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Jesha Dec 2017
I sit here among the windmills
Absently weaving wildflowers
       In
         Out
           Pull
             Repeat
My fingers shake and I break
A fine green stem
The downy white head pops off like a cork
And its orphaned body lays prone in the palm of my hand
And I wonder
Is it still a daisy without its head?

       In
         Out
           Pull
             Repeat

I sit here among the windmills
The sun watching over me
His rays paint-brushing
Shades of bubblegum pink into the milky skin of my bare bent back
I think of the moon
How tender strokes would soon give way to needles
Dancing under blood-red skin
And I wonder
If maybe it should have been called moonburn instead?

       In
         Out
           Pull
             Repeat

I sit here among the windmills
Thinking of the God I don't believe in
Guiding my hand as I scrawl
Senseless words across my mind
Pulling daisies from the ground
And looping stems into crowns
I cry for the loss
As I come full-circle
And I wonder
What now?

       In
         Out
            Pull

I stand here among the windmills
Pushing daisies with my dirt stained toes
Naked and free
Barring the crown on my head
And the years etched across my face.

       In
 
I sleep here among the windmills
In a bed made of my own carnage
Silver hair waving back in farewell
And I realize
I'll never be burned by the moon again.

       Out -
Jesha Dec 2017
25
You told yourself 25 was a good age to die
Ghosting on the tail end of youth,
The Grey would never touch you.

But 25 is here, and the razor is coppered from neglect
And the pills in the cabinet have long lost their voice from bitter age.

25 is here, and you're reminded of the deal you made with Death at 18
When the weight of life nearly killed you
And your idea of hope was the promise of an early grave.

25 is here, and you don't want to die
But the burden of years that have not yet arrived
Press down on your shoulders like the heavy hands of unwanted men.

And yet.
You don't want to die.

So you rely on your emergency exits
collecting dust under tarnished jewelry and gold-strangled hair ties.

Like old friends you meet up with once a decade, you pacify their need for acknowledgement,
Weaving nevers into not yets with empty promises and shallow reassurances,
Brushing off their needling whispers as they bounce off another day gone by.

Because you're 25.
And you're not done yet.
To read or not to read at Open Mic night...
Jesha Sep 2017
On nights like tonight
Where the clouds kiss the Earth
Painting my skin in silky sweat
Smothering me
Electricity bristling fine hair
Whipping it around like it whips the leaves of trees
The rumble-grumble of remnant thunder
Bouncing off chrome castles
Echoing the drums that once thrummed
Under my skin
It's nights like tonight...
Like tonight...
That I remember
The tempest that once roared in my veins
And the stillness left in your wake
Jesha Sep 2017
You kissed a bullet
And the ricochet shattered
What's left of my heart
I hate haikus. I never write them. I'll probably delete this or turn it into something better, something more. Sometimes words just come to you and need to be purged.
Jesha Sep 2017
With dull brown eyes the color of death
He grins a grin,
My grin,
The grin reserved for me.
I half expect the soft tissue of my heart
To be chunked between his ivory teeth,
It's blood and love guts
Splattering.
Popping.
Like a strawberry gusher.

He reaches out a hand.
A claw.
I grab it tight,
Gripping the cactus that he is,
Welcoming the force of his tiny needles
Because I can't resist the pleasure pain.

He drags me in.
Kisses me, warm and colorful and sharp.
I taste blood.
His or mine?
I hope both.
Destruction should always come in pairs.

He smells of adventure.
He smells of heartbreak.
I want to **** him.
Strangle him.
Squeeze my small frame into his rotting carcass
And bathe in his guts and soul.
I grab his neck, dig my nails in.
His teeth ravage into my swollen flesh.
He wants to eat me.
Absorb me.
I will let him.

We're just limbs of flesh,
Bones grinding against bones.
Hair pulled so hard it burns so good,
Fine strands floating away,
Orphaned.
Our souls scream and scream and scream.

Love.
Hate.
One in the same.
Primal.
An all consuming violation of the body and soul.
More more more.
We can never get enough.
Work in progress... Dedicated to the one whose darkness played well with mine.
Jesha Aug 2017
Sour apple blades of grass
Kiss her skin like feather dusters
And plumes of evergreens fractal the beating rays
Of summer's midday

Her steps falter, heart beat sluggish
A matching tune
To the drip drip drip
Of crimson tears
Tracking down her wrists,
Gathering and falling off cold fingertips

A bed of silk meet first her knees
Then her cheek
The smell of dirt and anguish
Invades her senses
Heavy eyes flutter shut
And the glaring red curtain
Fades to black
Not at all satisfied with this.
Jesha Aug 2017
In the rundown apartment on State Street
Where glitter falls down on us like rain
Tattooing our skin in rainbow freckles
And gold streetlights peaking in from the window
Dance across the room
Casting us in a vortex of geometric cut-outs

We sit on a bare mattress the color of rose dust
Scars of wear spiderweb the surface
Releasing tufts of cotton fluff that smell of must

The sweet tang of bourbon creates a sticky layer on my tongue
And ropes of pale hair plaster themselves to my flushed skin
I am soaring in giddiness
For this summer, for this night, for you

Music and chatter drone on below us
A low beat, familiar and nostalgic
My heart tries to match rhythm
But your presence interferes

We lay side by side, my hand in yours
Clammy skin like melted plastic
Fusing into one
“Look at me.”
I can’t see your face
I lift my head, inhale your breaths
Bourbon and sweet, sweet nicotine
You kiss me my last first kiss
Mood Track: "The Night We Met" by Lord Huron
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