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Jodie LindaMae Oct 2020
He's vapor in your arms,
The dying shadow on the pavement
As the sun clips against a glass lens,
Distortion in the highest degree.

He may melt you,
He may stain your lily skin,
Pierce your heart with a Sicilian warmth;
Take a hammer to the ice in your veins,
But he isn't bigger than life.
He's so small,
A whisper of stubble against the chin,
All wire and bone,
Effigy to the home you've always ignored.

Pull the trigger,
You whoreish ****,
Set your knees in the Earth and begin anew.
Hear the birds sing,
Their wings beating earthquakes in your stomach.
Fear nothing when he raises a blade
To your throat.
Remember his tears
When you told him of the one
You raised to your own.
Jodie LindaMae May 2020
A child stolen
Beneath her mother's
Scornful eye,
A dying bride
Slicing her skin
On her wedding night.
I see with no eyes
And I taste with no tongue
The rapture of the absence of your love.

I awaken from nightmares  un-remembered,
I cross seven seas to find you wilting.
I offer you my breast
On which to lay your head
And when you do, I feel it:
The rapture of the absence of your love.

She curses your mother daily,
Your wife only an obstacle in her wake.
She bides her time,
Wastes her life,
A moment gone in a flutter
And an opportunity taken too late.
Divorce? But what of the children,
A million fireflies scorching the night.
A puff of smoke,
A clip of the wings,
Her dead seconds will never take flight.
Who is the bearer of bad news,
Who will alarm the saints?
Who now will fit her ashes in their gloves
In the rapture of the absence of your love?

In what lifetime was this fair?
A tragedy born on the edges of procrastination,
A love story taken up in the middle,
Strangers only reminders
Of you in past lives.
The knife slick with blood,
The truth hidden in the liner notes,
Stuck pinned like a moth
In the rapture of your absent love.

There's no more story to tell,
What burned for six months
Was dead in six seconds.
A white shroud was laid over the memories,
A bouquet of lillies laid in their hands.
Graves dug sixteen feet deep,
Traditional overkill.
What then do we make of the rubble,
The dirt left from the hole?
The woman who was shoved, shoved, shoved
Into the recesses of your mind,
Into the rapture of the absence of your love?
Jodie LindaMae May 2020
I think of suicide
In the way a small child thinks
Of honey stuck to their chin;
Something sweet and saved for later.
Your eyes as you ponder me
Are still like tea
Steeped from dogends in puddles,
Formative yet empty.
Our time on this plane
Fizzled and sparked,
Lightning in a bottle
Shaken by our unborn child.
I laid myself to rest
Amongst the fresh March brambles
And forgot to craft a tombstone.

A spirit lost amongst
Corpses fetid and sweet,
A gunshot sprayed across the countryside;
Here for a second,
The scent of snuffed embers
Alive in the night.
We sent you to sea
In a casket wreathed in gold
And I broke my fingers in the hinges
Trying to keep you to myself.
Jodie LindaMae Jul 2019
When you were a little boy
They would lay you to sleep
With small prayers and a leap of faith,
Your angel-blonde eyelashes barely touching
And you would stop breathing periodically,
Gasping into the void,
Creating sounds that would echo against the cacophonous
Tomb of your mind for the rest of your life.
I hear your screams reverberate
In every instance of a Swedish accent.
I guess you were lucky enough
To be pronounced Dead three times.

Of course you'd call it an ice skating accident;
Ever the man, ever the glowing effigy of strength,
How could you bring yourself to tell us how you'd been mangled,
Beaten so badly that your organs broke and bled,
Your ten year old knees
Kissing the carpet of your mother's living room
As you fell and died that first time?
You'd later tell stories about the progression of death,
Colors enrapturing you,
Everything dipped in blue.
There were levels to this,
You said,
And you'd stuck your skin into one that no mortal could have
And yet you returned to us.

Nothing about this poem
Is going to make you seem more evil
Than the vision you've already placed in people's minds.
Thin, pale hands tossing a severed pig's head into an audience,
Those same fingers tracing the path of a jagged bottle blade
Down your arm in a business motion;
Pelle, I'd write an ode to every scar on your arm
If I wasn't sure that you'd already done it.
A heart corpse painted as black as the inside of a closed casket,
Your closed casket,
What was it that ruined you?
What was the trigger that pulled itself
Besides the so obvious one?
A broken kid from a broken home,
What made you run so far away
Only to hide in the arms of those who
Let you parade your mental illness like a banner,
Let you wear your delusions like a cape around your neck?
Who let you climb to the roof
Just so they could cheer for you to jump
With your fantasies and shredded silk hair flying behind you
Before your bones crumbled against each other in skin
Too tender and frail to contain you?

When they talked about you in magazines
Writers were always lamenting the tragedy
Of your cut-glass jaw and your piercing eyes,
Masculine beauty of such a caliber
Wasted on a character so evil and vile
It might as well have blotted itself out against the sun.
What you thought you were
Doesn't define your worth.
You're so much more than a corpse on a bed,
A couple of necklaces made from your bones.
You are so much more than a voice that was
Throttled out of existence by its own hand,
So much more than a statement piece.

For years after your death
Your family would receive packages for you in the mail
From bookstores around the world,
Tomes of witchcraft and ancient magics,
Spells designed to enchant and bewitch,
Pelle, were you trying to necromance the Dead?
Were you trying to take the parts of you
That felt less than human out?

If I could talk to you,
If I could say one thing,
It would have been what I've told
A dozen friends who've jumped in front of trains,
Called me from mental hospitals,
Called me with guns and knives in their hands.
I wish I could have told you
To wait one more ******* day.
In one more ******* day your father would have called.
You might have had a ticket back home.
You might not have a strike through your name
On every online page referencing your work.

The screaming may have stopped,
The air raid sirens in your head might have dulled
To the point where you wouldn't have felt the need
To blow them away.

If you didn't feel human,
If you felt like this was all a dream and that you'd wake up soon,
Why are we still living in the remnants of your nightmare?
Part one of a series of love poems dedicated to "unloveable" people. Rest in the glow of the freezing moon, Pelle. I hope you're having fun in Transylvania. I'll be seeing you soon.
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