Scorpion"Show me your bones."the atlas of her thighs quakedas she misplaced her skinin the backseat of his car."I'm a scorpion, you know-"a messy promisefolded napkin-neat."Prove it."& she smirked,sure of her limbs,her scars, & her teeth."I dare you to stake claim to this clavicle."
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?
ConstellationShe is dream dust,too bitter or wisefor her own good.A timeless dragon's soulsomewhere inside ascaled shell, burningthe silence in her bonesalive, honeysuckle sweet.She collects fireflies only toset them free at 3am,crying to an uncaring moon.& she's begging for the starsto take her away,make this house a homerigged in the sky.To me,She is already naked feverswimming through the cosmos& I orbit her.
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.
BloodI've got a filthy mouth,& a house of starsthriving in my throat.21 yearssilent& I still have yet to tamethis grounded constellationI call my temple. -Slitheringtongue hissing too many"fuck you's" against my teeth.I fear I will write myself hollow-or until my bones are corroded away& I am nothing-an insignificant nebulaorbiting the wrong atmosphere.But, my veins bleed sweet ichor,& words are only words, Mother.
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."
Post MortemI am a walking, talking universe of dead poetswho tattoo their stanzas into my fleshwith ghostly, typewriter fingers.I live and breathe their worldly disasterslike a nicotine addiction I've never had.Drowning in their scribblesI kiss their shoreline romances,envy their Annabel Lee's,& carry their hearts in my heart.I am 7am coffee on Sunday mornings:a half drunk, hungover limerickwaiting to happen.I am jealousy:nothing more than weak words,& a tongue-tied cliche-but death becomes me.
NaPoWriMo: Day 8I was toldto slice through the thickestof scar tissue this evening.Let all my inner demonsfall to the floor& write them outin my own black blood.It’s not red anymore,even though needles& the bruiseslaid out like war-landson my armssay otherwise.I don’t think it ever was,honestly.Therapeutic,they said.My mind is a messof free versed insecurities,cat’s eye marbles,& untamed forest fires-but,I still don’t have the nerveto slice open my skin& bleed for her.
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.)
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.
GravityGravity,Autumn wanted to learnhow tofall.So, the galaxy of dead treescoiling in your lungsdevoured her spine.Your gifts,a lifeline wrapped aroundher neck like a noose;an orange and redassisted suicide.& you said "God bless yourheart." like some divinehigher power could forgiveher for loving you.-dp
NaPoWriMo: Day 10 Have you ever been so cold, Sweetheart, your knees q u a k e d like that Jenga piece that buckled just before your whole foundation t o p p l e d over? I have. & no matter how many times I've restarted your heart, one would think I'd grow tired, eventually; I'm still writing you in poetry (in the most inappropriate of places.) You forced yourself beneath my blades & my fingertips, Licking unstable knees, you were death on my tongue: angry apricot eyes, unforgivable sin scaring my limbs & haunting my dreams.Cardiac arrest & I'd still try to save your fucking life.
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.
Her Musethese words are not poetryswimming liquid fire through ashesof dead phoenix veins.no, they are rough and callusedwith over use, their own faithless artistsspewing black tar from their lungsin the hopes to one day breathe again.nothing moves her.she would rather scribble her heart outon physical manifestations of her own reality-on skin and bones she worships like a temple. "Write of me," he says, "right here."- planting sun-stricken kisses along the hollow of her burning throat."I want to be where your heart sleeps."
Stephanie -Collab(I wrote us in free verse over every inch of your tattered surface ).you were the beatific grinof a kindergartener high off oxygen,mouth stretched wide as the entrance to hell,black tongue bleeding virtuous sin like ichor.(You taught me praying was for the weak as I fell for your gypsum nails, white teeth scrabbling over my chalkboard frame). scribbled flesh tells no love storybut three layers of skinworn thin along the length of our feverish bones.(Garden flowers tucked away worms and dirt, my ribs hoarded misspellings of my mother's name).dipping your origami limbs into my ink,you lost yourself within the dark tanglesof my labyrinth roo
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?
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."
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.
UndeservedI don't deserve to be an artist.
I don't know how to hold deep meaningful conversations with strangers.
I don't lament at night about a lover I have lost.
I don't watch the white smoke ebb into darkness.
I don't spend lonely nights admiring the true beauty of the world.
I don't sleep restlessly from the truth of suffering within this world.
I don't lie through my smiles or struggle to create them.But I do think I am a writer.
I am completely, irreparably damaged.
I cry all night over old words and emotional baggage.
I weep over my lost innocence.
I spend nights wishing for skin against my own
I long for insomnia to inspire me.
I beg for worlds to collide so I can breathe.So am I writer really?
Or just another misguided artist?
Don't Let GoRestrained by insecurity, she is hard to love.Her heart however, hides a passion unknown.An unforeseen utopia, and still so much more.The problem, huge hearts make easy targets.The strategy is simple though, easy to learn.Follow this formula and you'll find your forever.Hold her tight through all of the happy times,and the fighting and the anger, don't let go.If you feel her falling take her hand in yours.When you feel like she is letting go, catch her.Protect her with your arms when she is scared.When she is sad, especially then, don't let go.Don't let her walk away, even if she wants to.Bravery is an act, nobody wants to be alone.It will take work, but the reward is her heart.And she will treasure you, but don't ever let go.
Six lessons on love.One. Sometimes love will move so slowlyyou will stop waiting for its arrival. You will become anopen bar and you will be drained and drained until oneday you open the door to let last night out and love hasleft a calling card on the doormat.Be patient. Let love come to you piece by pieceuntil you are full to the brim with it.Two. Some days it will feellike love has come for you with a wildfireat its heels. Let it come; you weremeant to burn brighter than any sun orstar we care to name.Three. Growing back after burning downis a sign to leave old loves behind. Let themgo kindly. Wrap them up in tissue paper andribbon and give them a kiss goodbye. Be gentle butfirm.Do not use maybe. Do not look back.Four. Love can hurt and you will let itbecause you are in love. It will spit venom andthrow fists until you stand up and throwsomething back.Be strong, letting love go is notweakness.Five. Love will sometimes be too much.It will let y
You call it Judgement, We call it SinEmily needs the words to understand that she isn't being unreasonable. She just wants them to mean something and not be a string of words which flows into itself over and over again.She doesn't like her name either. Not because Emily isn't a pretty name but because she would rather be called something she feels like. (She has never quite forgiven her parents for choosing her name for her.) If she could, she would call herself Glass, because that is what she wakes up feeling like every morning. As if crystallised pieces of glass are edible and her insides tingle as she swallows them whole.Emily lets the words call her names sometimes. She writes them on her knees so that she can remember them. Sometimes the words call her a whore, and sometimes stupid, and sometimes a loser and sometimes a tramp (She has never learnt that loving too much is a crime and boys with pretty eyes sometimes lie.). She sits in the bathroom with a pen the colour of blood and writes them carefully
PersephoneI fed herpomegranate kissesand she criedat every frozen sunrisefor 180 days.With cracks in my heartand soulscaught in my hairI counted 180 more.
Sundropo n some days I watch you rise and ragewith a new yearfirework fervour–untamed and glorious,pulling the years togetherwith a snap of your fingers.but some days you are languid,stretching like the summer dustingof freckles along your forearms, theslumberous strands of hair shutteringyour sky-eyes from the morning light.on these days, I think the earth spinsslower and the birds sing a littlequieter. on these days, I lookat you and I think:sundrop.
Almost Perfectthe sun is melting away,we call it romantic whenall good things die quietly;I feel like I’m always transitioningthrough different levels of sobriety:spent up on the people in my lifelike the girl who doesn’t remembermy name and the boy who thoughtI was joking.(I will care for myself, andthen the world will stop andspin in the right direction;the mirror will blur andI will finally see me,unfiltered and beautiful)I just want to believethat somewhere there’s a boyready to sing my bleeding earsto sleepwith a cinnamon voice, hewill tell me I couldn’tpossibly be human: somethingotherworldly, a moonmaid withstarry eyes come to makereality surrealand it would be almost perfect,floating in that jagged gap wheredevotion seems to breed andwhere I could finally sleep,untouched and sober.
The FallingThe FallingUpon malodorous rapture of orphaned darkness,eternal melancholy becomes twisted and hollowIn the severed reflections of sanguine shadows,we will drown in ruby tears of pain and sorrowWhispers of odium seep gently into my dreams...The Raven lingers in solemn clouds dark as coalMy blood surges like a chorus of bitter requiemAnd my lips the anathema of your dying soulDark lust hums like a cold tide of weeping voicesPerfumed in ash & bone, hallucinations imbue Blood soaked robes hang from my slender bride,shimmering like scarlet threads under ebon skiesAfter sable petals fall upon my beloved's grave,there will dwell but ravaged winds of lonely criesO' Witch of mine, dark'n dreary, forsake me notIn a sombre kiss, veiled in falls of ambient pitch,we drift into the renaissance of the Falling...ever dreaming and bathing in the poetry of deathIn the web of mortality demons haunt & undress,Deep in the gloaming, I beseech thy last breathMy thirst seeth
Parents In A Nutshell"Can we-""Nope""But I-""Nope."
I could make a list,but I merely bit my lip when she asked me,"What is it you're thankful for?"How could I tell herI was thankful for this heartthat beats a thousand times overwhen I hear her speak?