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May 2020 · 252
Orchid T Aspen May 2020
these birds nest out of your ribs
like heart worn on your limbs

looking game
lock picking

from compassion for birds.
bad hours
Jan 2020 · 267
house cat
Orchid T Aspen Jan 2020
not pet.

in window i sneak,
i see me alarmed
in glass, i ponder
the swish-locks they arm

not people!
not them, like me,
not scattered outside

no food for them waiting,
no fence for them pacing,
no kind of invading,
how come? how go?

see pet.

where found, i climb
in flurry, i bound
but they can't have

not pet.
Written from a sad place.
Dec 2019 · 274
The rank of orchids
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
He always lets them
braid petals into his hair,

(swept over his ear
and beside his eye),

and he breathes deeply
and smiles softly,

and knows
that he is loved
when he is
next to his flowers.
Dec 2019 · 206
Columnated in air
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019

I tried to save your life six seconds ago,
but the air sent me away
when I moved in its domain
to reach for your hand.


You were vilified in its winds.

It gushed of how you ruined everything.


It once killed you,
but you trudged back
from the river's part,
without spite,
holding an elder's rebellion.

Your         crime         was too heinous
and the wind begged me to **** you again.


With the trial withstanding your time,
I sought your records.

They were pulled in gusts,
spread over pinkened
cumulonimbus clouds,
and struck down to my hands
where I dropped them myself
in utter revulsion.


How could I ever save you?

You killed the air too.

Dec 2019 · 349
sunflower solidarity
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019

solidarities are pleasant enough,


and they can die on the Hill over there
with the other volumes of

that are puffed up
in their brazen majesty,

that are seeking the envelopment
of warm air,

that are vying for the ****** sun,
as always,

that are holding petals
who creep inside when put upon,

that are sobbing for the other sunflowers
as their radial compatriots,

that are living for all else
that cannot,

that are swaying with intent
that bends them off,

that are dying in beating blades
of grass,

that are toasting to deities
who are concealed in their flames,

that are writing ardently
in their soft refrains,

that are fornicating their pleasures
away from the other


that die on the Hill over there
when solidarity is enough for them
to extract pollen by their own strength
and pelt it at the bees
and dissolve on their stems.

Dec 2019 · 328
A rose house
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
roses' petals kept him,
                twirled him inside white throws,
         blanketed him in relief
and then sealed him up.
they painted him in pollen,
they walked him with stamens,
and he never looked up, either,
because his roses filled him.
they throbbed thorns beneath him
      that never struck him,
          and he never snuck down, either,
              because he had roses to swaddle him.
                     his roses kept him.
Dec 2019 · 424
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
I drag his
into a
loose blackness.
い い い い
They crumple
at the margins
as I bloat them
full of dust.
い い い い
I wash water on them
so that they
like ink.
い い い い
His lungs can
on my paper,
Dec 2019 · 353
The minutes yearned.
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
He ran from my demons
so I wouldn't have to.

                                      He yearned for more time
                                                     like I should have.
He lived as me.

He broke as me.
                                                          He spoke in me
                                     so I wouldn't have to.

           I didn't tell him he was human.
Dec 2019 · 279
the narcissist key
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
He prowls,
loose and deadly,
light and hungry.

But they don't tell him,
they don't tell
if they're laughing
or crying.

(Aren't they moving their mouths?)

He pleads,
wanting to fail,
but he warns them, still,

(Why aren't you afraid?)

they don't stop him.

He should run,
save them.

(Please listen!)

He can't,
and black shields him.

(Stop hurting me.)

Void and
and gone,

he stands,

(Don't look at me.)

There are strands
on his fingers,
pulling the bones,



next to nothing
around him,
and black pierces,
picks him.

(Where did they go?)

He hears them part,
then gnashes them,
gnaws them,
his snarls beg from them,

(Where did you go?)

and it panics,
in skin

(Get out of my ears.)

They sicken his eyes,
cover them,
throw them,

(Get out of my ears.)

sense leaves him with nothing.
As nothing,
he stands,


he prowls,



(Move me.)


(Make me.)

and fears,

(Warn me!)



and hungry.

Dec 2019 · 198
The marbled Carcass.
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
If I could save even one person, maybe I would speak.


Her flesh wrapped around her like kudzu on a tree, parasitically engaged in what others yearned for.

If you can't rely on blood, who do you have left?

So I stayed. Because no one would come near. How kind she was. How gracious and loving and loved.


Her skin became cold. The very ***** dedicated to masking her advanced structure became like a marble slab left in the snow. That flesh that cradled her meaningless meanings hardened like the exoskeletons she imitated.

She was an insect through and through.


And even if cold was the absence of heat, the left-behind contraband someone else came to cherish, she emanated the very invasion that enveloped her.

She radiated her icy salvation.


And so when the time came that I was able to touch her...
When it was upon my own flesh I would feel what she refused to feel, she grasped onto me.

As if she longed to drag me into her abyss with one last throe, one last labor of love for her blood.


My fingers never fell off, but I was frost bitten. My organs never failed, but I was shredded apart by the sting of the sobbing wind.


I didn't become her marble carcass like I should have.


She didn't take me with her.

I couldn't save her anymore.

Not even if I had devoted my life to doing so. Never again. She left me behind, and I was cold too.


My skin is not chilled to the touch. My muscles are not the remnants of a frozen cicada shell. My skeleton is not made of the icicles left to melt in the sun's triumph.

My tendons ache in the wake of an ancient breeze that blew by far too late.


I am not a slab of cold marble.


I am a starkly darkened visage to behold and not be held, forever turning over and over,
never ceasing and always yearning for that which never was, and that which will never be.

I was only for their sake. Never mine, even if I pretended.


This endless daydream that expands before and behind me, that twists in tendrils that are deplorably mine and

soak in the oily water that inisists on being my keeper... I will not let go of the ribcage it offers to my grasping hands.

I will bear who I am. I am my sickness.


I will plunge into the needy and engorged expanse of shifting flowers and lodged viscera.

I will continue to encase and cease.


Forever in my head.
Forever in my skull. Forever tapping in my cage. Forever clipping my scrawny wings. Forever sincere.


I loved her, and I couldn't
save her.

She was dead, and I couldn't save her.

She was alive, and I couldn't save her.


What remains?
Irreparable me.
Dec 2019 · 655
hair holes
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
Eventually my memory
will lament
in daydreams
that my pride
was dissolving in my bed,
that my solace
was pacing vehemently in my head,
that my martyrdom
was telling me I may recover,
that my return
was murmuring softly,
that my fury
was invading my hiding door,
that my frenzy
was stabbing at my scalp,

and perhaps my memory
will stutter
as always,

and I can stack my scabs again.
Dec 2019 · 284
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
It was not her.
When she saw me hurting,
she knew it was not her.
When she saw me sobbing,
it was not her.
When she saw me choking on my breath,
when she saw me shaking in shock,
when she saw me screaming for an escape,
it was not her.
I cowered in my skin
and it was not her.
And when I was dying,
it was not her,
for once.
I stole away from her
her hands
and her broken rage,
her sorrow and terror,
her unwavering pain,
so that
for once,
she would
have to
hurt again.
I was so kind,
so for once,
it was not her.
Dec 2019 · 325
Wait for dressings.
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
From the vault of my popcorn ceiling
the widow was swaying on a strand
and striking at her master net,
tweaking its barest glint,
all to lure death closer
to steep it in glue
well enough that she can wait now.

It happened in my head
as I listened to her legs
that I would die,
if I could only look down
and find her sneaking in my palm.

I know she is far too beautiful
to be waited on like this,
to be stranded on a string
in the thinned air.
I think I make her miserable.
Dec 2019 · 202
an efficacious framing
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
There is a blood
that is beating in my skull
that is gluing my veins
and is pulsing in some silence,

but my hands are moving,
but my breaths are dripping
out and watching me
without reason or thought,
and my tongue is ticking too,
howling from me a language
I have yet to understand,
let alone voice,
and in the end,

an urgency is returning me
as a snapped over twist,
leaving me without purchase
and bleaching my words stark,
so I wonder:

what's in my bones
that's making me move?
Dec 2019 · 187
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
The whole time,
I was running as fast as I could, consumed by the flames that only knew that they should whisper
to just run
just run away,
that they should lick me
to get a taste
and desire me forever,
that they should laugh
to keep me fleeing,
so away and away,
to keep me fearing
for my life and even
other lives,
t­hat in a terrored moment,
I couldn't remember
if they were my own,
and at the end of the edges
that I just kept running through,
even though
there was nothing left for me
to see or feel,
nothing left to convince me
that safety was only steps away
if I could please,
just keep taking them,
I was stricken,
impaled on
the thought,
the horrified suspicion,
some feeling bent on attacking me too,
the final flagship of my guilt,
a death speech,

that maybe I was leading those flames instead.
Where should we have gone?
Dec 2019 · 507
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
When the gentle ridges in his lips
would part for me,


and the pretty valleys in his eyes
would wash his misery for me,


and the coral in his cheeks
would twitch twice for me,


and his living hands
would unsmother my words for me,


he whispered that his name
was Navy.


I wanted to walk next to him,
and breathe next to him,
and unsmother him back,


so I stayed
and let my fingers
braid into his grasp.


I gazed with him
at the fleeing rivers.


I lived with him
in his bending arms.


I think of him now
as his hands
that he warmed
with my own.


When the peaks in my mouth
would part for him,
I knew I loved him too,
and whispered my name.
Dec 2019 · 453
The silica mirror's edge
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
They stand
like I almost did,
look like I almost do,
and speak like I almost have.

But they walk from me,
leaving me ugly and bared by my ill name,
without any purchase in the words I have left,

and they return to those
who waited for them
to just come back.

They become
hurting and healing
in one fluid stroke,
forgetting about
the edge they have always
walked along.

They are ready to stand next to them
instead of me,
in my stead,
by my heart,

so I turn back to the mirror
and refuse to let
someone who
doesn't want
to be real again
walk away from me.
Dec 2019 · 227
take ice
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
it takes you to the frosted basin
it wraps you in the floating glass
it means to make you mindful
and you

make yourself louder

and rush the ice from your veins
and you
make yourself the peace
and you will breathe
from over the colder water.
Dec 2019 · 398
Go back
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
To you, I return coal-dull
and as embers,
smoldering as their petals,
soft as their roots,
but rough as their stones
and to you, I become

Go back.
Dec 2019 · 1.1k
we are love-stealers.
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
I steal love with


part of my lips,


fall of my chin,


reverence in my temples,


so I scoff with


unblessed prayer,


impossible keeper,


wretched skin,


faultless pleasure,


and grace swoons,

puts me back in my place,

mutters sin in my mouth,

tightens grip in my hips,

stokes flame in my skin,


threads pain


weaves mind


names fear


makes more



and I am unfeeling of pardon,

unwanting of heaven,

ungoverned by god,

not bothered, on purpose,

not waiting on mercy,


and I stand with the evil,

the blind,

the kind,

the pained

and the stained,

and steal love with them,



we are unneeded by hell.
avoid binary questions.
Dec 2019 · 218
lashes down.
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019

his eyes are calamitous

and he twitches as

his lashes sink in his skin
to whip at his cheek
and peel away his lids

his iris wobbles from the shockwave

and his scleras are greyed in trauma

and his brow crumbles, too

for some remission

and when his violent eyes close
he repents behind them

his descent is final
as they open just once more

and his lashes rise in suspension

Dec 2019 · 229
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
When he throws you                 at the wall,
and hugs you
and bites you
and screams in you
and kisses you,

let it be back then,

when she threw you                on the floor,
and stomped your filling
and snapped your stitching
and sliced your corners
and kissed you.

Tighten your throat
and you can go to bed again.
Dec 2019 · 1.0k
an ocean whore
Orchid T Aspen Dec 2019
flocks penetrated his barrier
to inspect his rot
when it sank down
beneath the salt
in the slowing dark,

>° °<

called him back with sirens
and suggestion,
danced in vibrant twisters
to entice him
before he could drown,

>° °<

fled from each cavern
in shock,
begged for his spreading mane
to weave in,

>° °<

fed on the youth
spinning around him,
spat jets at his limbs,

>° °<

held hope out just for him,
but there was nothing to be saved

° °

from the abyssal plain.

— The End —