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fray narte May 24
my sadness is a vagabond that cannot make up its mind. sometimes, it wanders to the farthest places and brings back a box of strange heartaches. other times, it begs to be felt, and i let it in — like an estranged lover coming back in sultry, august nights only to leave in the morning. and i become everything but me. sometimes, i can hear its breath, lingering in the sunless lines of poetry. other times, it kisses my most familiar scars. i yield, hoping for my skin to stop bruising so **** easily where gentle kisses fall. my sadness is a vagabond and i am yet to draw the blinds. i am yet to shut my windows and lock the door. one day, these ribs won't be prison bars — they will be for keeping out unwelcome, uncertain wanderers. they will be on my side of the battle.

and i will wake up, safe, without an estranged lover lingering on the doorstep — without its scent lingering on my skin.

i will wake up — me. me. me. grounded. not a tabernacle to be carried off. not a skin for sorrows to wear.
fray narte May 24
some things, too soft for my careless hands — nectarine kisses and sunlit skin. the quiet highs of being held, like dahlias dying after a month. vervain wrists dipped in a borrowed prose. your heart — and mine; my love, some things, too soft to not break in my hands.
fray narte May 19
my face is an open casket;
hear it recite obituaries and
watch the mourners cheer
and throw wild roses at my feet;
it's where the rot has started spreading —
like whispers. like applause.
rising, until my skin
resembles raw obsidians
until i am no more.

watch me hang from the ropes —
in hypnotic grace, like suspended light
flying, swaying.
a circus freak.
a certain state of decay.
watch me fall: a weightless,
motionless thing in the shadows.

a vigil.

yet the curtains fall
and mourners leave one by one —
their wrists, stamped with lilac ink.

a vigil.
a funeral.

a freak show and
its curtain call.

lay a cloth on this open casket.
i do not want to be seen anymore.
fray narte May 15
slice my tongue until the pieces resemble flower petals — until poems tremble on my very lips. on summer afternoons, they will look like the dried amaranths on your bedside table — in a city apartment you left. slice my tongue until the pieces resemble smoky quartz. it will sit quietly — each side showing the wild and quiet ways of aching. slice my tongue until it heals its wounds — until the sunset casts what's left of its light, and maybe my state of decay will finally look beautiful.
fray narte May 15
i think i've always known i've loved you — in smudged postscripts in the next page of a letter, in the secrecy of bated breaths, and lonely, sunset afterthoughts. i think i've always known i've loved you, and to be able to say this now without fear or cowardice or equivocation: i've loved you, in past and in present tense — it's magic. it's transcendent. it's freeing, and free-falling, and stepping into the warmest summerlight. it's us — in subversion of poetry, yet just as beautiful, my love — and just as poetic.

i think i've always known i've loved you — in smudged postscripts in the next page of a letter, in the secrecy of bated breaths, and lonely, sunset afterthoughts. i think i've always known i've loved you, and to be able to say this now without fear or cowardice or equivocation: i've loved you, in past and in present tense — it's magic. it's transcendent. it's freeing, and free-falling, and stepping into the warmest summerlight. it's us — in subversion of poetry, yet just as beautiful, my love — and just as poetic.
fray narte May 15
i will hold a gun to my throat myself,
yet somehow,
it is less violent
than the casual words of a god.

mad girls don't cry wolf;
they die. they disappear,
like cobwebs in a darkened corner.
in the shadows, watch me dangle
with a slip knot of fuchsias.

in the shadows,
watch me dig this body up,
until there is a layer of skin
and black lips and lithium quartz
and clichéd promises
you haven't touched.
after all, archaeology is
just an excuse
to look straight at my remains.

in the shadows,
let my skin cave in;
i will take everything down —
every misery, every deception,
every corruption, and every light.
i will ***** out the ******* sun
if it kills me,
leaves me cold as bygone walls.


yet somehow,
it is less violent

than to be loved by a god, until he doesn't.
to be loved by a god, but it isn't.

to be loved by a god: a euphemism, at best

to be loved by a god
is the curse.
fray narte May 15
it's been ten years — ten long years but all around me lies this casual atrocity of how easy it is to slip back into sadness, as though it’s the only thing my body knows well
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