The green light has frozen over.

See that haunted house,
how its windows
flicker desperately
in their attempt at survival,
how every lampshade droops
under the sublime gravity
of its glassy tears,
how each blackened bulb
crystallizes then shatters
like the constellation-mottled
pupils of the starry-eyed--
of any
optimist
dreamer
lover
bright-young-thing.

Nomadic phantoms float along
the pin-***** stalagmites
of the ceiling in ringlets of
emerald shadow.

Surely,
dawn will break,
(unconventionally.
tragically.)
The sun itself shall bow to ruin;
and, in a remarkably quiet gesture,
it will fizzle out
like a can of cherry cola
that's gone stale,
like humanity's own taste
for the light
(and its growing appetite
for the darkness).

Still,
we drink on--
in wait of the rush,
indulging in the hope
that somewhere
in this dying
expanse of universe,
there is someone
who will love us
for the tipsy,
poetic souls we are.

~
⚠️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.

Careful,

Little Red.



Don’t let those

puppy-dog eyes

fool ya.



{If you lie down with dogs, you’ll get flees}

(I suppose I am so fond of parathesis,
because I, too, only exist as an afterthought)

Come one,

come all

and

join me

for a night of

unadulterated madness.
--------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------
“I see a dreadful fright in your future.”

–Madame Tarot
-----------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------
Poor, dizzy fools.

Watch how they

go round and round

until their eyes pop

from their sockets,

until they *****

pink streaks of cotton candy

onto the sweet

horses with golden hooves

and blazing eyes.

–Cursed Carousel
--------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------
My lovely Lady Tightrope

I do believe that skirt is

far too short and

that leotard far too snug.



When you said you wished

to put on a show for us,

I did not realize this is

what you had implied.

–Getting Freaky
----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------
They say these grounds are haunted

by little girls in feathered bonnets

and little boys in blue trousers.


And, if you listen carefully,

mingled in with the pervasive

notes of carnival music

are the morbid wails of these children–

children whose balloons have burst,

and whose ice cream cones have been dropped.
--------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------
“But Mr. Clown, mama says I’m not supposed to take candy from strangers.”
-----------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------------
How ironic that the ringmaster

is missing his own ring finger.

–She purred like a kitty but knew how to pounce
----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------
“Why, what terribly big teeth you have.”

“The better to eat you with, my dear.”
----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------
I present to you

The Great Dr. Whim.



Watch how he saws his

assistant in half.



Relish in the piercing

serenade of her screams,

and how they ricochet off the

tapestried walls.



Grin wildly as her blood–

thick with candy floss

and other disgustingly sweet

delicacies–

drips down into the

cracks of the floorboards,

slowly inching its way

towards the audience.

–Magician’s Corner
----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------
See there?


Hidden among the

silhouette of the trees

is a man with

blistered lips and

charred teeth.


If you look carefully,

from a distance,

you will notice

a gray fog curling above the

pines–

it is the smoke billowing from his

nostrils,

threatening to wrap

its angry hands

around any guest

who dare venture too far

from the carnival grounds.

–Fire Eater
-----------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------
More often than not

his daggers do not hit the target,

but instead find themselves

embedded in

the backs of our

lovely attendees.

–Knife Thrower
---------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------------
And to end the evening,

we have something spectacular

in store for you–

our human cannonball.


He is to fly,

but to never come down,

cut from his tether

to this earth

like a balloon that has been cut

from its string.


And at the most climactic moment

of his soaring escapade,

his flesh is to ignite,

leaving for his viewers

something resembling a firework show,

as a mesh of burning cartilage and

scorched bone set the night

sky ablaze with horror.
---------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------------
Oh?


You say you are afraid?


But I am simply fulfilling

the promise I made to you

upon your initial arrival–

it was madness I promised,

and it is madness you have received.

I will not forgive

I will not let bygones be bygones

I will not bury the hatchet

(how can I bury a weapon
when it is still embedded in my spine?)

no--

I will write poetry instead.

II. Mysophobia

Sure,
now,
when I look to the right
of my bedroom door,
I see the light-switch for what it is--
a light-switch,
inanimate,
with absolutely no potential
to cause me harm.

But, at eleven years old,
a light-switch
is a breeding ground
for plethoras of
girl-hungry microorganisms
waiting to infect me
with some vile, incurable illness.

In the sixth grade,
I wash my hands the
same way I would
eventually come to write poetry--
obsessively,
with reckless abandon
and, most importantly,
with the insatiable desire to escape.

I flick on the light-switch and
I wash my hands

I touch the door handle and
I wash my hands

I just come out of the shower and
I wash my hands

I learn what a ******* is at school one day and
I wash my hands

I think of *** for the first time
(I enjoy it)
and
I wash my hands
(I regret it)

I believe God must be angry with me so
I wash my hands

I wash my hands.
with tedious precaution
so as not to miss
a single palm line
or fingernail.

I wash my hands
until my skin
splits like volcanic rock,
until dew drops of lava
clot across my knuckles,
until I've sacrificed every last
bit of my flesh
in my attempt at purification.

I wash my hands
until it hurts to
eat.
write.
pray.

(But in four years,
I will have stopped
praying altogether,
anyway.)

I dunno how to forgive you

(and I dunno if I want to)

I’m too sad
to make my bed today

I always look
my most beautiful
when I cry;

the bags under my eyes
burn as poignantly
as waning crescents,
lips plump as they quiver
with the same multitudes
of Artemis' bowstring,
chest heave-hoeing
against the tempered
vessel of my soul.

I wear sadness
remarkably well,
you know.

Like black lipstick.
or short hair.
or poetry.

(Cleopatra's got nothing on me, baby)

My reflection tessellates
against the swell of my tears,
evolves into
kaleidoscopic fractals
of smouldering thrones
and howling queens--
into images most
strange and terrible.

(But, oh, how I welcome them.)

A delicate curtsy of words
respires from my mouth,
forms upon my tongue
its homage--
hail thy shattered kingdom
hail thy shattered kingdom
hail thy shattered kingdom.

I only know what it means to miss someone; never have I known what it means to be missed.

"No more tears now; I will think about revenge."

-- Mary, Queen of Scots
------------------------------------------------

Someone once told me that
I have the eyes of a Queen,
that they have known sorrow
in this life and in the last.

I think I must have shared
a heart with
Mary, Queen of Scots,
for I too have experienced
profound betrayal,
one that has shackled itself
to my being so violently,
that my soul has turned
purple with contusion.

Tell me--have you no shame?

Will you betray your Queen?

Will you exclude her
from your most sacred gatherings
of friendship and empathy?

Will you speak of her
most intimate secrets?

Will you befriend her foes?

Will you defile her name
in your own frivolous writings?

Will you accuse her of treason
so as to distract from
your own mutinous crimes?

My beloved companions,
my brothers and sisters--
will you attempt to commit
this heinous sin of sororicide
against the woman
who loved you so generously
(so poetically)?

I entreat--
will you?

(yet, I know you already have).

But though my Queendom
may be small,
it is not insignificant,
for it is vast in ways
incomprehensible to your
selfish minds--
its kindness and poetry
are infinite,
both of which you
have taken gross advantage of.

And though my Queendom
may crumble at your hands,
it shall never fall;
with stanzas
mighty and passionate
I will rebuild without you.

You have overstayed
your welcome here.
(perhaps you never belonged
in the first place).

There was once a time
when you vowed to protect
your Queen
and, now, all I've got
to show for it
is a broken pinkie
and the scuff of footprints
across my spine.

What shall it be next?

My head upon a silver platter?

No.

I was not reborn
only so my reign should
be sullied by these
treacherous sadists
I once called "friends".

It is my head
you want,
but this time,
it is yours I shall have.

I pin the anemic bodies
of poems
to the bed of palm
like they are cadavers
waiting to be
d  i  s  s  e  c  t  e  d.

This is the
only
way
I know to
make sense of things,
each enjambed line
a heartbeat closer
to understanding this
sadness
(or letting
go
         of
it).

I gawk at the contents
of the shelves
that live amongst the
curdling strips of wallpaper.
Yellowing mason jars,
each containing some
tragic specimen swimming in  
formaldehyde tears--
Plath's last breaths;
Sexton's paper cut fingertips;
Van Gogh's severed flesh.

The sight of this
ghastly collection
sends the scars on my wrists
into a spiralling ache.

I once made the mistake
of assuming poetry
would instantaneously
exorcize the aching--
it only brought me closer.

But I must remember
that bleeding is the last stop
on the route to mending;
it's gotta hurt
before it can heal.

So I write,
bear the sting
of these words
as they stitch together
the tattered patchwork
of my heart;
until the scars meet
at the pinnacle
of my anatomy,
crisscross,
bright constellations
flowering from the darkness,
starlit tulips
that shake the
sorrowed dew drops
from their rain-torn petals,
celestial hieroglyphs
waiting to be read--
This is your history;
not your future.

TW: Self-harm
•••
I’ve never looked as good in diamonds
as I have in red. Blood:

a string of pearls around my wrist.
Crimson lace—garter caressing thigh.

Diamonds don’t shine in sorrow
the way steel does.

I find it quite ironic

how some

men complain when

we don't sit with our

thighs pressed together--

when we don't

"sit like ladies."



Because these

same men are

so unfathomably eager

for us to spread our legs wide

for them in the bedroom.

written across my anatomy,
a brilliant Poetica:

lips part/
line breaks

the dimple in my jaw

an

a
c
r
o
s
t
i
c

clavicles
mere sisters of verse

fingerprints are but
whirlpools
of apostrophe and quotation

the trellis of my ribs
composed of
stanza

behind

my papyrus heart
dwells

every beat
a turning page--

and this is my story

At thirteen years old,
I learn that
not all mermaids are like Ariel--
some mermaids are sirens,
femme fatales of the seven sea
who lure sailors to their drownings
with sweet, nectared voices.

Still, I wish to don the life of a siren,  
whose danger appears
dizzyingly seductive to me.
I have become fascinated
with the dark and the peculiar,
you know,
and, as a result, I too
have undergone a dark, peculiar
evolution--
and, as literature has dictated,
such a character as myself
is to be scrutinized
under an omniscient perspective:

She wears thick, purple eyeliner
and dresses only in
heavy blacks and deep blues,
an abrupt transition
from her previous adoration for
pastels and ruffled sleeves.
But it is not only her countenance
that is indicative of this disturbed youth--
there are the books she reads,
tales of death, gore, and
other macabre eccentricities.
Her favourite titles
are those by Edgar Allan Poe.

How suiting then,
that she should be an
Anabel Lee in the making--
"her highborn kinsmen came
  And bore her away...
To shut her up in a sepulchre
  In this kingdom by the sea.-- "
she just doesn't realize it  yet--
that she is a drowning girl impending,
that she was never to be the siren, after all,
but the poor fool
who succumbed to the siren's
dreadful tides.

You,
my Darling,
have a bite
strong enough
to cut through
sea glass--
do not forget this.

It’s tough “love”
not
tough love

Can beauty exist in the aftermath of sorrow?

My ****** writes a poem:

.

Tears percolate from
round, fishbowl eyes,
cheeks a sting
with salt
and loneliness.

I barter with the deluge,
hold my breath
for as long as my lungs
will permit
until a motley of colour
bruises over my vision.

And I can't help but think:
perhaps fainting is
the next best thing to dying,
especially when you are too afraid
to commit to the permanence
of killing yourself.

My only dilemma?

What am I to do with myself--
with the tears--
once I regain consciousness?

Dear Reader,

I give you permission.

I give you permission
to scar the spine
of this book
from the countless
times you will
crack it open.  

I give you permission
to highlight
and underline
and doodle
and annotate
these pages
until they have
no room to breathe.

I give you permission
to accidentally
drop
wet
spill on-
backpack-shove
the cover.

I give you permission
to dog-ear the corners
when you've lost
your bookmark
(and your way).

I give you permission
to break in these words
with the same
calamitous,
neurotic,
frenzied
passion with which
I wrote them.

I give you permission
to make this
Poetry your home.

Oh
horrendous
Delilah—

You’ve cut away
the most
poetic
parts of me.

January 1st, 2022,
12:23 AM:

empty

IV. Crimson

It's not about the way it hurts--
it's about the way I bleed,
the way my skin
splits and geysers.

A deluge of red
leaches from pale, marred arms,
adheres to cotton sleeves
like a seething tentacle
affixed to the stern of a ship
(when I get home from school and undress,
my skin will peel away
with the rest of my clothes.)

But at the first sign of healing,
I will take my razor blade from
wherever I've hidden it
(Under my bra strap,
pressed between the
mattress and the box spring,
tucked inside the alcove
of a hollowed-out book)
and tear myself anew,
watch with morbid tranquillity
as tidal waves of crimson
surge from my veins
as they threaten to destroy
the very body from
which they were birthed.

(And this is how the drowning begins.)

"I believe in you,"

whispered the moon

to the tide.

When I say
I wish I was beautiful,
I mean I wish I could
sculpt myself into the same loveliness
borne in the eyes of Marble Goddesses
In Ancient Greece,
I know I would have been pretty
you know;
curls a liberated wreath atop my head,
a nose as grand as Mount Olympus,
body as curvaceous as the summits
of Mediterranean waves.

I mean I wish I could
steal Orion's Belt  from the sky
and wear it around my waist
to cinch away all the extra room
I know I take up,
cuz there's no gravity
in outer space--
it's impossible to feel fat
in outer space.

I mean I wish I could
be as cliche as a rose,
because,
despite being starkly unoriginal,
everyone loves roses the same way
everyone loves photoshop sleekness
and Tumblr physique.

I mean I wish I was
lucid dreams / leather journals / dewdrops on leaves / fairy lights / eyelashes on pillowcases / moon-gazing /  listenin' to Bohemian Rhapsody for the first time / standing ovations / the butterflies in your fingertips / frost congealed on tree branches / lightning storms / Disneyland fireworks / soft bed sheets / champagne kisses / polaroid photographs /  whales howling at sea / midnight inspirations / double rainbows / bed time stories / the skyline at golden hour / foggy 7 AM’s / snow under streetlights / the colour purple / when I say I wish I was beautiful I mean I wish I was
a poem.

Call me hysterical all you want.

Some of the greatest artists were
[are] hysterical women.

The Spring
detests the girl
with the ivory complexion,
dollops of rosy flesh
sunk against her face
like discarded peach pits
(and discarded
is she.
forgotten
is she).

Mother Nature's
Alabaster *******,
they've dubbed her.

And tried Mother Nature
to preach tranquillity
to her daughter,
a reminder to always keep
still
amidst any tempest
****** into her path.  

But mother,
I am the tempest.

Come tomorrow morning,
the spring snow
will have melted,
but frigid I shall remain.

Dissonant and
storm-wrenched
I shall remain.

All the world begins to thaw
as I loll about in
the tundra of this loneliness.

When dawn arrives,
I will draw the curtains
before the rising sun
shoots me that beam
of apocalyptic grin.

The world is not ending,
you will tell me
(but mine is).

I have always existed
separately
from the rest,
you see.

The bright evenings and the even brighter mornings.

The unmistakably poignant scent of freshly-cut grass.

Marmalade sunsets that descend effortlessly into their celestial counterparts.

Flowers blossoming to profound vibrancy.

I wish I could tell the flowers
it is only a matter of time
before some wandering child
will rip apart their petals
in a ruthless game of
“He Loves Me
He Loves Me Not.”

(Child,
I Know this game
all too well—
the perils of picking
an even number
of petals).

And it is only a matter of time
before autumn dolls out
its wiltings.

I am also well accustomed
to the art of wilting,
you know.

The only difference
between me
and the sunflowers
is that the spring
belongs to them.

It is the epoch
of renewal,
of second chances
in spite of their inevitable
witherings,
both past and future.

But the present--
the spring--
it will always belong to them.

I know not
how it feels
to heal alongside
the sunflowers.

I know not
what it means
to shed the prospect of
death
even if it is only
temporary.

My heart is caught
in an impenetrable limbo.

Tell me
Mother Nature,
how do I move on?

For letting go
seems a foreign enigma
to me.

So,
really,
what else am I to do
but draw the curtains
each sunrise?

As I am left to weather
the deluge
while all the world blooms,
as I am left to
pour,
I desperately
await the
rain.

For it is only
in the rain
that I shall return home.

Among the wreckage
of her soul,
lie shards of ribcage
(splintered like
the stern of a ship
that has weathered
many a beastly storm)
and fragments of heart
(veins as thin and lifeless
as the gossamers
of waterlogged spider webs).

Sunken treasures
you could call these things,
waiting in this perpetual limbo,
this Bermuda of Lovers Lost.

"Girl, overboard!"
he'd cried
(even though he
had been the one
to push her over the edge
in the first place).

Imagine that:

wrists tied behind her--
what hurts more?
The rope burns
or the cuts?--
feet sweeping despondently
across that doomed plank;
she can feel her love's breath--
frigid as Neptune's sea-bound winds--
undulating against the back of her neck.

She turns around slowly,
and he shoots her that
pathological
barracuda grin,
promises her that he cares--
truly, he cares--
that she means something to him.

But many a thing
a pirate does thief,
the truth
being one of them.

The next thing she knows,
she is plummeting
(watch how she does fall for him)
towards the convulsing
stretch of grey beneath her,
and as she whips about
through the bluster and the rain,
she stares up at him
with wild, pleading eyes.

She wants to scream out,
"Why?"
but there is no room
for words (or poetry)
upon the lips of the drowned--
after all,
dead girls tell no tales

I think perhaps I will write
a poem once the pain has subsided.

⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide and self-harm ⚠
----------------------
May 30th, 2018

These wayward breaths
lead me to
the Dead Sea.

"This is where you belong;"
whisper the spirits
of The Deep--
"this is where all
broken things
come to die."

The Dead Sea
is my bathtub-
ramshackle tiles,
contorted shower rod
bowing under the weight
of the fraying curtain.

The water sprints
in a scalding race
from the tap,
its gurgling clamour
veiling the sound
of Billie Eilish
playing on the speaker
(isn't it lovely all alone?)

I stare at the Exacto Knife
clutched between my
water-pruned fingertips.

And
the moment you pick
up a knife instead of a
shoddy razor blade
from a dollar store
pencil sharpener,
you know you've
hit rock bottom
(did you know
the Dead Sea is
the lowest
point on earth?;
have you ever experienced
the remarkable plummet
of that kind of low?)

I trace the patterns
of invisible
constellations
on the terrain of
my flesh;
at first,
I am too afraid  
to press down
but when I do--
my god,
when I do--
I draw blood
with the same artistry
borne from a
painter's hand,
each laceration
a brush stroke closer
to someplace beyond this
sadness.

The night
breathes down the back of my neck
in tendrils of air that reek
of Mexican cigars
and something like copper
(something like blood).

Cold bedsheets cling to
the perspiration on my body,
stick to me like a band-aid.
Come morning,
it will hurt
to peel them off--
it will hurt to get out of bed
(perpetual exhaustion
will do that
to a girl).

A clock prowls in the
corner of the room,
pondering the hours
of sleep that have evaded me
with every hopeless tick
of its gnarled hands.

Lost time adheres to
the skin beneath my eyes–
black as the darkness
that threatens to devour me.

From somewhere
within the abysmal black
she glares at me menacingly,
her red eyes smouldering
in the opaqueness,
yellow fangs bearing down on me
like the bars of a prison cell.
for I am her captive–
I am a slave of The Night.

Every step I take
is catatonic,
an acute contrast to
the way my thoughts
bolt about the
convoluted labyrinth
of my psyche.

I couldn't stop crying this morning,  
so I took an extra Cipralex*
in the hopes that
my mind would slow down,
even though it has
only been twelve hours
since I last took one,
even though it is
a once-a-day type of thing.  

When I go to brush my teeth,
I stare, bemused,
at the bristles,
how it appears as though
they have been passed under
a fisheye lens.

I feel like I am framed
in a Margaret Keane painting.
Every object or face
I happen to fixate on
seems so comically magnified
that it's actually quite sad.

For I simply haven't the room
in this heart of mine
to house something so
colossal.

I am a broken home.

I try to cover up
the blemishes
the thumbtacks have
left in the walls with
glow-in-the-dark stickers
and photographs of
Audrey Hepburn.
But the stickers have begun
to bubble and peel,
the photographs never
resting flat against the surface.

Your typical bandaid solution--
but bandaids don't heal scars,
they only cover them.

When it is dark out,
the scars look like tree branches,
the type that scritch-tap
against the window pane
only to startle you awake
as the world approaches
the pinnacle of night.

I've strung up
fairy lights round
the perimeter of each room,
in the hopes that the scars
won't appear so ghastly
amongst the shadows.

Sometimes,
I plug too many
lights in at once,
the circuits overload,
and then--
blackout.

This dollhouse has shattered;
up until now,
the other girls and boys
loved to play with me,
though they never did play nice.

They pried my doors
from their hinges,
stole away the secrets
nailed beneath the floorboards
only to shun me
when it came to
their own indiscretions.

Atop the satin bedsheets
their tear stains,
some clear dollops,
some mascara-winged streaks
across the pillowcases.

But when I would cry?

The corridors would
ring with silence--
with the echoes of
nobody.

Empty.

Forgotten.

In my mutilated aftermath,
the little boys and girls
no longer had any use for me--
rarely does anyone wish
to entertain the broken.
A cruelly ironic situation
considering they were the ones
who tore me apart in the first place
(but god forbid
they ever take responsibility
for their transgressions).

So they hid me away
in their attics.
at the back of their closets.
underneath their beds
amongst the lost socks;
the dust bunnies;
the monsters.

This is what it looks
like to be continuously
taken advantage of
without ever quite
mustering the courage
to stand up for yourself.

I am the marionette girl.

Eyes a porcelain glaze,
I watch you leave.
I try to look away,
but the strings
protruding from my scalp
pull me upright.

There is no liberation
for the betrayed.

There is only sadness
for the betrayal,
only pills to stymie
the sadness.

But like these strings,
this sadness remains
tethered-to-me

(always).

~

"Why do you want to **** yourself, Jade? So people will miss you? Is that it?"

"I want to **** myself because I know they wouldn't."

What do ya say, Kid?

Do you have another poem in you?

P  o  e  t  r  y

                ↓

                religion

You assign to us the connotation of fragility–
“a woman is like a flower.”

Entangled in your own bias,
you see a flower for its petals only,
so blinded by their delicacy,  
you forget the blazing pistil.

What if I told you a flower
is no different than a loaded gun?

If I had to choose between being
alone in a forest with a bear
or being alone in a forest
with a man, I would choose
the bear. See, you can reason
with a hungry bear; you cannot
reason with a hungry man.

But I’m genuinely curious.

If I’m just a poet.

Or if I’m just sad.

****.

Hi, Atus

To any girl who should come to love him after me: this is my cautionary tale.
___________________
li­stening to the same song on repeat until you hate it / butterfly wings pinned to cork / empty bandaid boxes / hungover mornings / broken glass beneath feet / panic attacks / swallowing pool water / paper cuts / seeing your mother cry / cold bed sheets in the winter / slamming on the brakes / starless skies / scabby knuckles / lipstick on your teeth  / bruised eyelids / unanswered text messages relapsing / pills that don't wash down the right way / hospital waiting rooms / cliffhangers / wine stained linens / splinters under fingernails / second best / cracked snow globes / writer's block / bit tongues / trigger warnings / pipe dreams  / names carved into flesh / dissolved forevers / chipped sand dollars / misplaced secrets / loose compass needles / aeroplanes in want of shooting stars / hunger in want of beauty / heartbreak in want of love / staying in want of leaving / goodbye / this poem / he  / will / never /  read/  it

The other day,
I unblocked you from
Instagram.

Not because I miss you.

Not because I am inviting you
back into my life
after a year and a half--

Because I refuse
to remain in hiding.

*
Olly Olly Oxen Free,
Darlin'.

You're playing my game now.

ADHD forgets to feed the fish
and when she finally remembers,
it is dead at the bottom of the tank.

Well, I suppose dead is an understatement:

a mossy film embalms the body
(at least what is left of it)
its suction-cup maw putrefied
as it suckles the sickle of death.

Half of the body is there.

Half of it has disintegrated.

Imagine existing nowhere and everywhere
all at once; microscopic remnants
defile every particle of water long after
the rest of you has vanished.

⚠Trigger Warning: the following poem contains religious allusions that some might find offensive⚠

Memories belittled by dust,
preserved, taxidermal fashion
inside an anthology
of vintage photographs.

Though,
I am aware that  
"vintage"
is only a euphemism  
for a possession
that was once beautiful.  

Your treason
has turned all the photographs
ugly,  
their corners curling up  
like the spiral of a chameleon's tail.  

Vivacious colours devolve
into lacklustre,  
sepia tones,
blending in with  
the palette of my
surrounding melancholy.  

Ensnared in a dilemma:  


Do I miss you?  


or  


Do I hate you?  


(perhaps a bit of both,

but never

I love you--


not anymore.)  


Apertures mewl,
bruising the gallery walls
with tears.  

I frame your
betrayals
with gold and
garlands of daisies
in an attempt to soften  
our past  


(it never works).  


These
vacant
hallways
trap your phantom footprints
beneath the cobblestone.  

Was it really  
such a guiltless task  
to walk away from me?

Embedded  
across the rungs of my spine
are the scuff marks  
from where you wiped the dirt  
off your boots only after
wrenching the welcome mat
from underneath me.  

I have accepted that
our friendship was
merely transactional
to you;  

I served up  
all the love I had to  
give
like John the Baptist's head
was served up upon a silver platter.  


You feasted  


while


I starved.  


Yet,
full is this menagerie
of lost things.  

I know
I should burn  
the polaroids
in the name of closure.  

Perhaps
I am just afraid there will be no art--
no poetry--
left to sculpt
from the cinders that
remain.

⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicidal ideation and self-harm ⚠
~
A note to any friends who read this post: while this poem is written in the present tense, please be aware that it is merely a memory I write of--not a present circumstance.

~
They say

cut

d
o
w
n

the

road

if

you

wanna

off

yourself

not across the street

but
  

         I
                          
                      j walk,  slashing
                                                 ­    d
                                                        i
     ­                                                     a
          ­                                                  g
             ­                                                 o
              ­                                                  n        
     ­                                                              a
                                                                ­      l
                                                         ­             

onto thighs like lightning bolts

                     caught in the storm
                                   of this limbo
                                                           ­     cuz
                                                        ­              i don't wanna live
                     but
                            i don't wanna die


either.

Bumble, I find it quite ironic
that your mascot is a Bee.

Not only have you chosen a mascot
who belongs to a dying species
(good men are also a dying species,
I'm afraid) but you have chosen a mascot
who is known to sting.

Tell me, Bumble, if I am the one
who is being stung does that mean
he will drop dead immediately
after stinging me?

Or is he just a No-Good-Wasp
that will never be held
accountable for his
mistreatment of women?

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

The inconquerable crusade
of the razor

plucking at my nerves
like they are violin strings.

My fingers go numb.

I promise myself
this is a song
I will never sing again

(but, oh, how I love the music).

⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to ****** harassment ⚠️

~
Wearing mirrored sunglasses
is not a fashion statement
but a statement of
*******.

Did you think
they would bury
your sinful leer?

That I would not
catch you staring at me
as I walked
through the parking lot?

That I would happen upon
my own fearfully contorted
reflection
instead of your
girl-hungry glare?

That I would be silent?

For silence is a language
I discarded long ago.

Later,
after blowing me
an array of kisses
through yellowing teeth,
you yell from
your car window
and accuse me of
staring first

when we both know
I just stared back,
my eyes arranged into dog fights.

Lick your lips
at me
like I am prey
and you will
unveil both the She-Beast
and her bite.

I will not be stalked--

Instead,
I stalk away,
spitting the word
"creep"
over my shoulder.

Behind me,
comes the snicker
of a hyena--

but I know
that hyenas
snicker even when they
have been wounded.

I ensnare you
in these words
like the animal
you are.

Remember--

my poetry cuts deeper
than the teeth
of any carnivore.

The poem is
Mightier than the

pervert.

Do you see my sadness, too?