She Talks With Monster:
She Talks With MonstersThis girl never had a fear of monsters.
She allowed them to rest on the insides of her eyelids,
the crook of her neck, the empty spaces of her chest cavity.
She had no fear, there were much scarier things in this world
than darkness, clawing at her back. Living for the night
she etched her dreams upon the bars of her cage
whispering of centuries past because she truly missed the sun,
grass on her back. Frosty Decembers have her forgetting
what it feels like to love, but she knows who she is
she doesn't need the taste of cigarette ash
suffocating her inside her own flesh.
November skies tore open this night,
ripping a hole in her bedsheets.
It is in those dark spaces between
bone marrow and heartbeats that she finds herself-
tattered and breathless, whispering dark secrets
into a strangers ears. Her origami limbs folding
like patterned paper only to reach desperately
for the sun kissed frills of Apollo's robes.
Androphobiai was stitched lips and a flightless raven heart-
all sex and a contorting spine;
his own lips engraving 'kiss me's' on empty stars.
& between you and me: i feared his teeth,
& tongue, & honest organs-
with skin that begged, 'please, don't touch me.'
don't touch me.
don't fucking touch me.
i am not soft.
there is a war raging in my lungs,
screaming through the uncharted galaxies
of my wanderlust heartstrings.
i am not soft.
i am lust, & war, & envy
i am sin,
& the kind of prosetry yet to be proofread.
but he wanted to claim my guarded ghost eyes
and crossed legs.
'justlet me hold you.'
his callused hands were cancer,
my still body, a clock.
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."