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serpentinium May 2016
i’ve let ghosts grow
inside me for too long
in a greenhouse of self-deprecation

i fed them sunlight in the
form of grief, water in the form
of tears, and tilled soil with heartbreak

now, i will cut them at the root,
tear at the stems with my voice
until my hands are bloodied by thorns

i will no longer be diaphanous,
i will let my limbs stretch
and take up space

i am human
i am an original orchestration
of carbon and screams;

i was made to survive
you're so important, i promise.
serpentinium May 2016
i didn’t understand you–
i don’t think anyone did.
i don’t think anyone could.

you were the wrath of the lamb
and the rib of Adam,
you were the burning cherubim by
the savage Garden,
you were Samael and Apollyon,
brooding in Gehenna  

you were a god and a devil,
and i’m afraid
that i never found out who
won, in the end.

when you loved me,
was it because you knew who
i was or was it because
you knew what i would become?
i've never been in love but i imagine it feels a little bit like this
serpentinium May 2016
advice for future doctors:

1. learn failure early.
you are not perfect,
and your patients need
you to be–

but you aren’t and all
those nights spent awake
will haunt you with ghosts
tucked in hospital gowns

2. learn empathy like it’s
your body under the scalpel,
your skin pulled back and
exposed under white light

scratch at invisible scars,
recall the feeling of metal
against your chest, and shiver
at the touch of another

3. learn to cry anywhere,
whether it be between
floors in a hospital
built like a morgue

or in your car, going
too fast with tired eyes
down an empty road that
you wouldn’t mind dying on
i'm only pre med-- but these are the thoughts i have so far
serpentinium May 2016
i was twelve when my aunt took me by the hand
and lead me like a dog across the cotton gin;

white teeth, white skin, white cotton–
it left a nausea in my stomach that i couldn’t place

i didn’t know, dear lord i didn’t know
why my dark skin hid under long sleeves in the dead of summer

my frame shook as i crouched in the warm field,
sweat pouring down my brow

i still remember pulling my hands away from the thistle,
a small drop of crimson beading against my thumb

i ****** and it was gone, copper leaden on my tongue,
an albatross hung snugly around my neck
my aunt is an *******
serpentinium May 2016
19 is a strange number
fumbling somewhere between
adolescence and adulthood;

it is neither quiet nor loud,
a paradoxical misstep down
the path to Shiol

19 is a forgotten year,
buried under college-ruled
paper and lectures

it is the scent of petrichor,
a yearning for something
once seen but abandoned

19 is a dull ache at your breast,
one that even a photograph
cannot remedy– it is melancholy
serpentinium May 2016
i. smile, they’re watching
–lips part, pink toes curl
against flat carpet;
what a performance

ii. wipe the disgrace
from your brow,
flick it behind your
shoulder; let it follow
on the ground as a
groveling shadow

iii. you see your reflection;
just another ship in a bottle,
with brown eyes and a temper
to match the sea

iv. lights beat against
bruised eyelids,
no sleep, no sleep,
you hush to yourself,
fingers pressed against
the neck of a bottle

v. this is a nod to sycophants
stuck with broken ships,
who, at some point, unfurled
their sails and found no gale
serpentinium May 2016
it is often in the face
of adversity that people
flourish, pushing past
cement and brick to bloom

or so you are told–
the lion you find is not
filled with honey,
and only sand scrapes your tongue

its ribs do not yield at your touch,
they do not fall apart
in ivory waves as you
crawl into its thoracic cavity

no, it is but a decaying relic of god;
a carcass left in the dirt
and you can’t help but wonder
how such a thing ever roared

you are no samson, but you
let your hair grow out anyway
and hope to coax strength
from the maw of the forgotten beast
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