⚠Trigger Warning:
The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to ****** assault and misogyny. ⚠
~
you call the ******

*****:

because the hair between my legs reminds you of a cat's fur? reminds you of an animal that is frightened by the simplest of matters--yes, you call me weak.

but that is just the way you prefer us, isn't it?

with our backs arched (but not too high).

forbidden to leave room for a man to crawl under our bodies.

a man is not meant to lie beneath a womxn, no;  

for, a womxn's place is between the man and the mattress.
___________________
***­:

is that all we are good for?
__________________­
box:

many things can be put inside a womxn, an empty vessel that you believe it is your role to make full again.

storage locker where you keep your **** rent-free.

slab of cardboard collecting filth in the attic.
__________________
bea­ver:

another animal analogy.
_________________­_
cookie. cupcake. ****(in). bean:

to butter up. to Flick.

inhaled, not savoured;

nothing more than a midnight fast-food run.
___________________
min­k:

skinned and sold and worn-- a notch in your belt (and your bedpost).
_________________­
cherry:

popped(!)
____________­_____
clam:

stolen treasure.
_________________­
kipper:

in the staff room, someone has left an unopened bag of shrimp crisps. A man I work with walks in and says it smells “like bad ***** in here.”


i laughed.


why the **** did I laugh?
__________________
flo­wer:

plucked from the garden of eden.
__________________­
*******:

blackout.
_____________­____
hoo-ha:

a battle cry.
___________________­
****:

a word i was taught never to say aloud

(i do it anyways.)
_________________­
***:

you abbreviate our bodies.

our voices, too.

will we never make it to four letters?

(love)
__________________­
whispering eye:

a whisper is but a gateway to silence.
__________________­_
You call the ******

*****.
***.
box.
******.
cookie.
cupcake.
****(in).
bean.
mink.
cherry.
clam.
kipper.
flower.
*******.
hoo-ha.
****.
***.
whispering eye.

but never what it truly is:

Beautiful.
____________________

There is a fine line
between
selflessness and self-deprecation

(and I have crossed it)

Be like water.
Be fluid and transparent,
And have nothing to hide.

The fire in my soul
has started to die.

It shrinks down
the trellis of my ribs
like sun-burned flower petals;

wanes itself
to but a simmer

until it is
blue in the flames

Fire needs oxygen
to burn

but

My lungs thin
into icicles

frost congeals
around my chapped
lips

veins freeze over

(and so does this inferno)

~
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide and self-harm⚠️
~

I am the prodigal daughter
of Hestia,
Goddess of the hearth.

But this time,
I will not be returning
home.

Don't you get it?

I've burned it down
already.

Perhaps there shall exist no
redemption
for my incendiarism.

Perhaps there is no saving
a pyromaniac

from

her pyromantic sins

from getting drunk
off molotov cocktails

to baptizing her
melancholic fingers
in candle wax

to thrusting her head
in the oven,
where carbon monoxide
steals away her remaining
strands of breath.

Tell me is it still arson
if it is yourself you are
setting on fire?--

I wear lighter fluid
atop my collar bone
like it is fragrance

rouge my lips
with gunpowder,
every word an angry bullet
ricocheting off my teeth
and back down my throat.

I am circus act of a girl,
swallowing my own fire
just to survive

Ironic, isn't it?

Because for me,
survival entails
burning myself alive.

Soon,
I will have no teeth left
to bite these bullets:

This sadness.

This anger

rises from the
chasms of my soul
like bile.

Strange--

I always thought
myself to be the
epitome
of darkness.

Perhaps I simply
lured
the darkness towards me
like an eclipse of moths--

and you know
what everyone says about
moths & flames,
don't you?

It's funny now
that I think about it:

how the stars also
inhabit darkness,

how when I wish upon them,
I am really only wishing on
fire.

And where there is fire,
destruction is sure to
follow.

It is no wonder
all of my dreams--

those of

love.

magic.

verse.

have shuddered to
ash.

I make snow angels
in these ashes,
stretching my tongue out,
the remnants of
desire
scorching my tastebuds.

Here I lie,
like an extinguished
cigarette,
my use fulfilled and discarded.

But the stars
aren't too fond of
nicotine

even though
the very atoms
that comprise my essence
contain the stuff of galaxies.

But, oh , how these galaxies have
evaded
my brooding grasp.

When my fire
begins to dwindle,
I do whatever it takes
to re-ignite what has been
lost--

lap at the iridescent
gasoline puddles
that wade along
lonely
street corners;

sear campfire stories
across my palm lines
(I try to read
my future,
but the smoke
hangs too heavy);

strike matches across
my petrified wrists

just to feel something.

After all,
what am I without
my hellfire--

they could not
save me from it;

they could not
save me
from burning.

But perhaps the
true peril
was never in burning,
but in

burning out.