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.
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.
I'm talking myself in circles,I screamed,"There is nothingwrong with me, not a damnthing.”I wanted to believethe big dipper on my armmeant something morethan sun marks & kisses.But, how can I trust wordsthat slip through my teethas easy as breathingwhen this starhas only ever learnedhow to f a l l ?
Sun Child,I am freezing& I am hungryfor fever’s lips-her inky fingerspurginga dry stomach.My body is an ocean,my limbs, but oars.My tongue & teeth,a life raftkeeping this madnessfrom sinking into blue.Offering up 102 degreesof skin;You would thinkI had something to say.
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?
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.
NaPoWriMo: Day 2sometimes,i have thissudden urge to cutmy hair.most of the time,i just wish I were anythingother than me.a rocket ship, a bird-the sweet flavored smokeI promised my girlfriendthese briar patch lungswould not in.hale.instead,i have fallen in lovewith the strangest of things-eyes that intimidategodless boys.the way my scarsplay hide and seekwith her hands. -the love lettersthat start and endwith kissespressed against limbs.i make promisesi know i can not keep.but if i were a liari would say i was tiredof writing to the stars.
Poetry,Poetry,it’s like cultivating a greenhousewith broken fingers.-dp
Hear me howl.Tell me again, Father,I’m the perfect daughter-when all I want to beis the crescent moonsresting like strong soldiersin the grooves of my palms.I am but(outgrown)lonely bones,quaking with frostbite,numbed with rage.A wolf's jaw:locked, teeth tearinginto the chilled fleshof your neck.
to the starsI’ve got this arrowcurled around my fingerlike Apollo’s heart& your nicknamesengraved on the insideof my lungs.I don’t want to writepretty little stanzasor pick at the seamsof your poetrylike some deadbeatpsychology major -I want toscribble profanitiesall over everything;shoot down your moon& wear herlike a charmaround ink stainedwrists.I want to take you to the stars, & leave you there.
NaPoWriMo Day: 1I’ve got 30 daysto defy Icarus:teach this rose thorn hearthow to fly.[ All I want to be is the space between the stars. ]But, I’m here,ripping holes in blank pageswhile nursing nebulae knuckleswith white plastered walls.
NaPoWriMo: Day 7Watch out.She’s a devil,that one.Glad for her spine,& her teeth,even God hands fear her.For she has arched her backfor a flower-womanwith sin drippingfrom her fingers-who taught herhow to laughlike the stars.
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.
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.
RelapseIt’s like countingSaturn’s rings,hash marksalong your limbs -remembering a timewhen‘just one more’made you feel better.- & you’re sitting therewondering whyDraco, stuck in limboalways looks like he’sfalling.-dp
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?
August Lover,I want to wrap myself in your air,hold your secrets between myribcage-embrace & just breathe.
NaPoWriMo- Day 5She used to try and catch butterfliesuntil she realized their beautyrubbed off on her fingers;but she will always be loving youwith those digits.20 years from nowwhen even the love on her armsis unrecognizable.
LiliyaBright-eyed,bird-bonedwhisper girl;dark-dressed,moon-backedmistress of light.
mutethings have been easierwithout words &we pretend neither of us care;we stuttersplutterlaughing and chokingon puns &when you bend me over nounsi screamloudergrowlmore fluent.the words are there waiting to be spokenme . you . lovemy dear, we've been mutefor so longspeak to me.
Alone in this world.Are you okay? Yes, I am.Are you afraid?Yes, I am.Will you ever be afraid of nothing? Will you ever be completely happy?Someday all your feelings will stop roughingAll of them are becoming scrappy.Being okay is not what it seems"okay" is a word of slothit may be a word of dreamsbut mostly it's a word of both.Sadness and reclusion.
palm readingsi exist in the city limits because i want the wind to make me frail.fragile like a ghost,a sorry sin i promise to abstain but inevitably commit.my bus fare is a kick down memory lane.i walk instead.he told me i spun words that dissolved on the tonguebefore he even had the chance to taste them.he called me sugar like a midday ritual,dressed me in compliments more fit for kings than commoners.i turned complacent; comforted by new beginningsand frightened by sudden endings.my mother never taught me how to avoid heartache.she only told me that my heart was a gold mineand i should never let fake jewelry lay over it.once, out of spite, i showed her my palms and asked what she saw.she told me that in this world full of practice, there was no time for games.when i showed him, he said that i am overworked.neither understands.now, it is the purgatory between autumn and winter that sinks my guts.the waiting room lacks couches and candle scents.the smiles are either plastic or
still,"i want grandchildren."that car ride ruined some thingsthrew a wine bottle at the wall15 years sittingit was good enough orit wasn't good enoughall the silence forcedmy pride to jump out the windowif any rested in hershe showed it off like a speech bubbletied it to her teethslammed it in the doorhad it under her pillow for monthsand years and years and yearsthere was no statementthere was no outstretched handjust steering wheel clenchingknuckles white and jaw taut(all because who i bed was not her mindful oftimeline perfection)i still think i'm a tumor--she shows it off like a speeding ticketi put a pin through iti put it on her sweatershe never wears it
by association.don't shoot the messengershe told herselfbut her aim was unsteadyand the wind blew her off targetthey were all rotten anyway.
A half visible mirage rots in broad daylightI think I fell down a holeThat was six feet too deepAnd I don’t knowIf I want to climb out anymoreBecause it’s so wonderful down here where the starsNo longer hold meaningAnd voices can no longer be heardOver the sound of decaying matterWaiting to be recycled
SurrealismThree a.m., andGod is in my bathtubagain—sipping whiskeyhallelujahs;backlit bya freshwater moonin the mother-of-pearl sky.
In The StarsIn the stab of the night,when there is no moonor modern light to guide you -there will be stars.They will burn themselves outwith the vehemence with whichthey shine for you.They will desperately radiatetheir message to youacross lightyears of dead air,they are full with it.They are childrenholding their breathuntil you beg them to stop.They are waiting for youto be ready to hear them.In the ache of the night,when there are no whispersor echoes to guide you -there will be stars;and those stars will be couriersbaring these words to youemblazoned with their royal seal.They will be eternally pressedin the spaces between spaceand space.Somehow in the cracksof infinite nothingnessyou will find my words.Wedged behind a stereountil you think to move it.They are waiting for youto be ready to feel them.In the grimace of the night,when there are no tearsor smiles to guide you -there will be stars.They will be distant eyesfull of my love for youthat will watc
Muse:She corrodes star shapes intothe hearts of sleeping poets,slowly, methodically.