fly.this is hard for the world around us to grasp:these wildfires raging in our retinas& the sins we wear like demonic simileson our tongues- they are not enough.& i am so fucking sorry of saying i'm sorry.but, tell me,what is a young poet(ess) to dowith veins made of kite strings?
Bone child,this December's winterhas your ribs cocooned withmine. & this wander(lust) heartwill sustain warmth for the both of us.
Collection of poetic nothings.We were opal Tuesdays,mosaic butterfliestattooed into therose garden curveof my vertebrae,gliding me through this wild youth.But, like Icarus—I was a sky conqueror& these silk wingstouched the sun.-My inhalations are heavy,like the earth he bruisesbeneath his fingertipsas I chase silence."You've got a tonguemade for words." He saysagainst the arrogant thornsof my briar spine."Learn to love yourself."-How do I say I love youwithout saying I love you?"I want to replace my heart with you."-You are spider silk woveninto my harvest moonheartstrings, spiderlimbs traveling this road mapof songbird sin.You are not just in my head now,you are dancing in the lingering starsof my night-witch frame& setting me on fire.-You're not bruised enoughthey said,to write poetry.-Allow these bones to tell your story, Love.
No wander about it, just lust.You were a mid-morning train wreck,the embodiment of poetry.& my clavicles whispered too many nothingsabout your summer storm hands,folding like paper cranesto make wishes upon themselves.wishes are for the weak-stand up,do something about this quaking heart& freezing fingers.Anything.I think I found God then,lurking behind wanderlust eyes.
RepossessionYour words tore into my abdomen like vultures feeding onthe raw emotion their filthy wings stirred up from the dust.My ribs cracked from the blow.But, I think sometimesof how these were the ribsthat should have chased you away from me,quietly wondering how you managed toslither past this cage of bone and fleshto engrave your fingerprints into my marrow.You were sweat & spice & scars-Your eyes,a thunderstorm of black and blue sexjarring and devouring my insides,shaped a faithless religionthrough the cracks & broken shardsof my hollowed out womb.(I want my insides back.)
wet scribbles, tattooed tragedyI am shedding my skinlike the poetry that bleedsfrom your ink-cracked lipsonto the bare bones of myanatomy.Unfold these moon-shy limbsthat chase silence& beg stay-with-me.For you are the only versehidden within this labyrinthof scar-damaged flesh.
Dear Poetry,I might be dangerously on the verge of being poetic, but-Sometimes I don't feel me in my own skin.I am too many breaks between pulses,& a heart still living in the autumn of 99.I'm telling stories about a girl.A soul made of ink & godly metaphors,too much for a non-homeostatic body.There were once fireflies in her smile,alight between the gaps in her teeth.A rebel,love letters carved into wristsshe never sent.Poetry,She is Porphyria, & you are her lover.
A Gods DebtSutured together by artists,devoured blasphemy-hallowed out, & spit back up,( you are afraid. )Hooks longing for her ribcage embrace;god-hands that can't seem to keep to themselvesgrapple the gargoyle exterior of her deflowered frame.( spread your legs. )Red-inked and trembling,prosetry masked as screamsknots into her anatomy.
I am trying to be honest,but I write so fucking floweryit makes me sick,rose scented stars & love.No.Her: helpless as a lamb,I want raw, achingbone against boneexploring the exposed, nakedpoetry of her universe-( warm, celestial hands forging sandcastle ribs. )Southern earth beneath her feet,wanderlust burned like Apollo's touchinto her spinal cord, please awakenthe empty space between her skin& mine.
astrological.i. On some nights, street lights guide this lonely heart to her lonely bed.ii. In this universe of twilight skin & mismatched bones, I wonder just how many poems sleep beneath the inkwell of her eyes.iii. My body is a house of stars, and her palms are black holes sucking ( me ) into their vortex of nothing.iv. She says, "Please—my moon, please—give these bones a reason to stay." & I am whispering lovelies into the sanctuary of her heartbeats.v. "Goddess temple, sunset eyes, & my windowpane love- Let us eat the stars together."
Sometimes, you enjoyed being blind.Over 1,000 letters have found their wayto the pulsating heart of my wastebasket.Until you.You carried them away saying, "I'll use theseto fill the empty spaces of my universe."You proceeded to tape them to your eyelids,wear them like Augusts leaves along your limbs."I will be your voice and I will sing your words to the trees."Slender spider fingers prancing across my misspelled scrawl.
Sweat, Spice, and ScarsYour eyes,a thunderstorm of black and blue sexjarring and devouring my insides,shaped a faithless religionthrough the cracks & broken shardsof my hollowed out womb.I want my insides back.
WillowYour confessional arms are Willow trees,draping lonely limbs around an empty ink-jar heart. Scars worn down like henna tattoos.A night witch scrawling her incantations on blue moons,rolling her letters into sentences like a curse.But, it is in these coffee eyes you have found a home.
William,If I am nothing but an actoron a stage in this dust townof rose torn bones and washed upstars, why is it that the galaxy sculptedcrescent moons in my palmsache?
Lonely Gods"I wish my body to be a staircaseto heaven." She said, "A conduitof lonely Gods."Swayingpendulum hips, she, shewas made of stardust.- Scars sleepingabove a city of sweet bones, stirringlike sun-stricken scorpions duringhollow painkiller nights,mistaking her redred burnsfor Apollos kisses."Sadly, this body has whispered awaythe last of my secrets."
NaPoWriMo: Day 9More respect for hungry lions, than man's greedy fingers,she really, really doesn’t want to write this poem.As she forgets how to use words (on most days,)relying on curses like casting some witch's spell-with only ten dollars to her name.The oldest daughter:she’s still somewhere in the middle,filed under miscellaneousbecause they had no other way to categorize her.Getting her first gravestone at three-she prayed not to the gods,but to the lily stargazers in her palms.One day she would become a bird, fly south & never come back.She doesn’t want her deathlaid out like a fast-foodrestaurant menu-so, how does she begin to explainthe greenhouse cultivating in her breastbone?
Missing BonesWe spent our nights star gazingon the top of that local bar on 5th street.You said you loved me by night,that no star or moon in any given universecould compare to me; that we were lost warriorssearching for a home within the roots of one another.I believed myself a wandering ghost among the living,searching for missing bones and the warmth of another's grave.You shook me then,kissing me where it hurt most-just to test a theory.You whispered,"Like dead birds,you are not faceless;your rib cage has a meaning."And I believed I loved you thenunderneath the moon and starstipsy on your smile and your wordsand your warmth.Your hands must be the thieveswho stole these thin bones of mine-because, I never wanted you more.
'X' Marks The SpotI am a pirate,a ghost among the sunken shipof your treasure trove heart.Like the last bit of rum in the jug,I enjoy the way 'fuck' rolls off your tongue,as if you invented its meaning.I try to articulate that one syllable,match your way of speech-You've never needed to dress your words-dip them in ink or paint them in poetryupon the exotic map of my sun-kissed curves.I have drowned so many timesin the green sea of your eyesthat I am coughing up seaweed& weak bones.You tell me not to speak-that such words sound dirty on my tonguethat my spine is made for beautyand not for a bounty.But you, you are a plaguelight-years at seaand I am finding the oceanthrough seashells& salty siren lips.
A letter to past loves.Dear Boy number 1,you turned my world upside down,changed green into red and smiles to tears.Who would've thought thatyour teasing and your games wouldplant a fear into my bones, so strong thatI still cannot shake it?Dear Boy number 2,I don't think about you anymorebut I don't think about you any less, either.Your love consumed me andpushed me to the edge of insanity.We were fire one second, ice the next,battle wounds were inflicted just to get a taste of blood.We were right in all the wrong ways, but to you,holding another was second nature.Dear Boy number 3,you only ever touched mein the dark alleys of town,out of sight, but you were neverout of my mind.Your kisses were new and sloppy,and your hands left bruiseson my chilled skin.My friends said you were bad for me, butI fell in love with your eyes of coal.Dear Boy number 4,you are just great. And that's the thing.You are everything I could wish for, butI want someone to
i don't believe in jesusno one celebrates losing virginity like they celebrate losing teeth.i don't get a dollar under my pillow for having sex with my boyfriend.there are no doctors smiling at me when i tell them my cherry has been popped.i am a whore for having premarital sex.i am a tramp for loving someone enough to open my body to them.no one celebrates losing virginity like they celebrate losing teeth - but i slip mine under my pillow anyway, and in the morning when i wake,there is a quarter and a tiny folded note:"you are not a slut."
broken dreams and invisible heartstringsEvery morning,she wakes up to ahollow chest & stormy,red rimmed eyes.It's so easy to be in lovewith being in love;swallowing fake truths& sincere lies.But her heart—it forgot how to smiletwo years ago,because no one can tellthe difference betweenimitations & reality."Please,please find me;I'm lost between the cracks ofdying stars."Desperate to breatheyet wondering how it would feelto drown,she's never belongedin this universe.
Wonder.Do you fear your own death?Is it hard to conceive?Draw in your last breath, then-Your last breath will leave.Isn't it strange to think,That there's a timer above your head?A countdown you can't see,That finishes when you're dead.Don't you ever wonder,What it'll be like when you're gone?I bet the world will keep on spinning.There will be another dawn.But the harsh reality behind it-We're all going to die.There's no reason to try to fight itNot even to question why.It makes me wish that I could have a little more to give,Because I'm not afraid of how I'll die...I'm afraid of how I'llLive...
Losing my BreathIt's 2amand the calling birds are hatching in my heart, I feel it crack and they emerge. Feel them drilling on my ribs, the steady anxious thrum of a flight risk waiting to happen.It's 3am and I can't breathe, memories of you are nesting in my throat and now I can't work around them. It's cutting off the circulation, and my frantic heart tries to keep on.It's 5am and tears scratch their directions into my cheeks, they flounder and meanderand they erode. My skin and soul is scraped down layer by layer to nought.It's 8am and another day is heralded by the angry flutterings in my chest. I try to swallow my pride, dam the tears and crawl through the dark again.Coughing up bloodand inhaling iron filings(The remainder of what used to be my life).
SynesthesiaI fell in love with a pianist's hands.They danced across my skin in minuets, his fingers tripping cadenzas up and down my spine. He brushed sonatas through my hair and across my shoulders, pianissimo. I trembled beneath his trills. The primal, earnest rage of Bach swelled in hot crescendos along my throat, beneath my ribs, guided by his hands --- Mozart, coolly logical, raised goosebumps down my arms --- Chopin soothed the fire and finally calmed my hammering heart.I fell in love with a pianist's hands, listening from the back of the coffee shop while my lungs fought for breath, making wishes until he was gone.
DaleHear me read itThey will not silence the bells for you.The roses will not halt their will to wiltand lilies will disassemble under the earth.They will not dust Frankincense over citiesand trees will not bow down in griefwillingly donating limbs to become tissues.But throats will dry out mid-sentence andblack hankerchiefs will be dubbed into pockets.There will be enough salt to melt the iceembedded around the hearts of old enemies.Old enemies will turn friend once moreand the church will be full, packed with love.The world is unlikely to take a moment's prayer;Earth spins too fast to pause for any of us.But the meagre collection of people you touched(meagréd only by the tear-ridden knowledgethat you would have touched many more in time)Will ache tonight and whisper of your friendship.You were and always will be; loved.
CompleteYou look for comfort in my armswhen all the world intends you harmand seek compassion in my eyeswhen many tongues unfurl their lies take shelter here within my heartwhen others would so quick depart.Such solace sought within my wordsas elsewhere's neither seen nor heard,for in this faithful love of minea true companion you will find.So find your peace within my soul:the other half to make your whole.
An Infinite MomentThere is so much writingand music on ourdeath, our inescapableend.Both soldiersand inmates,we are fightingand we deserve this.It is not somethingto dwell on,or mourn ourselveswith cracked speech.We are here foreach other, asalways-together,together we willpray for rain.
August Lover,I want to wrap myself in your air,hold your secrets between myribcage-embrace & just breathe.