bones and word-sentence-paragraph structure ache under skin and i shiver / rattling to disrupt the quiet of me /
the cage of my ribs, the fence of my teeth / hold tight my words / hold tighter my heart /
a raw feeling / a disquiet / good morning i have opened my eyes / good morning i have written down my day /
pen-to-paper / word-to-throat-to-mouth /
jaw opens
tongue moves
heart escapes
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
when was the last time you crooned soft words into my mouth
half whisper half hiccup
every word a sigh and a promise with your lips trembling?
you have stopped feeding me your sweet words
with the roll of your tongue to mine-
electricity to live-wire.
now, your teeth to my pulse,
you stay silent.
now, with your mouth to my neck,
i wonder if you're feeling for a heartbeat
or for weakness.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
and the bones you pick up
not unlike a marionette you have to puppeteer yourself across a room
your bed, a warm case that you wish to stay shut.
you clatter awkwardly, all elbows and hunched shoulders
a performance that few people sit through
you do not have enough laughter in you to keep them smiling
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 11:32 PM UTC
a new therapist,
can you pinpoint when you started to feel like this?
a party four years ago with a boy with sun-bleached hair and blue eyes
got pinned on a couch and, sure, kissed him with tongue but wasn't drunk enough to
fool herself into sleeping with him, into regretting him, so she walked away
with a mouthful of his curses.
his, i made you what you are. his, you broke your promise.
the sky is always falling for her because the sun beat heavy on her neck.
you should get that mole checked, cassandra said, instead.
she takes the day off and thinks
drinks eight glasses of water and eats a full meal
deals with her frizzed hair and aching head
dreads seeing the sun rise the next morning
but still wakes early to see it anyways.
greece burns and she watches
it isn't the first time and it won't be the last time
her sister helen calls her on the phone
drones on and on about a new boy
and she asks her, she begs her, do you not remember troy?
her therapist says, we can't fix the problem if you don't talk.
but she does and she does and she wonders when she doesn't
she tells her the sun is falling out of the sky, greece is burning in bright lights,
how do you deal with a trauma reborn like a slice of something
taken from her parents, a splice of hatred from a lover scorned?
cassandra finds it hard to find a part of her that hasn't been left burned
her words like a cyclical epitaph.
she turns on the news and watches the sky fall again.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
he sculpts his perfect woman out of marble
drapes her in silks and jewels
fits his hands around her waist and kisses her cold lips
venus blesses their union and one day
she is warm underneath him and naked and afraid
he asks her why- she was created by him
for him
why does she shy away from the hands that formed her?
she puts the distance of a city-state between them
"you created me to love you
but you kissed me when i had no voice
you dressed me when i had no choice
you loved me, but never asked if you were lovable."
and this was the hand of venus, then.
love is not love when it has to be carved out of stone.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC