Hades springs on me, I am a girl
he craves my blush, sweet flesh, my summer curls.
I calcify in that abysmal land
as he turns docile in my tiny hands
I gulp the wine that trickles from the dark
I am a coal mine waiting for a spark
desecration crowned me, I am Queen
naïveté turned into something keen
my wide-eyes summer is forever done
it wilts to rot beneath a bleaker sun
the warmth falls through my feet and wanders south
i drink the power from his seeking mouth
expanding with a gasp, gulping in the fresh air
she unfolded herself and allowed herself to breathe
she is aerated, the yellow sunlight glowing through
her skin, illuminating that soft shadow of her bones
and the trails the mice gnawed through her
during the stiffling winter, when she was packed away
in moldering cardboard boxes in a musty basement
but now her thread-veins, which doodle through her flesh
like the roots of slender-stemmed violets.
they pump as lively quick as a baby bird heart.
hello. i am not at the phone right now!
here are some options for leaving me a message:
cover my entire body in crackle nail polish so i have a thin, stylish shell
kiss me 3-8 times on the lips, and then once on the top of my head
drizzle brine onto my cheeks so i can pretend i was having a torrential weeping session
present to me an innocent handful of cake
swipe a new scar onto my gooseflesh
gallop down the streets at 3 in the morning with me on ever-restless legs
the round eyes of this mini-monk,
fringed with the pale-blonde lashes of the very young,
regard me calmly
he was bouncing, boisterous, when i saw him last
and now he carries his ten years
on his small knobby shoulders
like the robe of a scholar prince
and seems taken aback at my manic pleasure
at seeing him ask polite questions, a tiny gentle man
he couldn’t see the change, he is change incarnate
i ask him if he still plays with legos
and i think he’s annoyed at the bittersweet poignancy i attach to this question
“yeah, but don’t seem so sad about it, so do you”
my enemy is the sucking giant hole of apathy
i will sometimes crumble into
when i am too lacerated by shrapnel of the world
to fathom pulling myself from my cocoon of sheets
when i read Google news
sadness slithers into me like heavy syrup
and bogs me down until i cannot move
the world is broken, why should i survive?
the answer is lies with my closest friends, who are:
the soft palms of the boy at the punk show
the femme fatale kiss of coffee
my best friend moaning about cinnamon popcorn
the chatter of those lovable assholes i hang out with
we pile damp twigs of discontentment
make sparks with hormones and rusty old lights
we shout as they wither and burst into flame
(via meremortalblog)
poem, i thought you were here for “closure”
what is that? it’s nothing i’ve known to happen
and liquid memories trickle through the seams
of the cardboard boxes in the attic of my mind
they cannot hold the gentle one i let wander too far in
even though i saw the thrash of agony in her
i didn’t know that she would grow so wrathful
and she barreled right through my ribs
and the fingerprints fade, but i can’t forget
the lattice of overwrought bruises
that we slapped on each other, plastering pains on pains
instead of making the slow choice to be gentle
worse than the slow-burn of pain, the flash of joy:
now i have ceded the authority of my reality
to those who have never learned my secrets,
not trusting the erratic flap of my own
butterfly-wing mind
maybe your voice was a sonic boom that shuddered my insides
the tiny quirks of your fingers traced sparks on my skin
and the contours of your mind were my favorite maze
maybe so, darling, but since then
i have yanked off the tablecloth, broke the bone china
you were so sad about the stains!
now my ears ring with the cacophony of breaking
we tiptoe backwards, crumbling away, stumbling over debris
and shouting apologies into the middle distance
today i snuck away from the formation
shucking off my regimental blues
my gold epaulets are askew
and the tongue lolls in my black boots
but i am radiant in the drunken morning
i capper through spring mist
whistling birdsong with my scratchy voice
i run my hands through the greenery
ripping out lush handfuls of leaves
twisting the flower stems until
they fray and tumble into my hands
i bruise the petals
with the pads of my fingertips
I think I’m making a tradition of this.
when you scramble to find the solid substance in you
when you shrink back like a wounded puppy at every noise
and the world keeps pulling at your loosening seams
you are brittle, crumbling on the outside
and soft as tenderized oysterflesh within
go the innermost chamber of your secret sanctum
tell the graceful butler at the door
no visitors today
listen to the softest of love songs
where the singer’s voice trembles with tenderness
and the drum is the rhythm of blood in your veins
carrying you nutrients, crimson vitality, and warmth
break the emergency glass in your ribcage with an axe
remove the fire extinguisher and first-aid kit you were born with
with potions, bandages, aspirin. and even better
you may, in time, learn a secret alchemy
to transform this turmoil into beauty
and mine from the common rocky bitterness of pain
the rich coal that burns with steady fire
so when the world leaves you dizzy
you twist with the pain, and then the twisting turns to spinning
and as you whirl, a new kind of dance is formed
some days you are gasping for a break from the brutality
try this: the tired woman at the counter when you buy your meager meal
tell her that her nails shine like the inside of a conch shell
this is code for: I recognize you as a human
she will reply with the incantation that will bring you back to life:
the perfect syllables of your name
Profane / Germane 