My relationship with Death is impeccable
Those thoughts now feel like home:
Like peace and serenity

Without them I would be skin and bone—
But futile lungs and a heart that doesn’t beat.
Death makes up the very backbone of me

Without Her I would be nothing.
Her shadow arms embrace me in my dreams
Black lips kiss at my aching hips,
She greets me in bed.

Today we were announced married.
Her dark veil awaiting me at the collapsing arch,
Heart in my mouth
I mutter curses and in return She incites,
Invites.

We are one,
The way it always has been.

Withered and within
a dying breath
and yarns of endless ephemerae,
like thunder, like lightning,
igniting ages of delusion;
A fear.

Astral and adrift,
I  bloom in adventures,
yet amble in ink of hundred hues,
like a bubble, like a feather,
lazing in prismatic pastels;
A vagabond.

Etched and enshrouded  ,
a fiery trail of my footprints
I have yet to reach,
like a fantasy, like a nightmare,
calling, in dusk-soaked whispers;
A journey.

A life ahead.

I dare not scratch the surface Plato itched,
For fear I'd break my fingers on the stone.
My faculties in circles whirl around,
Which metaphor Aristotle would bemoan.

My femininity is undenied
And thus my musings, when they first began,
Would be utterly rejected, undeniably rebuked,
By one featherless bipedal man.

The History that gulped Atlantis down
Into its sunken depths, has made a grave
For all free thinkers, locked by secret PINs.
Philosophy, no more, these souls can save.

I carry naught but spades in both my hands,
Seeking to unearth artful thought's tomb.
Labor-sweat pours down, yet I am left to merely mourn
The heartbeat ne'er since heard from Athen's womb.

Dear Past Self,
We're in the same boat.
You worked hard
To keep us afloat.
What if I
Put your work to waste?
My blood is
All that I can taste.

Dear Past Me,
We're in the same boat.
You rowed far.
You kept us afloat.
I won't fail,
Won't bow to the knife.
I owe you
The rest of my life.

She wasn't particularly pretty,
Just a plain, average girl in high school.
She wasn't particularly brilliant,
Though no one would call her a fool.

She wasn't very athletic,
Preferring to sit in the shade.
She wasn't very artistic;
Her drawings were all left unpraised.

But she wasn't going to block out the cry:
That though childhood may have been tough,
She must stop defining herself by her "wasn't",
And learn, what she was, was enough.

You've heard of a 'heart of glass'.
Well, mine is made of soap.
Careless hands can gut it.
Your fingernails will cut it.
You lay upon me all your grimy guilt,
Then leave me here, unrinsed, with all your filth.
I numb 99% of my own pain,
So the 1% can come eat me up again.
I'll cover you, My Dear, in soft, safe bubbles;
Neglect my own, but listen to your troubles.