now it’s broken bliss,
as my blood pours over from yesterday.
never finding solace from god,
he tore my flesh away.

i stand cold and dormant,
collecting dust. often times unkept.
the glass covering forbids me from exhaling the air seeping inside; i’m suffocating.

my head has been
spiraling
for days
i can taste
what was once
fruitful
but now
the rations have rotted
i’m just a person
with needs
suffering
endlessly
i try to subdue
the fire
but i am the
arson
though with ash
comes the
rebirth of fertile soil
i play God

there are no halts from hungry minds.
a god, somewhere beyond our reach, granted only us these boundless meals; we should strive to be deserving of such a crop.
as we should be the connoisseurs of such fruitfulness.
as we should devour until fed no more.

a pit can only grow
when chemical weathering is
its only mechanism
burrowed in chest cavities
a home for ants
to dig and delve
into my lungs
and the soot blackens
what was once pink and ripe and lush
i think of hemingway
and his shadows
when he said there is a nice clean place
and i think back to where heaven was
even then amongst the gravel
but each day
i am met with the agony of ant bites
lingering and red and itchy
and the pit keeps growing
like an epidemic devoid of control
so i sit here
in silence
and now i let the ants take their turn to feed on me
because it is only fair
to let them devour me
in the way i have devoured you

It is hard to say
Why these strings
of three were intertwined.
But for some
mysterious and
miraculous reason,
God made
sure we were alive -
Just in time,
To hold hands,
And pray,
amidst the fog.

held as hostage, she reaches for worldly signs, but is only led to estranged sights. women’s frames are set ablaze by those persecuting her, shouting prayers to cast out apparent demons.
they would be so lucky to know that she is a god.
a woman is to be a blackhole: destroyer and creator of heaven.

how do i witness these seasons again,
without you, the one who changes them.

It’s only ***
Per the instructions
That are always set aside
Labeled as a “Hazard”
Labeled “Keep Away From Children”
Labeled “Call 1-800-222-1222”
I am at work
She asks me for help
“I’m looking for…”
And I respond “I’m also looking”
In the dressing room are strewn clothes
My bedroom looks the same
Yet I clean
But in my room
I can’t seem to bend or hang
Because it’s another reminder
Of something that could have been
The women shopping pay no mind
Even though I know
They scream just as much as I do
Because garments
Are the only tangible weapon
To cover the disgraces
That others often ensue
But it’s only ***
And my rage is only a symptom
Of something only God has made
Because only His blood
Is ours to bear

And now let us sit eye to eye
   As our gaze pierces parallel
To the chairs below us
   Let us reach our hands
Across a small, square table
   And walk across the Great Wall of China
Where we can meet again
   For our last embrace

like moths droning towards the saffron yellow light, i am replenished by delicate heat.
your hands hold me with the fierceness of the flame burning inside. it glows violently but softens with each flicker.

nocturnal
we felt
as we laughed,
alone,
and together
on the shallow end
of infinity.

I feel you cradle me, and I watch,
as you set aside warmed milk,
onto the bruised counter. 
I tried yelling out to God,
but you thought it best
to hush me
with a molded pacifier.
I spat on you, in resistance
as my mouth is left
with the taste of
iniquity;
my face, crimson and 
boiling,
and yet, you decide
to sing your hymns.
I responded in Tongues,
in hopes of your praise.
But, you only took
my words as babble.
You take me to the den,
to lay my body;
though I hung,
and spread my arms,
as did He
while persecuted.
Once placed,
you swaddle me
with the wool 
of Abraham's sacrifice.
I then decide
to sit myself
up,
my back pressed against 
chipped, wooden bars.
My eyes averted
to the heavens
and with vengeance
I spurt out:
Do we, only we,
praise the creator?
Or does the creator
praise us?

I want to be baptized
Though not by God’s hands
I want to become an entire ocean
And feel my body crash onto shore
As the tides come in
I will fade into their timing
Because to be an ocean
Is to be a ruler
Of boundless horizons
Of blue
And bodies
Clinging to the depths
Of someone they’ve been trying to uncover
Though remnants lay
My soul travels onward
To different seas
All parts of me

And as the silver rain streams
     And as the birds begin to allay
I remember spring
And all her glory
    Like the small puddles
        Mirroring the grey
A world is nestled there
    Soft and blooming

clouds chasing the horizon,
as they entrance me to follow,
moving forward into the infinite, azure heavens above.
i then tried reaching for God’s hand,
but the tide washed everything away.

the roaring red sun;
black branches, reaching for its god.
humming heat trickling the skin.
crowded clouds, and the distant saffron hue.

you've never felt more alive,
underneath the hurling sky.

some days taste like sunlight, my tongue burns but hungers for more.
there’s a pit inside, howling for further feeding at ungodly hours.

now the sun sets early.
i’m starved for months: the brutal nature of dark solitude.
brittle bones are hollowed from the piercing air.
my body begins to devour itself, consuming muscle and matter.

this body wears away,
now forming something else.

i don’t taste the same.

We begin at autumn; the rust gold leaves shrivel to ash, the air is more crisp, but nothing feels the same. A woman must endure the early darkness, and the stale stench of decaying landscapes.

The winter abruptly approaches, the air is drained from its once praised scent. Now we must inhale the thick frost. The beauty of shimmering snow blinds us from remembering the suffocated life buried underneath; she claws her way out through the ice, to be rekindled by the Sun’s warmth.

After these months of dreaded frigidity, the air begins to return with its earthly perfume. The snow has vanished, leaving the ground on the brink between life and death, but she chooses to grow amongst the leaves.

Summer brings in new, sensual heat; insects linger throughout the scorching air. The Garden of Eden replenished by her hands, the fruit of her labor often consumed before she can savor her work. But, we owe it to her, and we must worship her.

there’s a strange dance with the past:
blurred visions.
if only i could’ve held on a little longer.
swinging back and forth, faster and dizzier, my sunken eyes can’t erase this hazy torture.