Less than the sums of rising sun
scattered across heartfelt millennial,
new dawns to strip the teeth from
bloody gums and the blistered knuckles from
A fist is so much less
than purple puckered lips,
drained from blue veins in an abandoned
The nation is a pink light on the ice,
and if she dies this morning,
it will not be with the sighs for all her coming
root canals and bursting barfights,
southern summers on drowning coastlines,
but with the worn-through eyes of a pierced vein.
She will not use the blade he gave her
on a soft Christmas morning while her bruises pulsed
and her teeth ached
and they watched the endless sunlight.
She will use the northern snow,
and the time between someone noticing a flash of red,
a hearty scream,
and the time it takes to discover
a unmarked person in a serene niche
who doesn’t wish to be found.
last winter’s sky was endless and low
(where there’s infinite space is where words will not go)
we made sugar cookies like snowmen and bells
and a strange little beast that no one could name
that could have been from any number of heavens or hells
(i said could it be jesus and choked on my shame)
sugar bells between my teeth
frosted angels on my lips
+ his hands on my hips
+ his hands on my hips
his mouth never found its way to mine
(the words that don’t matter are the ones that won’t rhyme)
& i’m done & i’m done i’m done taking my time
this time last year i was twisted and spent:
i was who he talked to but not who he dreamt
he whispered my name but it was not what he meant.
iced-over ponds seeped into my skin
i was too thin,
too thin to think.
last year he skated over my bruises
and then let me sink.
the lights are coming on in the center of town
and the santaclaus men are unpinning their frowns
and i’m eating my food and i’m keeping it down
& here’s to
& cheers to
letting me drown.
Side note: Far too beautiful not to re-blog, an accomplished poet and even her prose is brilliant. I feel this.
His lips sought mine in the darkness and he found my wrists that glittered with mercury. It was poisoning my bloodstream until he pulled my soft lips from the blind waters where I had been drowning. He ripped the hazy thoughts from my mind after he grabbed the bottles from my hands. We sat in our salt-stained remains, waiting for the end of beauty to come while the waves crashed before our fearful forms. From the fear came lightning eyes and electric words, clashing from tongue to tears. We held on to nothing but the rocks that would drag us into our deepest dreams.
Somewhere along the agony, the screaming, we found each other. The love we experienced would let him touch the sun one day, then dash him into ash on the next. We spun into existence and then right back out, finding each other on the sides of highways, watching the people pass much like Clarisse had. I ventured out farther than the smudged yellows and peeling billboards, only to be held back with his iron hands. It was a force that even he could not resist, the desperation to hold me from the imminent obliteration for just a moment longer.
Our love blossomed into the greatest tree when it was still a part of life, before it had become connected to our souls and wound us together in the sky. It dug its roots deep into the soil of nights in the movies and across parking lots where I saw his face in the shadows and claimed him as mine. We watched the rains travel so swiftly along our pulsing, fluttering beings but did not cry out when the rain fell, for we knew the rivers would separate as our destiny cut its path into both of our hearts.
The finish was planned in bathtubs stained red and lipstick running as goosebumps climbed along his mole-mapped back. It was a kind of destruction that kicked up storms and shook mountains. We were not lifeless, for we had become the effluent waters that of which we could sail upon with our dying whispers to be carried in the breeze. It was a beautiful ending, for it never closed like our ever-open marbles which glinted dangerously inside our skulls. There were two separate finishes, though, both of us at peace with nothing and we were still existing in the bare clouds that would never let go of their heaving worries.
I went before him, which was the only thing that brought honest color to his eyes, showing him that the darkness was just the nonexistence of light, of worry, of wonder. I knew the cracking and splintering air was due to his bellows as he stumbled along the chartreuse towels and the bloody bath that sucked my energy away. Finally I could taste the rain on my lips, finally I was a dying mist that would find the sea.
Little did I know, he was coming after me.