I am the long-winded victim of naivety.
You ask me to wait, and I will wait.
I will wait until my soles take root and
shins solidify to stone. I will wait until
moss springs from my shoulders, songbirds
take to chorus upon my hands, and toadstools
take refuge within my hair.
You tell me you’ll be there, and I will believe.
I will believe as I believed in a red-suited man
in December, and a sentient rabbit in April. I
will believe as I believed in promises of a love
deceased. I will believe as an 18 year old who
took affection as more than wistful stolen kisses.
You speak in future-tense, and I will take a running
jump into the unknown. I will wade upstream against
currents neck-deep just to keep that tense alive. I
will bruise and cut while moving downed limbs just
to keep a dam from forming. I will let my bones grow
brittle and my muscles slowly prune if it meant the
promise of a life in waiting.
And so I wait as a statue consumed by nature with
the belief of an unknowing child, frozen in time
as a serpentine watery flow slithers past devoid
of a desire to ever slow.
I am the long-winded victim of naivety.
I can feel it when I’m away from you,
separated by this island’s length. I can
see you in my dreams and yet when I
reach out my hand, it swipes through
thin air. I hear you laugh or someone
will call your name and I’ll react. Such
a blatant move to see if you are stood
behind me somewhere in the crowd… but
you never are. You are still miles away
and out of reach. Come back and heal me.
I’ve had enough of this sickness, I need
to find home. Find where you are.
And the church bells rang through the chill of the morning
The fog had settled
And I was in the doorway
I stepped into the sacred terrain
And the walls rushed in to embrace me
And I cried
She told me that loving you a little longer
is something she never regretted. And she
told me how she used to be so envious of her
eldest sister, how she was prettier and so much
better at everything. How she seemed to capture
everyone’s attention through the simple act of breathing.
She told me her sister died,
and ever since then she’s been burning.
And nothing can put her out,
or shield her from the immortal sun of
her parents. Do not learn the value of
a life after it is gone she told me.
We all need our trees to shade us from the
sun. She said: “I wished I had learned this
earlier on…and realized that I was jealous of
the one who let me live a life with less
burden. She carried me and I hated her
for it…and now I would give anything just
to feel her pulse beat.”
Note: Hot hot hot!! And quite lovely.
between my thighs.
arched my spine
and grabbed his hand.
bones of his fingers
somehow more intimate
than his tongue
we were eye level I
pleaded with him:
I want to do something for you.
And he let me.
I prompted him
to grab me,
tug me, tease me
with his arms
strong and heavy.
all for him, all for
I wanted to give
how I missed
the hot core of his palm
burning whispers through mine.
My sixth grade teacher told me
If I lost weight
Someone might love me someday
It’s been going downhill since
I can count 23 knots on my spine
And feel dangerous in red
I was told
I would make
A striking boy.
My best friend died two years
I think I still haven’t cried for her
I can be happy
But sad looks good better on my skin tone
I’ve never fallen in love with the sea
It’s as petty as a pretty girl
(Nearly as fickle)
I shudder when you speak
I could sleep for a thousand years
But I’m cold and the hunger keeps me awake.
I’ll never let you go
Love is like being chained
My birthday will pass unnoticed
Being lonely taste like
what is your obsession with my heart?
why do you worry away with sharp teeth
and leave holes that rot
as though my body was riddled with worms?
if i cut it from my chest with trembling fingers
handed it to you still warm and beating
would you be satisfied?
or perhaps you crave my mind as well
i could wrap it up in newsprint
and hand it to you
although my thoughts might leak out
and blend and run
like the cheap ink
delivering the news
of my untimely death
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.
I am by no means a lesbian, I am very attracted to men, but I think the female figure is absolutely beautiful. Curves and lips and hair that only a woman can possess; a saunter that turns heads wherever she may step. Breasts and hips, legs and delicate cheeks all add to the mysterious appeal that is female.
We are beautiful. We are stunning. But sadly, this can also be our downfall. We can rely way too much on our good looks to save us; our sexuality can be both a blessing and a curse.
But as women, we must learn to embrace this truth as we flaunt our poisonous beauty. Like a venomous snake painted in rich color to say “You may look, but don’t you touch.”
It is worse than suicide, taking up
the profession, or delusion, of writing,
as you see in quantum time the billion-fold
words manifest on every plastic surface
with the rapacity of galaxies
of vermin, accelerating into pure static,
five second emulations that melt into
streams of Lethe that corset the heart’s globe,
forsake the ecstatic sighs, electrical sights,
turn divine rhyme to pure reason and reason
to a wintry season bereft of fruit
where flesh and soul are sheared from
the few relics you held dear, in rhyme
or on the tragic page. And even if you
hit your stride, success will swallow what is
best about your hermetic verse or turn
you into cheap tricks at a dime a dozen,
the face of the artist exchanged for the
one dimensional fool without a king.
So much stress over simply trying to express
what is ownmost, what shy loves and strong fears haunt
your declaimed skull, which others can’t abide
for the strictures of a comma, programmed
to think that the measure of our ideas and
vital emotions were merely meant to mean.
Then we all leave to dance to music
never asking it why, though too our souls
could shake in their boots at the mere words
softer than the evaporated hands of lovers,
which bind the mouth and push the pen to its doom.