SupernovaShe only ever wanted a real reason to scream, collecting her tears in jars and hiding them behind Poe and Hemingway; she secretly hoped for an ocean to call her own. She would name it after an aged bird spirit, pain manifested in many a Gods imagebelieving our vast universe formed by the callused hands of artists."They must have a sick, twisted sense of humor." she said, eyes on the moon.And I asked her "Who?" curious, because I'd yet to figure her out."The Gods; they give dead stars the prettiest of names."
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."
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."
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.)
Never trust ladies with scythes for smiles.i. these god-hands are barbwire's, snagging & scarring everything they touch.ii. black tongue bleeding sweet ichor along the guarded walls of skeletal frames.iii. 'i want to taste heaven. it rests there, just beneath your bones.'iv. he is a god dog made of scythes & scalpels, sewn together with weak thread.v. and she is a borrowed tree. lips that beg, & limbs that snare will carry him to his grave.vi. 'shh, my sweet- close your eyes, & i'll sacrifice you to the heavens.'<i>
She has the moon in her eyes.But, this body is a black hole,a hollowed out womb-and these palms are sandpaperthin and bleeding a silent stigmata."Not yet ripe to fall from her bed,too young to understand her own limbs-"She folds back July's origami skin,wishing for the warmth of winters kiss.She is a raven heart, thumping wildlyagainst the whispers of vintage lips.Her bed is empty,but the sheets are red.
TigressShe is the kind of girl who smothers herself in astronomy,New Age philosophies and coffee shop poetry.All fire and dragon scaled-She hides her tiger stripes behind bruises and ink stains,living her life by way of verse-throwing Hemingway around like insults.Writing her letters to the moon,she hides her heart underneath her own floorboards,folding blank paper birds just to set them free at 3AM.But, it's the lipstick stained collars,the rose thorned fingers,and the dead stars in her chest cavitythat tell her- even a tigress can bleed.
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.
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.
N o v ai.This distance between usis devouring my lungs.I'm left here gasping,trying to suture back togetherall the broken nights-the cigarette burns in my bedsheets.ii.I'm tracing maps on my limbs,and I'm painting black holes on my palms,pressing them into lettersleft on my nightstanduntouched and unread.iii.I keep telling myselfnone of this is about you.But I'm reaching for empty galaxiesas I try to remember what it felt liketo be one of a binary star.iv.Light-years away, and I'm here-just another nova on your ceiling,searching this vast universe for you.
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.
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.
OmegaThere is a wolf lurking in my doorway;our eyes holding breathless conversationsas secrets whisper through the stroke of my peninto the awaiting lungs of strangers.
Soon young pup, you'll have nothing left to say.My heart is woven together with tight-knit words,blood red Poe, and thumping Hemingway-Yet, no headstrong Omega sleepswithin this slightly cracked, ribcage embrace."I am unafraid of forests with teeth."
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."
I think you left a piece of you in me.This tangled mess you call a heart,daisy veins & sin;She's bringing me down.& you were merely shiveringkite-string clavicles.Nothing,pressing winter bonesagainst my sun-stricken mouth,darkness searching for a homeburied in my lungs.You whispered breathe melovely in the inhale/exhaleof carbon dioxide suicide.She speaks only of you now,lonely & mourning beats-Crack open this damn ribcage;set me free.
'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.
1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
The Intelligent Are So SadA cascade of words parade around,with thoughts of atoms and connotation.She is brilliant, they say,but she knows she is lost.Numbers are her companion,she understands their mean, average.Words can twist her brain,she loves the wonder they bring.She is intelligent, they say,but sometimes,she doesn't feel clever enough.Sometimes she feels clever too much.Excusez-moi, in perfect French,but nothing is gained by perfect word tense.She is clever, they say.But she is not clever the way they know.She sees things as they are,and she prefers her thoughts to the world.She knows she loves them more than they in return,and her friends will be there until they wont.Friends reassure her, you'll be okay,she puts a smile on her face.She loves them as much as any,even though there aren't many.They bring out the best in her,the happy girl,not swamped by words.The one who isn't drowning in formula.Test scores and numbers don't mark you smart,she knows this now,engraved in her
White Christmas Love LetterI'm writing to you from underneath a streetlight, watching the black curve of the asphalt road lead away. Soft whispers of wind passing dark and silent while the rain falls, white music over the rooftop of the world like silk and dust and static in the dusk. I look for the light flooding across the open sky, a red blush that makes me think of you, the rosy hues of your cheeks underneath the soft hush of snow on a Winter's day in Florence. The white blanket's tread covering you like a child with a cloak.I want to lay you at my feet with that white Christmas, the soft flight of your heart beating with mine, your chest pressed to me and our hands entwined under the pale oblique fall of rain and ice in the dark. Flowers bloom here for Christmas, but not for me without you. Across the world, the blossoms fade and die with cold, their loveliness more beautiful for that fragile flame, extinguished under a damp, light cloud. A moment lost is precious simply for being a memory.Here, the air s