from 100 years ago:
If I knew that this would be the last time I would hear your voice,
I would take hold of each word to be able to hear it over and over again.
Then words brand into my neck with each hot breath,
new words never before spoken or repeated,
the glass house forsaken.
Your well-worn fingers are nimble and sure
never misplaced, ever finding their aim
an exploration long since rehearsed, though never on flesh.
You reach for dark corners tucked under tapered cotton
and find each crevice conforms to your touch.
A shriek of drunken laughter sings the descant of my moan.
This room is ours;
the wooden floor swells and squeaks as we spin
against the gray wall taking turns to carve the feast,
when the light catches your eyes my hungry heart pauses
taking you in and
exhales the free sigh of an impulse foretold,
now fulfilled.
To resist was then.
My bare foot finds a low, heavy chair
long since draped with white southern linen
over a lonely chaise in a forsaken room,
it holds my weight as I fold into yours.
We amuse the ghosts with our vibrant pulse
burning out what was left of our sustenance;
nothing pleases the dead more than
the foolishness of the living
for they covet our capriciousness
as they regret the risks they forsook.
I hear my name on your lips and am reborn
Cassiopeia
Cybol
Callisto
your hands forget their gentleness
and press into my shoulder pulling and pushing
my gaze further still,
the smell of liquor on your breath
fogs the look in your eyes I may never know
at the moment you release your soul to my domain,
I remember my promises, though some ought be called cowardice,
and see the world before me as it ever was
without you.

10JUNE14.15:11

billboards with photographs of people living lives that don't exist
set in staged rooms by crews of people you never see
are specters, ghosts
there's nothing real about them
ive no human connection to them
and they could be dead
perpetually living
but theyre not living truth
theyre not living anything real
theyre selling something
but theyre ghosts
which mean people who covet the lives falsified on these bilboards
would rather be dead

which means everyones afraid of their own life
somehow detached
theyd rather have their existence affirmed by what they're supposed
to be living
and wanting
and made happy by
and buying
to justify their existence
to nullify the question
to dull the pain
theyre walking around barely fitting in o
somebody elses
life that they want
some celebrity
some picture of happiness
some escape from the angst

feeling less individual on purpose
escaping the very truth of their existence
that they are in fact unique
in order to blur and blend and disappear
so that they can feel more vital
i mean it's fucking tragic
like the woman walking past me now
in pants she never shouldve purchased
because some fucking woman told her that they made her look pretty
when it was just a pretty woman wearing ugly pants
and an ugly woman wearing ugly pants is

tragic and then there are the individuals
that express themselves with oddity
clustered together with other oddities
maybe they feel a little less alone
because they know how lonely they are
they dont have to lie to themselves all day
i don't know

maybe im just feeling dark and cynical because we're fighting again
because were believing something about each other that may or may not be true
or were doubting something about each other that may or may not be true

he believes that i intentionally emasculate him
and i believe he intentionally controls me
when in reality
my biggest fear is being controlled
and apparently his biggest fear is being emasculated
so we protect it
we guard it from the people that love us
that have the deepest most intimate access
to our vulnerability and our fear
and the price of living that near to another person
is that you blame them
for the fears youve been carrying around with you your whole life
and you cough up all this evidence
all these
minute
hour
day
month
year
decade
proofs
that we use the fears of the ones we love
to protect the fears that most haunt us
in our own souls
and i think thats the reason for the roller coaster
that were up and down all the time
because its bliss living so near another human
when you can trust that human
when you can trust yourself
and your boundaries
and your reasons
and your goals
and your hopes

and we made a beautiful child
and shes going to inherit all of our bullshit
and maybe do it a little better
and thats all we get to wish for her
and tell ourselves that in all our failings and
all the moments we let slide by
all the plans we make that fail
all the hiding of contempt that she sees anyway
all the intention
all the pressure
all the pride
you just hope you love her well enough
to endure it
to grow beyond it
to evolve
to make something more of our genetic encoding
our predetermined-ness and
so i go to work
and im thankful
that i don't want
what theyre selling

Forget Your People

All your robes are fragrant with myrrh and aloes and cassia;
from palaces adorned with ivory
the music of the strings makes you glad.
Daughters of kings are among your honored women;
at your right hand is the royal bride in gold of Ophir.

Listen, O daughter, consider and give ear:
Forget your people and your father's house.
The king is enthralled by your beauty;
honor him, for he is your lord.
The Daughter of Tyre will come with a gift,
men of wealth will seek your favor.

All glorious is the princess within her chamber;
her gown is interwoven with gold.
In embroidered garments she is led to the king;
her virgin companions follow her and are brought to you.
They are led in with joy and gladness;
they enter the palace of the king.

Your sons will take the place of your fathers;
you will make them princes throughout the land.
I will perpetuate your memory through all generations;
therefore the nations will praise you for ever and ever.
Psalm 45.8-17

Depression Soup

Start with a pot that has a hole in the bottom
Throw it on an erratic flame
Controlled by the fickle fates.
Build your base with ample tears
Add salt to taste.
If you spill the salt,
Better to rub it into your wounds
Than to throw it over your shoulder;
Luck is no lady tonight.
Chop up your hopes and dreams
Toss them in the air and pray
They find their way.
Open the door to your heart
And take a long, cruel stare at what remains:
The selfish savor of old pain,
Sweet kisses gone dry on your cheek,
Bone-in memory with dulled fatty forgetfulness,
Dumplings of broken promises your mother made for you
Abandoned peels of overripe resentment your father left.
In a depressions soup, it all goes in the pot.
The flavor is of your own making, no matter who you blame.
It will never sustain you
Or feed those you love.
But still, you must drink it.
If it starts to get dry, just cry.

Becoming

I finger your soul
Until you come to your self.
Sex is always better with a mirror.

why not

fuck it
fuck the cock tease
fuck good intentions
fuck a well meaning stab in the back
fuck expectation and dissappointment
fuck looking and not seeing
fuck hurting the ones closest to you
fuck using a day
fuck wasting a day
fuck the game
fuck waiting for others to change
fuck waiting for my life to change
like some two minute montage
where the fat girl gets skinny
the sad girl gets a job
and the angry girl finds her heart
fuck repression
fuck self-pity
fuck you pain
fuck death
fuck fear of the dark
fuck inspiration

Burn

Flames never fail to entrance me
erratic unpredictable dangerous
I find my head lilting and swerving
in a hypnotic dance with an elemental form,
it beckons you and me:
I dare you to touch it.
I can hold my hand over the lighter longer.
A whispering chilly breath
pulls swiftly through my teeth
cooling the heat in my throat
as my jaw tightens in ecstatic pain.
But we shouldn't.
And so we hover as close as our flesh will allow
sad hidden repressed longing
in a beautiful neglected emerging frame.
I wipe my hands along my hips to dry them again.

We offer reassurances:
I won't let you hurt yourself
well, nothing permanent anyway.
We all have our burns,
the minor ones never scar
and though the major ones do
they come with magnificent stories,
stories around the fire
epic tellings of those who choose to prove life
by risking its very soul
to feel alive amidst all this death.

To say: you cannot yet burn me
in your two dollar coffin until only mingled ashes remain
and bone remnants yet to be pulverized.
You do not ask me if I carry batteries
heart monitors beneath my sunken flesh for fear
that the grey waste will not return to the surviving
inside its plastic bag with a twist tie
inside its minimal black plastic box
inside the allotted five to ten business days.

Death is not like it is in the movies, they say.
Nor love.
That doesn't keep us from craving a ritual:
a physical representation of what the fuck we're supposed to do
when we lose what we love
and can't taste what we crave.

Where is my resurrection?
Fill my well with living water
for I have dug and dug deep,
let me feel that cool sweet wine
flowing down, down in through the aqueducts of my imagining.
I want to burn and be quenched.

Lucidity

Lucid dreams high on goodbye
And what comes next.
What comes next?
More grey hazy mornings alone
In the possibility of the day,
Evergreens refolding their inception
Until the looming inevitable at last
Collapses into a crushing shelter
Wounding the begrudging sparrow?

Feed me with ravens and keep the lions
From the mouth of the cave of forgetting.
Pour your seed into my mouth
Belittle me with your grandeur
And call me your own;
Else each new pleasure tempting me away
From each expanding sorrow
Will find its way into my morning dreams
As I watch him silently open and close the door.

Finishing

When time and will and inspiration align
Work becomes play,
But such a union rarely arises
And so work becomes fear,
Overwhelming and imperfect;
I am left waiting.
With idle hands and toxic adrenaline.
If, however, as I wait I fill the work
That has fallen out of time
Beyond my reach
With all the hopes of my inspiration,
Perhaps hope will beckon my will
And I will play in the sun once more.

Shamanic Journey

I began in the water. The Salish Sea. The prize presented to me by my knights. The still, salty water bathed me in its cooling embrace. Baptized in the abyss of darkness, yet safe. Safe as I had not known it in so long. So long since I sat cradled in my mother's womb. So long since the black veil meant peace.

And so I journeyed from the water to the path that invited me into its mystery. I walked, wanting to run as the unknown turn of its curves beckoned: Trust us. And I did. More, I cried to them. Take me further into your hiding. That night I had seen her. A face of light consuming the trail. Her eyes let in the darkness, her mouth opening. I remembered her light and then I was home.

I was standing at the base of the stairs, looking out at the lawn and the cacti and the aloe. I turned to my left to see the rose garden. The Sterling Tea rose I bought her was in full bloom. Full of the fragrance of the day. It was day. But what day? I mark my time now, by her presence and her absence. Which day was this?

I shifted my posture and so my gaze to look up the steps toward the door. That place where she stood. Always, that place where she waited for me. Whether in hello or goodbye, I could turn and see her there. The way she opened her arms to me as I looked up, I knew, this was hello.

I knew that place my face would find her neck. I knew those hands that rubbed up my back coaxing that one exhale from me that means, I'm home. I'm safe. I'm in her arms for as long as I want to be. We've been waiting for you for so long, she said smiling that wait-till-you-see-what-I-have-for-you smile.

And so, she guided me through the front door, her hand gently urging at the small of my back. I recognized the living room, but the walls faded. I was outside before I left the house. And there, in a large circle where these women. So many women. And a drum. I began to hear the drum. Kestrel, I thought: Help me to flit about this scene, above and below. Make me small and tall and quick of wing.

The center of the circle let fly a Kestrel who flew due north away from me. I looked again at the center. It wasn't fire. It wasn't water. I couldn't quite make it out... It's okay, came floating toward me. The wind carried whispers and falcon cries and the drum. Women began to touch me and shed my clothing. They wiped at me with muddy hands and colored fingers. They painted me, face and body. The laughed and held me. I want to see her again.

The drum. I look. She's playing the drum. Naked and swollen, swaying and pounding. I have never seen her play a drum. Look at what she can do. Dance took the floor. Women stomped in a circle over circles and creating circles. They sprinkled ash in front of their swiveling feet and pressed it down to mark a grey hoop. A circle made perfect by their connection, by their dance and with me at its center. By the ash of their mortal remains.

She left early, knowing you would follow her here. It will get easier, whispers. You will see us more clearly the more you return. As you return, as you learn the dance, you will become even more present on Earth. It is time to grow. It is time to journey and learn and move about in your life. It was just enough medicine. Just enough for a neophyte. It was a dance in the Oak Grove that watched my mother die as they watch me even now, come back to life.

The Brave Fool

You're my memory

My past

Failure pulls at me

Sharply, and with absolute force:

It is the goad at my heel

The bit in my mouth

I clench and gnash

My jaw, aching, swollen and mangled

I'm held in place, paralyzed

Whilst a tidal wave advances at my back.

Judgement holds my tongue.

I remember all the times before

The passion of the new, quickly met

By the heartache of

Defeat

I cannot summon a contradiction

To testify in my defense

The sins of my fathers, for which

I am held to account.

We have always dreamed and failed

Seen far and held in squalor

Envisioned the thrones of kings

Only to be left alone,

Facing our regret.

Having despised the life we were given

Uncompromising, distant and without hope,

Or too much of it.

At the first spark of intention

Your flame envelops my becoming.;

I am, as I always was.

I will, for we always do.

You would comfort me with wise words

Of precaution:

Did I not keep you from the inevitable angst of loss?

You cajole.

Did I not keep you from forgetting your true self?

You kept me.

And so I am held.

Victim to myself

I cannot lose what i do not risk

Nor can I gain.

Ah, Sophia

Turn your head from my capricious imaginings

Cover your eyes, if you must

As I wander, unarmed into the

Unknowable

But do not stray far from my side

I will need you before the night is over.

I must be foolish now,

Leap into the absurd

I will most assuredly fail

I will lie humiliated before all

I will beg the hands of a hundred starving children

To raise me from my sinking bower.

If death is sure

Why not partake from the rush of youth

Glittering and sparkling in the new sun.

7 Weeks

lost.

6 Weeks

Tidal ebb and flow does not obey my whims,
Not of the great seas, nor of my draining womb.

Pangs of suffering do not ease at my song,
Not of the inumerable oppressed, nor of my straining flesh.

Peaceful surrender does not fall as I whisper,
Not upon the brutality of man, nor upon my fretting heart.

Time's presence and passage does not keep pace with my desire,
Not for the earth's rotation, nor for my yearning impatience.

I cannot summon the moon;
I cannot heal the poor;
I cannot calm the storms;
I cannot speed life on her way.

Though powerless, I bring forth life;
Though broken, you mend my many woes
with
one
quiet
steady
heartbeat.

If only

As another year hastens to a close, I find myself still sinking into the couch, still hoping for health, still pondering the big question: life, the universe and everything. Since I'm not feeling particularly melancholic tonight, but rather easy (thank you codeine cough syrup with a green tea and honey chaser) and inspired (thank you Tony Bordain, my favorite loquacious, traveling lush). So, I'm not interested in deep meaning, but rather a list - clean and simple.

Following is a list, in no particular order of that which I truly long to do at some point in the short time I'm allotted:

Sommelier Certification
The love of wine requires no explanation. However, this particular pursuit might lead to a command of regional distinctions between each blessed grape, getting to use words like terroire without attracting dirty looks, and perhaps most importantly, increased consumer confidence when facing the interminable pursuit for the perfect $5 bottle of Pinot Noir.

Falconer License
After 7 years of study and hard work, I could either be an MD or a falconer. Other than my quiet love of birds and increasing desire to hunt, I find myself longing to beckon a falcon with a slab of sweaty raw meat in my grip for an entirely different reason: they're so goddamn beautiful. The Peregrine Falcon with its be-speckled chest tufted proudly in the waning sun as it clenches and releases my leather glove, lovingly clawing me with its fierce talons... this is a moment I must know.

Publish a Book
Okay, I'll settle for finishing a book. I'm not particular about the genre. I just want to stare down the blank white page that has intimidated me for as long as I can remember, and with a decisive stroke write, "The End."

Study at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris
It's my intention to grow as a cook with each new meal. This is one of the few pleasures that isn't tainted with the nagging necessity to turn talent into a career. I know that kitchen work isn't my cup of tea. However, I also know that food isn't quite done with me yet. We have a love affair that can only be truly consummated in Paris.

Act in Musical Theatre
Though my theatrical resume begins with "chorus member in Annie" at the age of 12 and ends with "chorus member in the Music Man" at the age of 14, my love for musicals remains fierce and true. I'm not looking for a lead on Broadway. But, perhaps a supporting, yet striking role in a humble but dedicated public theatre. You know: Mrs. Hannigan, Rizzo, um... Adelaide.

See Europe
Perhaps the most vague and ambitious aspiration on the list, and yet such is Europe to me. Other than some stolen glances out of the sky high windows of Charles de Gaul, my exposure to that fair continent comes only through Jane Austen, Albert Camus, Mmes. Bronte, and an ever expanding list of foreign cinema. I refuse to let Ethan Hawke's dialogue with that blonde Frenchie on a train through their youth act as the only mediator between me and Venice, Nice, London, St. Petersburg, Barcelona, Dublin, and of course, Paris.

That'll do for now. There are, of course, many more. I have sighed all my sighs for the evening. My insatiable longing for the richness of a romantic life is quite exhausting. Although, I have just this moment remembered one more...

Drink Peyote on a Reservation
I want to have a vision quest. I want to find my soul's mate in an animal. I want to have my hair braided by a gray streaked elder with leathery, pruning fingers. I want to taste freedom and breathe color.

Oh yeah... and I want to Own a Horse of my very own.

regret

when the strain of too damn much erupts
my clammy palms stretch the skin at my temples
reeling back the piercing ache that threatens to overtake me.
can a brain swell from the stress of unfinished business?
like keeping pressure on a wound, all slippery and pulsing,
my hands constrict and push, fumbling desperately at a broken dam;
a life awash in worry, wasting away in the wonder of what should have been,
too preoccupied to entertain the what if.
hope is a commodity too valuable for the angst of regret.

It's the Birthday of Ernest Hemingway

It's the birthday of Ernest Hemingway, (books by this author) born in Oak Park, Illinois (1899). He was just 22 when he moved to Paris with his wife, Hadley, having taken a job as a foreign correspondent for the Toronto Daily Star. Even though he was making decent money, he liked the idea of living like a bohemian, so they moved into an apartment in the Latin Quarter, in a neighborhood full of drunks, beggars, and street musicians. Rent was 250 francs a month, or about $18, which left them plenty of money to travel around Europe when they wanted to.

He rented himself a room in a hotel, and every morning, after breakfast, he would walk to his writing room and work. He said: "I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, 'Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.'" One of those sentences read, "I have stood on the crowded back platform of a seven o'clock … bus as it lurched along the wet lamp lit street while men who were going home to supper never looked up from their newspapers as we passed Notre Dame grey and dripping in the rain." ~ courtesy of the Writer's Almanac.

It's also the birthday of Candace Ruth Morris. Born to Bruce and Mary Whitney amid the desert air of Southern California in 1978, their youngest. In her youth she was often taken to spontaneous singing with a boldness that stemmed from her ardent desire for a true expression of love from her father and yet a sense that she was alone in the world and therefore couldn't possibly embarrass herself. At 24, she married Joel Hansen Morris, the son of a country pastor from Washington state whom she met at a rural Bible College in Northern California. Though she was initially fraught from wooing him, he would soon recompense this romantic redress with a lifelong tenderness and passion that would restore the young woman's heart bit by bit and evermore.

Perhaps it was the shameless consumption of Syliva Plath or the classical literary training that would inevitably find it's way to the page, but regardless of its origin, one day the world was given "Musings of a Melancholic." Within its web pages, Candace created a blog of soulish beauty. Whether she is featuring her brilliant photography, praising her husband (aka. The Saint), or recounting the painful, yet profound steps of a woman who manages to care deeply for others without losing herself, through this blog the world is granted passage into daily life through the mesmerizing turquoise of her watery eyes.

From there we found "Booklings" (a foreshadowing of the Bookish Wine Bar we are promised), "Pretty, Please" (An altar to coveting aestheticism) and "Secret Snob" (The shameless confessions of a faux-hemeian with a trained palate). Her words are a compass, a weather vane, the wooden mermaid carved into the hull of an ancient vessel retaining the remnants of a sea-stained teal paint all the more beautiful for the patina it has earned from each passing voyage.

Much is still to come from Candace Morris. She has tried her hand at waitressing, teaching high school English, executive assistance, and even home-making. Motherhood, I am sure, is soon to come. One thing is for sure, however, in whatever path she takes, her words will endure. To the world, she will be the sage that awes and edifies them. To me, she will be nothing more or less than the dearest friend I have ever known.

Hollow Chocolate Bunny

There it is,
The kingpin of the Easter basket.
Those happy hyperbolized eyes,
The pastel suspenders and that toothy grin.
It's floating in a sea of mommy-loves-me Easter grass,
Which is made of some mysterious and unnaturally green material.

Once you peel that metallic pink and green wrapper
Into little strips as you delicately move around
Its fragile ears and little bunny toes
Making sure to keep it all in one piece
You sit back from your wicker treasure chest
And admire the work of your deft fingers.

Soon, your body temperature begins to melt the chocolate,
So you bring your thumb, now marked with brown goo
Up to your welcoming, parted lips.
It occurs to you that this bunny does not have long to live
In such a warm and hostile environment.
So, you bite the ear.

I'm sure there's a chocolate bunny factory secret
As to why the ear is the most solid part of the bunny,
Which is probably we always start there.
It also seems less cruel, I mean
Who goes for the foot first?
To dive right into the torso is serial killer material.

But, the ear is a farce.
You go a little further and take on the head
Opening your mouth wide for this big, chocolaty bite,
And then, crumble, fumble, spill and stain.
Chocolate pieces fall everywhere and all you're left with
Is a mediocre mouthful of waxy preservatives.

Determined that Harvey won't let you down,
I'm not sure why I think they're all named Harvey,
You start to lick up the pieces in your hand
And then, head into the shoulder.
The back of your throat starts to tickle
With the mounting levels of sugar your ingesting.

Is this worth it?
Your hand is now brown and Harvey is bending.
The once splendid creature inviting you into childhood
Is now a big brown mess that you can't put down.
After all, there isn't a foil piece big enough.
You start to survey the other tasty treats that await you.

So, you get up chuck Harvey on a paper towel in the kitchen,
Promising to come back for him later.
Soon you forget your Easter hero
With malted mini-eggs, marshmallow eggs, Cadbury eggs, jelly beans,
And Peeps, although I prefer my Peeps the next day,
A little stale.

As for Harvey, he disappears sometime during your sugar coma.
Perhaps mom decided to throw him out,
Maybe your little brother finished him off,
Or maybe he just couldn't take it anymore
And hobbled off with his stubby feet and one remaining arm
Still neatly nestled in his pocket.

I'm a chocolate bunny.
I look appealing, you might even come to me first,
But as my colors fade and my confidence melts
All that's left is a facade of strength
When in fact, I couldn't lift the box I came in
Without it crushing my fragile, hollow frame.