I am finally starting to understand winter nights for what they are:
sterility of a black sky, inner warmth that never quite touches skin, shivering on the side of the road after tequila and laughter have laid waste to four AM and it is only the traffic lights left to reflect you.
Maybe that's why we listen to the downbeats of summer, the slow songs made for rooftops but more devastating in the pitch dark of seven PM on a main road somewhere in the city, all alone and au revoir and sepia memories of honey-warm light leaking through the kitchen we used to share.
internal warmth and windchimes outside sing hellfire for the passing storm.
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 12:05 PM UTC
she ripped a hole in her socks every day, maybe just to feel the thorns and let her legs bleed / that kind of lovelyblindingfrightening thing that you want to run your fingers through, tug on her hair just to feel the resistance / you ask her what it means to be a constructed girl and she says ‘convict yourself of ****** and you’re halfway there’ / in the dirt, tearing out flowers like a lonely god in the universe - she’s bruised, and soft and waiting
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
my reflection, anatomical inaccuracy reads something like:
fairy dust in a silt layer, bones all shattered at the press of her fingers, and for months I molded a sandcastle around the soft
sinking, drinking ichor from a cocktail glass and dragging nails across my discomfort -
did you see that girl taking a tempest inside herself, to warp her sinew, spreading from this side of the universe to other?
in the lamplight I bit a secret onto the ridge of her spine; sometimes I sleep near fires hoping my insides become glass
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
i
violent things trade off my discord
mistakes from either my gentle heart
or shattered bones
ii
birds take off from the mountain ledges
fragile and fearless
and i compare all my bruises
to falling or flight
iii
i cut my leg on the razor in the shower this morning
blood and water and steam;
good things come to people without feathers sticking from their spine
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
the first accident we **** a baby bird,
hardly a bump in the road
hardly anything,
a tiny body in ***** snow,
us, howling roadside prayers like coyotes to the moon
second, we bruise;
shining yellow cheeks blush under peach
and eyes bluer outside than in,
just the taste of skin, slightly sour
and one missing tooth
third, there’s a casualty
my casualty,
a long slick road and a wall
and a fatal breath, just my bones slipping
- down my throat
and blood flowing back up
laughing
a slight of hand trick
we pull away in the last moments of mysticism
broken and stunning...
...our fourth accident is a blinding light
and the fatalities were minimal
none of them ours
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
waking
newly human
strange and soft;
pinpricks, feelings -
the crawlings around inside you
shiver as your skin becomes real
a nightlight for daytime sleeplessness
carry the seas inside yourself
like people:
walking barefoot
drinking sunstreams
and braving the dark red nights
hark, choir voices, still
slurring miss you discrepancies
howls in empty skies
wolves die
a misunderstanding of your insides
bones
more sand than rock
crumble at a press too hard
on this,
last day of your first life
hung on a boy’s fingers
the edge of a cliff
taste the water in your nerve endings dragging you home
you splinter,
and you rise -
when the bruise blooms, you shine
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
pull the clouds // up over us // covered in soft // in gold-laced kisses // so when the sky // cracks open // we smile // falling in
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
Lips like bloodlines,
Carmilla kisses her mirror
and calls herself dangerous
Naming myself for dead things,
for ruinous things;
fire,
the ash that drank Pompei,
the ivy that made your walls cave,
Was Lady Macbeth sweeping her hair in braids
to nest her crown?
Or Nefertiti painted gold to reclaim God?
I’m asking for the lavender girls
See, we do these things to be holy
to be myths in our skin
Tying feathers to our shoulders
and glitter to our tongues,
thinking
I can be gold if I want to
I can be thorn-tipped ugly
In pink fur, black lace, we kiss the toes
of Courtney Love and Venus in one breath
Cut back
to my blood-laced lips on the mirror
as though saying Narcissus is my idol
my skin placed above heaven
and I wish to love myself so much
I’d choke for it
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
these pieces / found in mud / beneath the water / where we stitched them / as feathers / on Michael’s spine / and ****** / kisses you / like God / could fear you
may dirt / on your jawbone / make you holy / and blood / on your mouth / make you thirst / and you / in moments / as glory
and we prayed / we prayed / we pray
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
is it you – too?
the scratch of skin
blood under nails,
fighting the phantoms
and scratched back in couplets
through flesh onto bone
words inside, words out
is it you, love?
who has me choking on verse
spat with toothpaste and blood
tucked into an unwatched glass
and drunk
until birdsong flows
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 7:50 PM UTC