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I am still capable of ****** springs
and rivers with waters so clear
you’d never know how shallow the bodies are buried,
or how thoroughly I poisoned the well
Miss Daytona Sep 2024
27
Look at you, Blue Oleander
at the margins
of a birthday wish—

at seventeen, you were
the night’s favorite
sparkler,

and at twenty-seven,
the morning’s
favorite petal to kiss.
Miss Daytona Oct 2020
I owe you an explanation
I know you can’t fathom why,
If I’m here and so are you,
I won’t be yours and you won’t be mine

Here’s the thing:
I am but only one of me
Powerless against the hive
I can choose you but will they?
I don’t sit alone, I’m a table for five
Miss Daytona Oct 2020
I heard it from three stories above
Candlelight sparkling dark windows of dawn
A melody, murderous sounds of a dagger
Brutal weeps of ripped strings in mourn
The man haunts in song, in laughter
Hums quietly, in his staff he banters
With a violin he slaughters
Miss Daytona Oct 2020
Whenever I write about you
The words rip the paper and it tears in two
My hands grow tired
and I need to put the pen down

Whenever I ask about you
The blue walls turn gray, windows slam shut
My eyes roll back
And I need to lay myself down

Whenever I talk about you
I am on a stage and the microphone clips
My throat bleeds
And I need to step down

Wherever I go looking for you
The cars try to stop me and the stoplights turn red
My feet hurt
And I need to go back
Miss Daytona Oct 2020
I wrote on your back words of a bygone era,
Back when we were a a collusion in the making
Not souls, not cells, not matter
Yet by then, Nabokov had already met Véra

And to her, he wrote about a strange joy
Ane what he knew right when he met her:
He only ever existed within her eyes,
He was only ever seen through their letters

I’m not sure you hear the same notes,
And I want to be a lover, not a beggar
I want hear the songs of your thoughts
On a loop, growing louder, forever
Miss Daytona Oct 2020
We see, we hear, we watch,
we talk back. We write.
This is a strange time to be alive.

And if a reader finds this poem,
Buried or dropped or kept:

You see, you hear, you watch,
you talk back. You write.

And I bet you feel the same way.
What strange time it is, indeed,
To be alive.
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