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Heather Ann Oct 2018
maybe we could go to the river?
you don't have to remember what it felt like--
sizzling against the rain.
today i am lonely,
ticking in time with a broken clock.
entering a state of breaking daylight
lingering in the middle of february,
festering,
until it burns.
Heather Ann Oct 2018
i want you
i want you
i want you
a delicacy--
a vision,
my epiphany.
you are starlight;
i am a fraction of the sun
and we
burn
burn
burn
in our own catastrophic collision
Oct 2018 · 207
blindness
Heather Ann Oct 2018
the ache of your eyelids,
heavy
from the weight of staring at the sun
filling up with a hint of blood.
they danced in my visions
those of my own hallucinations
where some days i felt so lonely
i dreamt so hard i felt fuzzy.
i saw what i wished i could see,
no longer behind a glass screen.
i could see double
and hold hands with myself
to try and keep my fear out.
Oct 2018 · 300
the puritan code
Heather Ann Oct 2018
1; fear will not **** you, but it can eat you alive and make your insides rot.

2;you must allow yourself to thaw before you can melt--the cold was meant to allow you to feel your own heartbeat. don't ignore it

3; you are alive, even if just barely. make sure to lift your eyes to the sun to know that it still shines even amongst the dark.

4; breathe in with your nose and out through your mouth. you are a passageway for ancestral air and you should take that responsibility seriously.

5; your blood is not special, nor is it ordinary.

6; it is only by chance that you are here. a line of perfectly timed decisions birthed you--remember why you're here.

7; look at the mountains. they were here before you and will be long after you're gone. one day you will become the air that surrounds it.

8; you can lose your footing, but don't despair. sometimes you fall into a new path and it's like breathing in clarity you've never once known.

9; listen to what you're body tells you, it knows you better than you think.

10; when everything turns to dust remember you have the ability to start over. it cannot harm you to wipe the slate clean
Heather Ann Oct 2018
tuscan summers,
wearing paisley and plaid,
barefoot amongst the wildflowers.

i would wear my wedding gown
in the backyard,
with our babies growing up on the front porch.

we had free range
underneath northern, starry skies--
taking trips to the mountains.

my books would be stacked
against the ivy
that crawled up the walls.

slow mornings,
crawling like molasses
out of the rickety screen door.

i would give up modernity
just to melt in the snow,
growing like weeds through
the cracks of your bone marrow.
Oct 2018 · 272
addictive tendencies
Heather Ann Oct 2018
and we all fall down;
down
twisted tunnels of temptation,
in the depths of our own insanity.
it's easier to rip the seams of time
with our bare hands
when we see through
glassy eyes.
the revving engines of impatience,
hearing future echoes of ambulances--
mourning taste buds looking for
a drop,
to quench the thirst
of someone that can't seem to swallow enough.
Heather Ann Oct 2018
give me a call when you can:
when you get the chance
or when you wake up, when you have the time--
any one of those three.

9 o'clock,
channel number 57 on your T.V.,
don't call me back.

hey babe,
i just had a question.
no rush to answer it.

i need six letters...
gimme a call.

i want you to remember...

i figured out what i was going to ask you.
i know you're available,
i know you're available.
sorry.

the phones working again--
i'd like to throw it through the window
but i can't afford a new window.

i wish you'd pick up your phone,
if it's thunder and lightning,
stay out of the cellar.

please call me back.

call me when you get home--
i know you're available.

could you give me a call back?

bye bye.
Oct 2018 · 185
ash blonde
Heather Ann Oct 2018
i would've stood barefoot in those woods
just to kiss you--
away from the pounding sounds
of mediocre music.
my heart beat like a finale
of fireworks
every time you smiled at me.

i've discovered something sweet,
like sugared gold against my lips,
tasting like summer and sun-ripened strawberries.

we would've hung out feet,
letting them dangle over the water's edge
as if there weren't whirlpools in my chest.

we would dance on carpeted floors
tripping over each other
trying to pretend we didn't mean to.

i envisioned the possibilities,
as my throat tried to swallow down the beginnings
of everything we could be.
Oct 2018 · 92
alive in wonderland
Heather Ann Oct 2018
i.
i've fallen into a land
where my vision has shifted,
everything now looks evil and twisted
like the knots in my stomach.

the blood moons drips
onto my ribs--
caging my beating heart.
my soul is on fire,
but i think i'm dead--
dragging the weight of my broken bones
through a forest of hands
hell-bent on ripping out my throat.

doom lingered like dust,
a sky bruised purple
as the silence of bare limbs
slices into me like a blade.
we are boys and girls
in graveyards full of ghosts
with claw marks carved into old stone.

my chest is a catacomb,
a deserted place
trying to find something solid,
but the feeling never stays.
i can't be caged,
i can't be caged,
i can't be caged.

ii.
thumping like a rabbit's foot
hitting the center with an X,
an arrow in the heart.
branches snapped off
like her limbs,
dragging a knife, dripping in blood.
she cried oceans for the moon,
begging her to pull the tides.
a vague prophecy
with a river running red.
what's it from?
what's it from?
Oct 2018 · 228
bloodlines
Heather Ann Oct 2018
a river flows in both of us
with the same thrum of an erratic heartbeat,
steady hands that secretly shake
and heavy eyelids that feel like weights.
we grew up on the shelf--
decorum for the dollhouse
of broken dreams.
born and raised
we rise and fall
like balloons,
but we don't always get to reach the stars.
we kneel,
not in submission,
or for prayer,
but to remember where we come from
and where we'll go back to.
we crack and twist like dead trees
leaning from the weight.
diamonds, hiding,
in wait.
we are perennials--
we blossom and die;
forgetting we come alive again.
but when the sun has set and we lose our breath
we shiver amongst the silence,
only landmarks not found yet
Oct 2018 · 136
heartbreak hotel of '97
Heather Ann Oct 2018
sticky subway stations in summer
sending lukewarm love-letters to former lovers.
the salt from your lips stuck to my skin like sweat
dripping in the city--
buzzing with the static of electricity.
i made love to myself under stormy weather
where the air tasted like change.
i've always loved the feeling more than the taste.
unfinished(???)
Oct 2018 · 550
calluna vulgaris
Heather Ann Oct 2018
where does heather grow?
in the north
blossoming; under late summer skies.
it is the fire
as told in old norse
like it was spoken from the gods,
in mere whispers,
too afraid of the spark.
Oct 2018 · 196
jupiter//ribs
Heather Ann Oct 2018
our bones have grown, you cut your hair
but i let mine grow--
when summer felt endless,
the days melted together
to craft a seamless blanket of
memories
made by the hands of two girls
who didn’t know how to sew.
we were not diamonds, but stones
overturned in the ocean.
but we loved like it was anything other than grime.
Oct 2018 · 386
metropolitan museum of art
Heather Ann Oct 2018
i wonder what it would be like to touch lips with the mona lisa,
parchment paper tasting like olives and old wine.
how dare i so much gaze upon those royal crowns
when their value is more than i can name--
sailing ships just to catch her name,
paddling monstrous waters to merely catch her gaze.

freckles on your skin resembling ancient constellations
that i still see to this day,
that made me love those stars that gleamed in her eyes
looking at me as if i'm her prey.

but there's already an arrow in my heart,
i'm begging god to let me fight for her honor
a princess in shining armor.
only ancient when i close my eyes,
you are art amongst the flowers--
please don't float away.
Oct 2018 · 340
monarchies
Heather Ann Oct 2018
i built an empire on my back
and it grew like a staircase up my spin.
hunched over from the weight,
i crawled on my knees until they were scraped and bloodied,
my wounds reopening amidst the battle.
"victory stands on the back of sacrifice,"
so i crawl
because i am still moving.
and when my body breaks under the strain
of the new world order
i will collapse,
but it will not be in vain.
Oct 2018 · 425
dreams from suburbia
Heather Ann Oct 2018
i dream of domestication
while being nailed to the picket fence of perfection.
six figures;
i hold his hand in my right.
my reflection in the mirror is split in two
because i threw stones and ruined your view.
in my left, her hand is warm,
and we're making less than the man twenty stories up.
i've been kicked to the bottom,
but she tastes so sweet.
you see, it's bitter;
i'm two halves
and they're begging me to be whole.
call it what you want, but i'll hold them both.
Oct 2018 · 441
a goblin symphony
Heather Ann Oct 2018
where do i end and you begin?
in the grasp, you hold me in,
when i am merely a summer breeze
or a kiss of death.
what am i to you,
if nothing more than
crashing symphonies
playing tone-deaf melodies?
i am entirely unto you,
bound to your grace
where i am held, hostage;
in the belief that if you kiss my poisonous lips
and seek refuge
where i do not deserve
such a happily ever after
but a gravestone next to yours.
Oct 2018 · 175
tentative but unflinching
Heather Ann Oct 2018
i am quiet courage;
stumbling through the dark
with hands trembling
like thunder,
but never faltering.

i bend, but i will not break
as you snap the parts of me
you see unfit
leaving me broken and stranded
for the vultures
because an animal
is an animal
is an animal.
i am not a passerby with odds and ends
that you can tuck in.
in the throes of spring,
i blossom;
tentative, but unflinching.
Oct 2018 · 269
apocalyptic daydreams
Heather Ann Oct 2018
carry me home tonight,
against the burning sky.
at least i'll see it
one
last
time.

explosions;
raining fire on the mountain,
pulsing apocalyptic red;
my mind
spinning like a pinwheel
with all the things
i should have said.

i am breathing with my lungs,
but my throat is still dry.
i am coughing up blood,
but my teeth are still white.

i am nearing the apocalypse,
with eyes rimmed red
like the last setting sun;
i am warm, but i am dead.
Oct 2018 · 195
6
Heather Ann Oct 2018
6
oh how easy it is
to succumb
to the mercy of my own greed.
instantaneous;
like fingers flicking through
burning candle flames.
danger is right around the corner
if i turn in that direction,
leaving the car idling
while dashing on cracked pavement
making my mothers back break
a thousand times over
for a moment's taste
of chaos.
Oct 2018 · 152
honeysuckle
Heather Ann Oct 2018
they don’t know that when church bells ring,
i am fast asleep;
dreaming of the lionesses claws
and how i screamed your name
on the day where
the river froze solid in the middle of summer.

constantly calculating the curvature of your hips,
spinning in time with the earth.
i found myself dizzy and dazed as if
you had the key that unlocked my brain.

i would not have been ashamed
if the entire world saw me
if only your heartbeat synchronized with mine.
she smiled at me
and i saw heaven in her eyes,
begging to die, so maybe we’d meet
by golden gates
with tentative hands
learning how to grasp for the first time.
we’d sin in front of god
because i’d rather burn
than keep myself caged.
i saw a false lifetime
hidden inside constellations
that showed my path to you--

but i live inside myself, merely a shell
and would not have uttered a word
unless you had
grabbed me by the hand
and asked me to dance;
i would’ve burned for a lifetime with you.

— The End —