pierrot, pierrot they cry!
when's the last time a tear left your eye?
pierrot, pierrot i sigh!
whom have you left your heart to this time?
Apr 16, 2024
Apr 16, 2024 at 9:58 AM UTC
i wonder why i keep looking for love
in all the places i know i will not find it
maybe it is not one last prayer to be wrong
but rather resentful surrender
that i was right all along
if i prove to myself that love does not exist
by forcing myself into loveless places
maybe knowing i never got any of it
will hurt a little less
Mar 17, 2024
Mar 17, 2024 at 7:57 AM UTC
my love is desperate consumption of anything im not
i can only ever crave hankering separation
(the farthest away from my own sinful hand)
and abhor all that easily falls into my shameless claws
i swallow my desire and digest it long enough it turns into something carrying an all too familiar ugliness
(i stare into the abyss and in the abyss i see you tire)
everything i love i stain with my own repulsing vacancy,
mercilessly shape it into a cage befitting my prodigal heart
fill it with the same insatiable appetite that snarls and howls knowing no decency
my love is not creation but its own twisted pretense being picked apart
loving is god creating his own specular image of worship
looking at it with both resentful revulsion and unspeakable lust
and i, just like a god, can never love anything made of my rib
Mar 5, 2024
Mar 5, 2024 at 2:25 PM UTC
it's always you, sweet child
you take the burn
beautifully
let it mark your hands
and feast on your chest
watch the flames make you recognizable again
coax the deepest wails out of charred, tired lips
oh my, sweet child,
how you've grown to love the fire
Feb 28, 2024
Feb 28, 2024 at 10:51 AM UTC
not love as a prayer,
oh dear lord you must know i'm exhausted from begging
but love as rage, and screaming my lungs out, and restless, resentful writhing
and echo
love as clawing at my own heartstrings, love as stringing my own soul crushing eulogy on it
love as yelling and screeching, an howling so guttural my insides turn in on themselves
and a sob
love as crying and rebelling but never asking, oh lord, love as anything but peaceful
cause dear lord you must know by now that everything i love
i swallow
Feb 8, 2024
Feb 8, 2024 at 3:53 PM UTC
to all the men who said i love you:
no, you don’t.
nobody ever loves a shipwreck, a graveyard
places of unrest and deathless suffering
the epitome of solitude to those misfortunate enough
to have made a home out of the debris of tragedy
to love someone is to know them
and you know nothing of the storm,
of the names carved into the tombstones
still oozing blood after years of heartache and grief.
you think of shipwrecks and graveyards
and can only imagine the sublime aftermath of poems,
pretending not to hear the screaming and wailing
that echoes off of every wretched line
the gnawing of teeth still tearing at the rotten flesh
the scraping of nails against the hard, cold cement
desperate to latch unto anything if it means keeping afloat.
to all the men who said i’m not scared of shipwrecks and graveyards,
places of unrest and deathless suffering:
no, you aren’t.
for who would ever scare of the chance to paint himself as charitable, compassionate
by just standing close enough to the ruins, never crossing the threshold
to leave flowers and sing lighthearted condolences to the corpses of a person whose voice you’ve never heard.
nothing will ever make you feel more of a good person
than grieving for this bleeding heart of mine.
to the first man who ever said he loved me, my father
who made a burial ground out of my body
before i could even think of it as anything but lifeless
staining this blank canvas before i could even think about painting anything but gravestones
finally, to me
who learned how to make a home out of the bones and damp wood
for this house may be haunted by ghosts of the past still
but it stands upon holy ground
and i will never let the termites tear their way inside again.
Jan 5, 2024
Jan 5, 2024 at 1:33 PM UTC
all this grief i carry
it sticks
like glue
when can i finally
piece myself back together
May 14, 2023
May 14, 2023 at 8:07 AM UTC
they say the lone wolf dies
yet the pack survives.
it is the strength of a whole and it solely that can mend for sturdy fangs and foreign bites
of ill-fated violence.
regrettable.
and although they say the pack survives, what is of the lone wolf?
is he fated to be swallowed whole by the jaws of his most trustworthy companions?
to be crucified as a slave and mistreated as a martyr?
they say the lone wolf dies
and his carcass serves as a reminder of what can be forgotten so easily
through the years he can be no more
and the pack will be, still
they say the pack survives upon the feeble shoulders of the lone wolf
feeding its ego and stomach
praying for another to idolize like the most precious of waste.
after one comes another
and time does not make saints out of victims
nor does the pack which thrives and feasts and tears limb to limb deities and sinners alike.
cruelty is no stranger to the pack
it is a principle to build community upon
and everyone relishes being the predator
until they too are made into the prey.
nobody ever remembers the lone wolf
nor do they remember whom he was before crucifixion
what they do remember is to never be pushed into such a place
the struggle never ends
and when another falls into their godless clutches
you'll thrive and feast and rejoice
and find yourself thinking
at least it’s not me
Nov 13, 2022
Nov 13, 2022 at 6:51 AM UTC
my mother, dedicated to flowers.
and by dedicated I mean she despises flowers with a passion,
a fiery repulsion so strong
that friends and family alike slowly started to mistake it for love
her marriage to my father.
my mother hates my father just as much as she hates his flowers,
she says they are the worst flowers she could ever wish for
and god do I hope those flowers will not make it,
wilting away in the palest beam of sunlight
it is the worst torture that could ever be bestowed upon such beautiful creatures
to live and to grow and to blossom
cut away from their roots
dried and whithered and frail
but my mother, my mother, she grows her flowers with uncanny care
fuelled by voluptuous rage and blind regret
some people still say it’s love
as the flowers shrink away into their own seeds.
so the flowers will surely survive
they’ll survive and they will live to see another day
day by day, night by night
in a place that is so loveless
one might mistake it for lovefull.
my sister, dedicated to flowers.
my sister, a lovely florist
a full-blown head in the clouds heart on her sleeves florist
and by florist I mean my sister values all her flowers so much
she sells them away to whoever might pay back just enough
for them not to feel as worthless as her father’s flowers
which her mother always reminds her about
so she just sells them to whoever.
she tells me her flowers are cute when they treat her to dinner
beautiful when they mend for her tremendous rent, you know?
life is never easy
but her flowers are only majestic, she says, when they are made into presents
cut and pressed and shriveled into tiny scattered pieces so sublime
they attract all kinds of unwanted attention
which reminds her a bit of herself, she says
gifted only to those who will never know how to properly care for something so broken
one might mistake it for whole.
my grandmother, dedicated to flowers.
except she never truly was
willing to take care of something that is fated to wilt away, that is.
my grandmother didn’t despise her flowers like my mother does
she understood them – felt them even
and therefore knew not how to take pity
with thorns of self-loathing
she molded herself into becoming one of her flowers
the only way she knew how to love herself.
my grandma knew how to make wondrous dresses out of petals and leaves
a disguise so colorful and blinding
one might just forget to look at all the right places
you’d have found nothing but pesticide.
grandma’s flowers were the most stubborn
born on a desert island of broken promises and scraped knees
where they were buried too
when the time to hide away the corpses left in her wake finally came.
sometimes I wish she had not left her son’s flowers to rot
coloring them so violent
one - such as his daughters - might mistake it for gentle.
I, dedicated to flowers.
I, anxiety ridden daughter of all flooded fields
blooming in the crevices and rocks dandelion -
I learned to resent the flowers that were entrusted to me at birth
the detested gift of lifetimes of pain
as if that could ever be just enough to mend
for the moths and worms that made a home out of my belly
I was born with no flowers of my own
no illusion as to what i 'd have to expect from life
my mother’s, my sister’s, my grandmother’s
and my father’s too
my garden is the fullest
and the most painful to care for
kneeling on the seeds with sand in my eyes
no gloves to fend away the thorns
the pesticide fills my lungs
nobody cared enough to ask me
but I never liked gardening.
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 7:16 AM UTC
we search for saving in every little crevice
of our lonesome existence
we yearn for release
and for whoever may be generous enough to grant it
it is comforting to believe in a savior
because we crave the idea of rescue
a moment of peace in this endless cycle of suffering
as if redemption could befall us from the sky
as if there was a miracle crafted from the heavens above
just for our sake
selflessly gifted and waiting to be found
to live one's life in the hope of saving
is the most poetic tragedy ever written by man
I have come to understand the charm of religion
and those who seek to pursue its principles
for if I were certain that someone out there cared enough to save me
I'd get on my knees too
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 6:45 AM UTC