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Jan 2023 · 468
1st date
jude rigor Jan 2023
we don’t hold hands
but it’s okay
i build back my
own heart to not
burden you with
expectations

i rear-end an old man
on the way to your house
my heart keeps beating
even when the car turns
off and when i look at you
it doesn’t stop stuttering

i’m so wound tight
but the hours grow softly
into one another until i have
to remind myself to wind up again:
i need to leave, so i shroud
myself in a satin second skin
perfect for saying good
bye

i drive away
we didn’t kiss
that’s okay
there are no
expectations

my gut twists
painfully as i’ve
always wished i
could be more
bold

i sleep fast
caught between
two mountainsides
and there’s no time
to ask myself when
it’ll all end
Jan 2023 · 99
bones
jude rigor Jan 2023
i lay down
at your feet
and roll
over
like a
cowed
dog

anything you
want to take
from me is
already gone

when it hurts
it stings all
over

and i cry
because
i wish it
could start
hurting again

i can’t tell when
i’m being kicked
down

i can’t tell
anyone
how i feel

there is no magic
in waiting

there is no magic
in leaving

i sit at the door
in hopes that
someone will
walk through
and save
me.
May 2022 · 135
menthol
jude rigor May 2022
i let mint fester
in the front of my mouth as
a sleeping
beauty,
while hunger slips in t
                                    -he back of my
throat and i try to forget
            her
jude rigor May 2022
softer kind of tea;
flower beds roll
over scars in the road.
winter is my home but
i'm always so
cold.

the weight of
my own thoughts...

...all i feel is everything:
self-sabotage is
art.

there are no main characters.
so i exist out in the misty blanket
that lingers after midsummer storms:
stuck in that apathetic draft
that betrays humidity and
its ethos.

chasing an ego in the snow:
appalachia turns it all to ice
and watches me scramble
to an unsteady stance.

i've never caught frostbite,
though i reckon she was
trying.
jude rigor Apr 2022
your friends pity me
i see it in their eyes
but pretend it's
not there

you bring me along regardless
holding hands under the table
laughing alongside them
and we toast to your
oncoming sobriety

and i think they pitied you too
knowing that you and change
were fated mortal enemies
starting from conception.

god buried you in the dirt when he crafted your soul;
and the angels cursed you, turning the earth
to marbled heliotrope:

we met in that dark prison.
you whispered that everyone
had given you up. so i swore
to never leave. to try.
to fight for us. to
love.

you hold my hand for 46 seconds underneath
the sputtering pools of blonde light
after your narcotics anonymous
meeting.

and the angels pitied me as well,
turning their heads at stoplights
and crosswalks like i wasn't even
there.

as if i could forget or pretend
that i've never seen the
eyes underneath
our bed at
night.
btw im not tryna demonize addicts bc that's some rl hard stuff to deal with, my ex-partner just happened to suffer from addiction alongside being an absolutely awful trashbin person.
jude rigor Apr 2022
you hold my hand under the
yellow light of a baptist church
praying to no god:
narcotics anonymous.

you introduce me but it doesn't feel like i'm yours
our clasped hands break apart as
a fifth marlbolo black slips
between your lips.

murmured conversations
secret promises
drift back and forth:
and my apparition
waits in the tepid
night.

i shift back and forth
through the golden amber haze: i could
lean back into the dim scraps of pavement
and no one would notice a thing.
this is going to be a series of poetic memoirs about an abusive relationship i was in a few years ago. i'll have tw in tags but it's mostly the occasional reference to SA and stuff like that.

also idk why but re-reading i just imagine someone with five cigs in their mouth at once LOL
jude rigor Apr 2022
kissing girls:
she makes me feel so alive --
but i miss her funeral anyways
sleeping on my mountain of
burning gold and
empty graves.

leaving leftover tea
out in the car
as it rots and turns to
lukewarm longing.

kissing anyone  
i'll never learn
how to
breathe fire.

i'm nocturnal
but my eyes refuse
to adjust to
the dark.  

so i whisper poetry into
the silhouettes of
whoever will
have me.

i
cry to myself
cradling my skull
in ***** claws
that rip and tear
at everything
i try to
hold.

sleeping in
an empty bed,
i want to hold her
hand again.

i crawl out from
a ****** of pine trees
belly-deep in the tall-grass
where no one dares to wander
mistaking my echoing cries
a painful roaring sob
that reaches
out for the stars --
they think me furious
but i am only
             alone.
someone liked a poem under the same title that i published in 2017. i actually hate that poem and it makes me cringe so i rewrote it. it's not really about the same thing anymore. just about what haunts me. and  how i feel too big. like it all knocks over around me, but my limbs are too long and lanky and i can't help it. like a dragon who can't see in the dark and cries viciously and wants their only love back.
jude rigor Mar 2022
i used to lay on the snowed-in flowerbeds
of nan's backyard. once it snowed enough,
you couldn't tell that a ****** of perrenials
slept peacefully there: all crushed
and crooked beneath
dirt and ice.

some days she'd come and join me
if the ground was soft enough:
we'd stargaze up into the cosmos
of pine trees overhead and listen
for the stillness of winter - the hush
of silence that lingered in the air.

ivy and henbit writhed
gingerly underfoot:
a quiet dogfight
of frozen earth
that begged a
sluggish spring
to come out of
hiding.
i wrote this an hour or two ago for a contest on allpoetry! the prompt was a video covering the spring snow storm that occurred in the northeast recently. it had to be less than 100 words and i'm pretty proud of it. cheers. (if you're interested, my username on there is @opheliaswam).
Mar 2022 · 4.1k
im just a kid [tw: sa]
jude rigor Mar 2022
i started this poem
when i was
nearly 23
i'm 24 now
almost 25
but i still feel
like a child.

19
trying drugs,
loving the man
who would **** me.
and i'd forgive him
take him back into my arms
let him touch me anywhere
just to feel something.
afterward
he smokes
and smokes
and smokes
apologizing
through a haze
of drugs and
shame. he spoke
useless fragile
words and i drank
them up eagerly.
they tasted like
whiskey,
valerian,
and ice.

when i'm 20
i find a therapist.
no more drugs;
still loving him.
i slide a new slate
across the kitchen
table just for him.
but it's cracking
as his fingers
pick it up,
shattering in
place. he moves
from stone
to skin. rips
and tears
until i'm
finally
split
too.

21
still in therapy,
i tell him
it's okay
that he
cheated
because
it was
all
about
the drugs:
not me.
but when i
tell him how
much it hurts
he says
maybe you
should work on that
in therapy.
i lean into
his side
but being
near him
never quite
feels the
same and
i ache for
comforting
sin.

i'm 22 when i find out
that being pressured
into *** after
saying no twice
isn't consensual
and he's not
round anymore
but at night
i hold my breath
terrified that he'll
appear. in my
dreams there
are flash
backs lying
in wait, even
though i've
begged for
some dream
less sleep.

when i'm 23
my third or fourth
therapist
tells me
she's sorry that
i had to go through
it all. and she listens
as i fade away and keeps
listening until i
can feel the earth
at my feet
once more.
she's a good
sort. i'm sad
when she
moves.

24 creeps
upon me
like a scratchy
sweater. i want to
shrug it off of my
shoulders, but it's
too cold. i'm no
longer the things
that happened
to me in that
darkening room,
and at twilight
most nights
i no longer find
myself thinking of
him.

i feel so old.
my bones always
hurt, the cat's food
is so expensive, and
i always have chicken
in the freezer. but
i can't bring myself
to eat. the medications
keep the ache at bay
but i feel it waiting.
at least my cat always
purrs when i feed him.
makes me feel
a little
loved.

my chance to grow
got pushed back a
few years
and i probably grew
anyways, unknowingly
pushing back against
invisible walls waiting
for one to finally give.

i hate that i'm here
trapped in adolescence
i hate that i'm still
writing about him
about what happened
and how much it still
hurts me.

maybe when i'm 25
i'll try to edit
this poem.
i found this unfinished poem and decided to re-write it. it's a lot. i tried to tag trigger warnings so i hope this didn't make anyone upset. i should edit this one day. [tw: sa] = [trigger warning: ****** assaul t]
jude rigor Mar 2022
laying your head in my lap
the way you always wanted to
looking up at me

as our eyes meet
for a few moments
dark oak swirling
with words we're
too nervous to
say out loud

seconds pass and
we can't take it
anymore

you roll-over
onto the bed
and i hunch
into myself

we can't stop laughing
making spiderman jokes
sneaking glances through
the night til our hands
intertwine without
meaning to
both wishing
we would
have kissed

i'm living all the way up here now
the mountains trail down to your
old suburban home

you're not here
not in my lap
staring up at me

brown
and blue
against one
another

her eyes
laughing
and twisting
until they've
faded away

i miss you
but the phone
won't even
ring
writing this made me cry lololol. why did she have to die? why her? i wish i could go back in time and kiss her. i'm not in love with her anymore after all these years but i never stopped loving her?? i don't know if that makes sense. i need to edit this and probably scrap it all together idk. i just. i'm laying in bed alone with my cat and i'm wishing we did all the things we said we were going to do. i just want to hold her hand and tell her that i wish she was here
jude rigor Feb 2022
maybe i should visit you
in that frozen wasteland
where you've waited
all these years for
warmth and spring.

or maybe i should visit
our garden of flowers.
alone i'd lay down  
on the grass,
ignoring the flowers
that beckon brightly,
desperate to be
remembered.

i'd close my eyes to
feel the soft whispers
of wind on my cheek;
words winding their way
in-between the twisting
air to replicate what
you gently spoke
lying on the
gentle earth,
both eons and
mintues
ago.

      how are you doing?
      just maybe, could you stay?
      could you be my companion?

      can we stay here for life?
      or at least until
      tomorrow?


the steady calm of night would surely
coat the ground with its coolness.
but i am fast asleep. brought
under to only wonder
when it was
i lost my winter
coat.
this is an amalgamation of responses to poems that my ex-girlfriend had written me. i recently found out that she died and have been writing about it and reading everything she ever wrote me and honestly crying a lot but this poem is pretty presonal. it references verses she wrote me many years ago so if it seems disjointed or lacking context that's probably why.
Feb 2022 · 302
i am so
jude rigor Feb 2022
trying desperately to carve a place
out for you;                         snug
into the right side of my heart
as if you hadn't taken residence
up there so many years ago.

our memories slip
through my
fingers -
and i want my stupid, old
brain to keep them closer.

i'm torturing myself
wondering if i could
still make you smile
that soft sharp grin
kind of look
that seeps into
your tone,
indulgent and
warm and safe
all-over.

and how awful am i,
to have lived all this time
as if i could always find you
once more.

i want to call you back
so i can hear your voice again
and i swear i'll never listen
to another sound.

       please don't go.
for all i've wanted is to hold your hand.
you look so lovely in any color, i could
lose myself in your eyes if only you
turn around this
one time.

please god.
make me a necromancer.
i'll live and sleep in the dirt
wearing blood and soot as gloves,
ear-to-the-ground
forever listening
for that pin to drop:
spades
on hand for
the moment
your fingers stretch
out to seek mine;

i'll catch them this time.
         in catacombs
                       or in polished
                              american cemeteries:

                         i'll wait for
                         you.
Feb 2022 · 972
sensory
jude rigor Feb 2022
my bedsheets won't stop
strangling me
each night,
twisting around my
legs and arms and neck
until i cough myself
awake.

i'm breathing blood
once i'm finally up.
it's 5am and i think
i've been dying in my
sleep.

i turn the fan on
and the heat up
praying i can
fling my sheets
to the floor while
i fight with slumber,
waving it like a white
flag in the
dark.
Feb 2022 · 75
[untitled]
jude rigor Feb 2022
you're
crushing up overwhelming silence
and mixing it into my drink. your
voice slurs: baby, drink this.

your hands envelop mine
pushing elixir into my blood.
when i wake next week
you are beside me, naked
and hibernating despite
summer's grip on
your throat.

i remember
the softness of
hands

the lull of your touch
a slow conviction mixed with
twisted hope
sloshing around together; twisting
to form alchemy and promise and
spoilt wine.

there is no
magic in
waiting.
this is the only title i can think of but i feel like it's a no go still: "that summer you made me drink xanax in a baja blast"
jude rigor Feb 2022
sappho greets her as she
would a reflection:
hand against hand, staring into
her eyes. silence dancing
around them as a long-lost love-
r.

enheduanna sighs at the contact
and the quiet shifts as
her fingers close:
as there is no need for language
when her
inanna will grant them
a holy diadem.

-----

eternity reeks
of nights out on the lawn
daisies growing with the weeds
pillowing beneath the two
dwindling women -
hands clasped tightly,
their eyes closed.
...lapis blooming
within the petals
of the undergrowth...

gods slumber amongst
worthy poets occluding,
heart-soothing each
other without words
or sonnets
or divination.

sappho dared to
look out from
heavy-lidded
lethargy,
for she was
yearning:
at dawn

...her honeyvoiced,
    mythweaving
    enheduanna:
    a sweet-shelter
    of temptation
    and goddesses
    who wage
    tender war and
    drink from pools
    of sun...

at dawn
the ancient
divine
poet
gazes
again

and sappho
forgets she
too is nearly
as old

for her lover wears
an invisible golden-
crowned circlet
of springtime
and illuminated
lands.

but she can hardly think
anymore, when
the songsmith of
glory and prayer
is kissing her.

laying in the basin
of heaven and skies
she pours restless
eternity down
her throat.


----

lapis melts
to pink clovers
of fowlerite

no mortals notice

two bodies blending
between poems
rustling tunics
maidens casting
away their  
fruitful

sobriety.

----

poet
dreams
a woman
of verse.

hardly expecting
shallow-breathed
kisses of burning
solstice and
unrequited
love.
for this piece,  i wrote about sappho and enheduanna. both ancient poets, both incredible women who achieved a lot with their poems and lyrics. i allude to some phrases/words from sappho's fragments, as well as verses from enheduanna's poems.

i also referenced quite a few letters from open me carefully, a collection of emily dickinson's letters (what remains of them) to susan huntington, her close friend and eventual sister-in-law. the references are honestly vague and you might only catch them if you've read at least the first chapter of the collection.

also the title is a fragment from sappho, featured in "if not, winter"

here's some info on all of that for some much-needed context.

sappho: (l. c. 620-570 BCE) was a lyric poet whose work was so popular in ancient that she was honored in statuary and centuries after her. little remains of her work, and these fragments suggest she was gay. her name inspired the terms 'sapphic' and 'lesbian', both referencing female same-*** relationships.  

[some phrases/words from this piece were taken/inspired by "if not, winter" - a collection of fragments of sappho's lyrics and poems].

bio source: wordhistory . org

enheduanna: (pronounced en-hoo-d-ah-na)  was an akkadian-sumerian princess, poet, and priestess who lived around 2285 BCE. not only was she the first author on record - she was also daughter to king sargon of the akkadian empire, a powerful woman figure, and the backbone to a synthesization of two newly unified cultures.

she is acknowledged to have penned the first known example of poetry, and wrote 42 hymns that were read across the akkadian empire. additionally, she was the first named poet to refer to herself with the "i" perspective. through her writings, she combined the akkadian counterpart (ishtar) of the sumerian inanna into a single goddess that brought akkadians and sumerians alike together. though this first served as a culturally-conscious and politically driven move, it morphed beautifully into enheduanna's lifelong relationship with inanna.

enheduanna's success and works as the high priestess at the temple ur helped bridge a gap between self-discovery and religion. many of her hymns and poems - especially "the exaltation of inanna" gave a human connection to gods; something far more powerful in the long run, compared to the old ways of gods growing the land, mixing the sea.

[i ripped all this out of a research paper i wrote a few years ago. enheduanna is my niche special interest and i find her life and story so utterly fascinating].

open me carefully: emily dickinson's intimate letters to susan huntington dickinson

susan huntington gilbert and emily elizabeth dickinson were born within days of each other in December 1830. they may have known each other from girlhood; they certainly knew each other from adolescence; and they had begun to correspond by the age of twenty. their relationship spanned nearly four decades, and for three of those decades, the women were next-door neighbors. together, susan and emily lived through the vicissitudes of a life closely shared: susan's courtship, engagement, and eventual marriage to emily's brother, austin; susan and austin's setting up home next door to the dickinson homestead; the births of susan and austin's three children, and the tragic death of their youngest son, gib.

in open me carefully, we see that emily was not the fragile, childlike, virginal "bride who would never be" writing precious messages about flowers, birds, and cemeteries from the safety and seclusion of her bedroom perch in amherst, massachusetts. dickinson was devoted to her craft, and she was dedicated to integrating poetry into every aspect of her day-to-day life. she was engaged in philosophical and spiritual issues as well as all the complexities of family life and human relationships. she knew love, rejection, forgiveness, jealousy, despair, and electric passion, and she lived for years knowing the intense joy and frustration of having a beloved simultaneously nearby, yet not fully within reach.

Emily Dickinson Archive

NY Times Archive
Jul 2020 · 155
rebound
jude rigor Jul 2020
i had these dreams for a while
after that night.

you said my eyes were pretty
while we laid in bed
just staring
sharing
secrets
under my
softest blanket.

you whisper
an insecurity
and i tell you
that i have
three
toothbrushes
and somehow
slowly
we're
kissing.

we pause
to keep
looking
at each
other's
eyes.

"you're so beautiful"

i'm not
used to
feeling so
special -
we're naked
but suddenly
i'm so very shy.

you leave in the
morning and i
drift away to
you in my
mind.

the next night
i dreamed we
were holding
each other. your
form eventually
begun to twist
and turn beside
me. you morphed
into trauma and
shadows, black
shades running
up my arms
and i can't
breathe
icantbreathe
icantbreathe
i
can't
breathe.

when i wake up
my chest hurts
i curse my brain
and i miss
you.

it went on like that
for a few weeks.

looking back,
i guess this is
healing.
this is super rough, didn't proof read it a ton but i want to post it
Jul 2020 · 126
vulnerable
jude rigor Jul 2020
being with you is such a pleasant feeling
i'm scared to write poems about us
you're so precious
i don't want to
romanticize
you
might make this into another poem
Apr 2020 · 243
dull ache
jude rigor Apr 2020
i'm so angry -
my face is pale,
an empty canvas
no artist
wanted to
draw in.

i want something.
fill the void between
sharpened teeth:
vomiting
coffee grinds
and blood
into the
pages of
my favorite
novel,

i destroy myself remembering
times where my glasses were still broken.
bed sheets always stained with spelt wine
as drunk lovers stumbling into my bed -
they lean the bottle into my small hands,
keeping the mattress wet.
the red is nothing
smothering all over me.

no one is looking this way.
hungry gods play with hot glue,
pressing eyes like wrought iron
into my nerves - tearing
the ends apart to justify the means,
as if i don't know people leave when
you're down to your last layer of skin.

the world i sleep in
tastes of fog water
and i can never
catch a breath
pushing every
-thing down
with old opened
*** to drag my
self to the sink:

     i splash
water onto my
   face.

who the **** is that?
revised a two year old poem!!!!!
Feb 2020 · 114
seasonal, huh?
jude rigor Feb 2020
summer quietly creaks open the back door
slips from beneath your skin
records shattering
as you stare down from the
attic, living in
slow motion.
it's gone before you can
remember what warmth even is.
sadness warps an old yellow novel
you used to love, holding it close
as it twists and moans.
  now,
  rip the
  best chapter out
  because
  it belongs to
  you.
revision of old poem
Feb 2020 · 331
imitation
jude rigor Feb 2020
I am from a hungry sun unsated
from sewer smoke and old trees
I am an eviction notice swept
into yesterday’s trash.
(but it’s okay,
      nothing lasts forever:
everything is changing
         and the sidewalk tastes
                   of past lives.)
I am from burnt coral pine needles -
dug into the soil
clawing, rooting into
ageless thighs
forever in a dream
an old static VCR loop
where we stayed
forever by
the lake.

I am from old
new farms,
(quiet ghosts
     weeping in the
rafters,
    and
   family  photos)
attic-squatting:
never coming
home.

peeling paint
trembling apartments
creaking floors
dirt driveways
sparkling water
couch made of wine stains
home made of humans
forest of suns -
   (there are faces
    in-between,
    blurred photographs
    and burning meteors
    in a shoebox
    made of steel.
    I keep it this way,
    so we’re always
    together.)
jude rigor Feb 2020
the sequence is always
lurking on the tip
of my tongue:
vintage film that
tastes like bottom
-less honey
     mead.

three eight year olds hover on the front lines,
each in their own corner of forest. an older
boy throws his rusty longsword
with a frustrated, huffling yell into the
blackwater. a summer god doused in
sun dips an ear into the stratosphere
and listens through the trees, his
presence crawling through the dirt
as he watches the three children
fight lovingly against each
other.

three cousins draw a
treaty in the mud. they’re unsure on
the details. their hunched forms
murmur against the sunset. they meet between
tree forts. they hate each other a little bit still,
though they’re not entirely sure why. the sword
of the blackwater is a rusty pipe:
sleeping in liquid tar,
tangled in seagrass.

we finish our alliance written in mud.
fingers later smell of pine smoke
and homegrown moss.

three explorers linger on over
trembling planks of crimson
wood, peering through the
docks. they seek a longsword
made of backwoods and amethyst,
dozing somewhere in the murky water.

(even now
i don’t think i
could pull it out).

valiantly
(like some kind
of fantasy novel)
we tip toe across miry sand
and velvet rockweed. (small
fish probably sleep in it now).
we give up, and every summer
i scrutinize the cloudy water:
nothing there but sunfish
and unresolved tension.

before the war we swam beneath
the crimson planks and we were
mermaids, pirates, knights - all
at once and one at a time. the
years blend together and we
hate each other in different
ways. now we’re so old (none
of us taller than the sword
still). we’re never here at
the same time anymore,
and the summer god may not
have his ear to the earth
as he did so long
ago.


i hear three eight year olds
back at the docks, voices rising
from beneath warm obsidian.
there’s yelling through a dense
thicket: we’re screaming our
heads off - (they roll into the water,
turning into fish made of sunset
and memory). some summer god
somewhere rolls over in bed.
we listen in our daydreams
for another battle cry, galumphing
through shallows and ocean shores
until we surrender, making ourselves
forget about swords and tree forts
made of earth and twine.

yet i still hear three eight year olds
howling their heads off
somewhere in the back
of my mind, arguing in
sing-song voices
over who had won
the war.
im a poetry major now :)
jude rigor Feb 2020
you breathe in tender dragon smoke–
under the sheets; I’m made of alchemy.
some summer second skin clothes.

drinking me in a 200 milligram dose,
a sweet taste in my mouth that forms a cavity
as you breathe in tender, dragon smoke.

jokingly, you laugh and it rolls into “I’m off the coke.”
it hurts, but I guess that now it’s your mortality.  
some summer. second skin clothes

that remind me I’m in bed and alone.
forget it all, radical acceptance, comfort insecurity.
you breathe. in tender dragon smoke.

you tell me that you think I’ve grown.
I smile secretly, my blood is gold. is reality –
some summer, second skin clothes?

feels closer, even though we’re on the phone.
to you I hope this is a keychain of me,
some summer second skin clothes.
you breathe in a tender dragon smoke.
Feb 2020 · 198
p r o p h e c y
jude rigor Feb 2020
i. Prodigal daughter


I flew out my mother as a prophecy.
An oracle, a sinner; girl in the wrong
place at the right time. Not who I was
supposed to be. Scripture on my arms,
coating the back of my throat, words
I’ve never wanted to read.

I crawled out my mother’s womb
with a ****** cough:
Grandmother’s handkerchief.
Some letters.
No name. Not mine.

I carried myself out my mother’s soul,
hands stained red with prayer,
legacy shattering a baby’s spine,
bearing the sin of
prophecy.

She’s always told me,
You never cried.

ii. Menace


I bury my teeth in the backyard
to stop myself from biting back.
I have a few left up in
sore bleeding gums,
burning softly
and waiting
for the day
I will speak.

A demon somewhere in
the dirt runs its fingers
down my forearm.
There are bones
molting along
with feathers. I am
buying bigger
band aids these
days: they wrap
around my arms
as vines left in
the sun to rot.

Crows
wait on my windowsill
to make sure I am okay.

But I am a burning woman
settled in the wallpaper. I’m
sure my eyes are yellow again:
I cry as she paints, sealing my
body up in the floral silhouette.
This house is as haunted
                                         as me.

The demon has an alibi.
Liar, it spats.


iii. Flight of the wolves  

Moon takes me by the hand. Some
ancient light. Howls in the distance.
I dance through the edge of forest
wishing they would utter my name.

Moon calls out this time, urging me
to step closer. I prowl out to
the real world, greeted by snarls.
I bite at the air, our feral eyes
sliding into one another's.
Before I can
escape we are already
running.

The moon watches us:
In all our inhuman
humanity. we rush
through leaves and
spoiled mud, running
against ourselves
and bleeding stars.

fading as nothing
but hungry dogs
into the night.

Here, they whisper. Eat.


i.v. By the fireplace

I have never wanted touch
like this. They gather me
into their arms, one by one.
Something mysterious lingers
in the air, like an old cup of
tea. I feel as if I have swallowed
someone else’s sun, whole. I
do not let myself think of
prophecies. I cannot let
my spine feel it,
either. I want them
to stay.  

Fire has his hand in my mouth.
But I refuse to scream. Months
gather on, and I assimilate to
the fire and embrace. I’m
mumbling of prophecy
in my sleep. Bones
tremble as they realize
we’ll never know
what’s coming
next.

The future leads me to
a lavender loveseat
for just me alone.

Fire takes his hand
from my mouth
briefly, with pity
and permission
to breathe. They
wander, picking
dust and dirt from
my hair.

Oxygen tickles the
roof of my mouth,
and I realize the
settled words have
faded away. I am
warm now, despite
my barefoot stance
in the dirt.

I’m sorry, Fire mumbles. I had just hoped to help.


v. Town fair memory

They find me by the craft table
breathing in an elixir of sunset.
Shadows tiptoe around my adolescence.
Maybe they are all my first loves.
Is this a family? I’m not entirely
sure if they’ll stick around once
they find I am drenched in
divination and sweat.

Three ghosts drift across the market
and I make some sales. I wondered
what a ghost would do with coffee,
if taste and touch were really
connected.

Hours live on, and fireflies
beat against paper cups
and strong-willed
children.

l on the cooling blacktop
with my friends. The sky is pink
but not as warm as us, and we can see
the stars from here:
I have no
intention on
waking up from today.

Scars morph into smaller divets, like
scratches of clairvoyance against
ancient
oracle bones.

They drive me to an artist in a
city cottage. It’s okay, I am reassured.
She will not hurt you here.
Leaves run down the walls.
Water speaks in some foreign tongue.
I feel oddly safe. We cover up my
prophecy, which was never real to begin with.
Prophecies are a sin, of course. And though
we have transformed from monster to human
and back again
I might be the biggest sinner of them all.

A distasteful monster
hellbent on some
halfway
lack of legacy
to pass on for
generations.

I did cry, I tell myself. But I think we will be okay.
Girl, the demon whispers;
Child, the moon sighs;
Live! They cry.

And Fire says
nothing
from
his place
between our
hearts.
jude rigor Feb 2020
in an ancient forest                      a chalice somewhere raises
dirt ridden murmurs                   in a temple of fire
caress the roots of                        beeswax begging
the trees                                         for raw sin
no one kneels                                at the foot
where there is flame                    in the palm
seal the sarcophagus                   we break bread
into the immortal night              binding books
we meditate                                 in holy dreams
for medicine                                we won’t need
honey burns                                us dogs of hell
gentle call                                    in the light.
something from my poetry class
jude rigor Sep 2019
spine tingles
and cracks
a Goddess
somewhere
finds me in
a crystal ball

i howl at the
empty sky
hoarse scream
into a single
star

some meaning
must come of
all this

or i'll just be
a yowling
ragged
cat
in the yard.
working on my word flow and word choice specifically. might edit soon.
Sep 2019 · 143
failed lomograph bookmarks
jude rigor Sep 2019
summer sinks
some forgotten
black polaroids
into my back
pocket

one is the sunset
though one can't tell
it looks like a home
for shadows

two is the water
a memory beneath my fingers
lingering like a ghost of
childhood i'd rather hold
onto while letting go.

three is all of us in the
moonlit night, drinking
cider to the crackle of fire
(my favorite channel)
while some part of me
curses a polaroid camera
loudly
and smiles

cliche summer poem
satiated present self
a long sweater swallows
up clumsy legs

i cling onto
the snapshots
lovingly

someone somewhere
sneezes and thinks of me
not where we should be
but content just to
remember;

softly,
        into the night
i'm trying to write one poem a day. i am a poet, though i haven't felt like one in so long. i feel like i incorporated a lot of elements from the poetry studies class i'm in right now
jude rigor May 2019
it’s november when
the meds kick in, it’s
december when i feel
human again. (or maybe,
for the first time?)

i lack less.
found an appreciation
for something or another
dug up in the front yard
by a half-blind dog.
appreciation for
the living
and the
quiet
small
moments.

i used to know empathy,
used to take her hands
between mine in
cut scenes
but those were
   trembling eras
    of seconds,
    caught between
  an intensity i’ve since
        given     away.

an inferno.

of being
in love
with
wheat
grass bet-
ween
high
ways
and

last bit
of clouds
eating sun
like nectar
in the rearview:

or sweet talking
directly into his eyes
at midnight, hearing
a smile in the smoke
that separates our
houses.

cats with twigs
and dirt swimming
in their bellies.
ghosts in the
woods beyond
my car,
yowling at
the full moon
as if they
were born
to.

i now know
the silence and
warmth of
sleep.

i exist alongside
unfamiliar calm,
a quaint silence
that does not
burn at the
                 touch.





but

the world is
almost softer
            almost
                       lighter   --

my skin is
held to-
gether
with
some
thing
more
than
glue.

     (maybe
      stitches?)

i wonder
if i was
human
the whole
time.
re-wrote a poem i wrote half a year ago, i'm turning it in for a poetry class portfolio. honestly im gonna edit it again but this is the first edit for now. if i change anything major i'll probably put it here and edit it or maybe rework entirely.  who knows~~~
jude rigor Dec 2018
since the meds kicked in,
i lack less, i think.
i've found an appreciation
dug up in the front yard
by a half blind dog

an appreciation
for the living
and the
quiet
  small
moments.

before, i cared, but
those eras were
intermittent
      seconds
        cut scenes
  caught between
    the intensity i've since
            given away.

but
moments

of being
in love
with
wheat
grass bet
ween
high
ways

and

last bit
of clouds
eating sun
in the rearview:

or sweet talking
your eyes at midnight
to hear your voice
smiling in
the smoke
separating our
houses:

cats in the
woods behind
my car, yowling
at the full
moon as if
they were
born to:

the silence
and warmth
of sleep.

i exist alongside
unfamiliar calm
a small breath
but a longer pause -
no more perfect
than dollar store
cellophane

but the world
is almost
softer
and my
skin is
held to
gether
with
some
thing
more
than
glue.
jude rigor Jan 2018
temptation:
pretty boy with his
hands around my
throat, if evil is an
******
color me in
blood
and name me
'angel' or 'sweet
heart'

i'll respond to all three
pretty boy takes his
atlas hands to wrap
me in a hug just as
i start to scream
for more.

angel sweet heart
don't touch me again
only pretty boy can
see me here

temptation:
i'm bathing in it.
uh well. it is what it is. i'm in an awful mood and really overwhelmed. i'm sick of this ******* crazy cult-like people telling me they can cure my mental illness with prayer, i'm so tired of my mom telling me i'm going to hell, i'm barely living. i'm looking into inpatient programs for bpd and seeing what my insurance covers but yeah if i disappear for a week or two it's bc i need to work myself out and get better and hopefully that happens soon.
jude rigor Dec 2017
kissing guns
my secret *****
don't know how to fire
i puke on green carpets
leaving lipstick in the sun to melt
choke me i'm not breathing
i don't want to cry ever again
whisper poetry into my spine
and i might ****** quietly
**** me into the mattress
         and i'll cry
i'm having a bad day sorry for bad poetry
Dec 2017 · 317
merry christmas
jude rigor Dec 2017
since i started
sleeping in hidden hemisphere
it only snows when i'm
sad. it's cold every day and
my fingers shake even though
winter doesn't exist here. you
left the blizzard for a smoke
and i didn't realize that meant
you were leaving for good
draw hearts in the snow
with my feet, no angels
i don't want to fall asleep
out here: i don't want to fall
asleep without you
but here i am
with my own
cigarette
i draw hearts
in the air with
smoke
the snow freezes
once i'm home
i lost my glasses but
think the snow hasn't
swept away my love
yet. the street light
breathes ambient
gasps of electricity
i wish i could see
more clearly
it's still so cold
i lost my winter clothes
leaving socks in the snow
i'll walk until i nod off
there's no one else here
i'll sleep forever in the drift
if u get this i will be shook
Dec 2017 · 480
seasonal, huh?
jude rigor Dec 2017
summer quietly creaks open the back door
slips from beneath your skin records shattering
as you stare down from the attic, questioning
everything. it's gone before you can remember
what warmth even is
sadness warps
an old yellow novel you used to love
holding it close as it twists and moans
rip the best chapter out because
it belongs to you
a bunch of feels in my heart u feel me
Dec 2017 · 255
if you come closer
jude rigor Dec 2017
i can't trust a man
whose teeth hide
beneath his skin
frowning before
his own lungs

maybe i'm just
touchy

stay there,
try to smile,
let me slip
away into
it all
honestly *** is this i found it in my drafts well here u go
Nov 2017 · 719
dull ache
jude rigor Nov 2017
i'm so angry
my face feels pale
empty space no art-
ist wanted to draw in

i want something
to fill this void behind
sharp teeth: vomiting
coffee grinds and blood
over my favorite novel
in a dream where my
glasses are still
broken and there's
always been wet bed
sheets, red is nothing
is smothering

oh, i want.
need pain
love leaving i've
never craved laughter
no one here is looking at me
the eyes of hungry gods are
glued to my skin tearing them
selves apart leaving me leaving me
to cope with one less layer
i think there are devils in
the clouds that haunt me.
oh, i need.

i need a cigarette
somewhere between
home and hell

taste fog water
catch a breath
push everything
down with old
blood coffee
splash water
on my face:

who the **** is that?
sometimes i have some angry dissociation episodes and i wrote this during one
Nov 2017 · 264
a shoebox, amnesia
jude rigor Nov 2017
forever faster slips between my fingers
rather nasty kind of wind that burrows
between us: **** your lover, not
your dreams - forever slowly drips into
the seams of what i thought would be
familiar.
rhyming aint all bad okay i've been changed
Oct 2017 · 1.2k
soft gradient
jude rigor Oct 2017
let me touch our souls together once more:
comforting insecure heart breaker pocket lover,
be mine - i show up to class but i'm
still in your bed there's
no time for sleep
only dreams of
pink hands and red tea
unconditional
keychain
of
me.
i loathe rhyming poetry so much but still wrote this so??
Oct 2017 · 594
10.11
jude rigor Oct 2017
evil wine speak
you look so pretty in every color
god you're so old
and i so young

empty bottle basement
child's home, fate
is tiny hands

bodies blend
to time and
silhouttes

let me lead you home
i am guilty but i am writing
Sep 2017 · 296
premonition
jude rigor Sep 2017
earth tone
trepidation:
we open the
hood to find
only dirt
and molting
feathers.

our wine
speak lazy
tongue
love decl-
aration rolls
into Morning
(MOURNING)
After silent
closing
gaze.

disconn-
ect your staaa
tic eyes and
restaaa
rt the engine
before the
crows can
voodoo speak
their way back
up.
oldie
jude rigor Sep 2017
overshare
sad *****
pretty in
profiles
ignore
everyone
you feel
empty
no one else
can feel
fire on skin
post about
it online
though
HA MY MOOD SWINGS ARE BAD LATELY i miss my love he needs to come home im going even crazier. i'm listening to the song 'kyoto' by yung lean on repeat and it's a Big Mood
jude rigor Sep 2017
disembodied:
flowers with thorns
sensitive skin
i don't cut myself
these are from
holding everything

do i even exist?
i hope not
my forehead is cold
i'm shaking
car window down
the sun looks so pretty
as it rises
traffic, drifting,
i think i'm falling
asleep

at the wheel
my doctor is rl cunty about having ADD and didn't care that i have a huge *** cyst in my ovaries and told me i've over reacting about chronic pain p much so yeah **** her
Sep 2017 · 212
manic and digging
jude rigor Sep 2017
i feel like
some *******
sad ***** bella swan
hearing your voice
somewhere between
alone and together
where i keep
my other selves:

lacking luster
so empty
alone girl
seeing visions
in a bad book
where the
world is
made for
her

except i'm
smart enough
to know i
was already
this way
before you
came around.

don't call me lost
when i've already
found myself
empty

don't *******
tell me
this is
healthy
im currently coping with extreme random anger lol at least i got poems outta it
Sep 2017 · 384
summer circa 2013
jude rigor Sep 2017
mountain patio
laughing tremble gut feel-
ing, we're dancing and
you hold onto my hand
familiar scent of pine
cigar smoke in our eyes
men don't scare me here
smiling at you
music, forever
echos through
the forest
and this
short breath slows
secrets scribbled on napkins
in a fancy bathroom...
... whisper and hot mouth-
our friendship
is yellow and
soft
i'll always love the beatles.

night so dark i'm scared it
might end
   gold light in your hair
driving home to
a lake of obsidian and fire
        rose quartz flowering from our backs
              i miss you
          we dive into a painting of the sky
                 water is warmer
i once had a really good summer before i used to get super manic and empty in summer and yeah we went to this post celebration for a golf tournament they host every year in memory of my deceased uncle, they have a band that does beatle covers and it's in between mountains and there's old people smoking cigars and for some reason i'm never afraid to dance there
jude rigor Sep 2017
my heart itches
hates wanderlust
and fake poetry

picked at fingers
fight among themselves
****** and tired
under the table

i don't know if i was born
with a self destruct option
or if it just appeared in
the right moment
and knew i needed
something

****, i'm not atlas
i'm not metaphor:
my shoulders
hurt

let me sleep
this 'not everyone has ____ susan' tiny series makes me giggle when i write the title
Sep 2017 · 202
car rental cigarettes
jude rigor Sep 2017
tired grin
    over
pink sunset
dead boy nervous
  hand tickles my aching
spine... our coffee is bitter
  and shivering,
but we are both so
happy in this second
            dragging into another:
                    i can nearly taste
                    the ability to forget
                                   in      between.
**** this is a memory of me when i was 16 waking up at 4am to make it from our somewhat nice motel in florida to disney world and drinking coffee for the first time with my dad while he chain smoked all the way there.
Sep 2017 · 557
calm
jude rigor Sep 2017
air is
not bitter
like me
i have
spirit
somewhere
wilting
sunflowers
full of willing
kissing wind
just for me:
i feel my longing
in each pause
every breath
of sunlight
cold morning
lukewarm coffee
steam,
air not so bitter
like me
i feel like i'm caught in a not totally awful limbo does anyone get what i mean
jude rigor Sep 2017
marina tsvetaeva's "poem of the end"
clear umbrellas
soft and cold rain
mountain smoke
old photographs
books i want to read
dandelions
gas money
voices
dreaming in foreign languages
timelines
hanging ferns
natural light
"to emily dickinson" by hart crane
almond milk
apologies
poem or list? don't really know. when it rains i tend to dissociate more. can't write for **** when i'm like this.
Sep 2017 · 670
quiet thunder
jude rigor Sep 2017
you are sleeping in a world i can't see:
there are
clouds
holding hands
over my head
and i only ever
dream of you or
nothing

study in a city
smog in my teeth
stale mint air...
...but you're always
in this forest
i keep in my chest -
silence and kissing
there's something
strange and soft
and
missing

dumb hopeful
lonely girl in the mirror
it won't stop
raining

it won't stop
wow i miss him and i'm okay but that doesn't mean i can't miss him
Aug 2017 · 577
vent poetry to delete later
jude rigor Aug 2017
you're leaving
again, and i can't
process anything
right now, can't
even write good
poetry right now:

you sleep in a silent world
of therapy and speak clearly
into the phone to let me know
you still love me and you promise
this time to change

i'm scared to trust you
baby i'm not perfect
you can't hold me from
rehab and i don't know
if i should trust you again

i'm already so lonely
please change
my boyfriend is going to rehab again and im glad hes getting help but it hurts inm so lonely and i need him but he doesnt need me
Aug 2017 · 352
realism, i paint landscapes
jude rigor Aug 2017
i. prodigal daughter

****** cough
great grandmother's
             hankerchief
   letters, no name,
      not mine
  
                              i ruin a lot
                              you can't see
                         red hands together
                            prayer. maybe.
                                   not me.

ii. menace

burning woman
settle in the wallpaper
your eyes are yellow
again: i cry while
you paint over me -
        this house is as haunted as me.

iii. flight of the wolves

her eyes
    slide into mine
until eventually
                 the moon takes me by
                            the hand
                 we are running
                  against ourselves
                  and bleeding stars
                               fading as nothing
                               but hungry dogs
                               into the night

iv. ancient light

you have never
wanted touch
like this  
                   a mysterious something
                   is in the air
                   someone else's sun
                   swallowed whole

      fire has his hand in my mouth
                   i am screaming.

v. town fair memory

my lover in a dream
finds me by the craft table
it's sun down
             tiptoes around  my adolescence
                  he knows he is not my love.  

i lay on the trembling blacktop
with my friends. the sky is pink
but not as warm as us, we can see
stars from here: we're not waking up
                 from today

                    his name
                        still
                    eludes me
i used some nice prompts for this
jude rigor Aug 2017
i'm laying empty in your eyes
baby please make me smile
into the phone one more time before
i slip up again and you can't catch me

iloveyou
yourtouchmakesmefeelalive
imsorryiamdissociatingrightnow
butinee­dyoudontleaveme
pleaseholdmeuntilifeelbetter

dollar store tape
piece me to what
looks like me

**** me into the
honeymoon matress
we used too early
please i want to
feel

you don't love me anyways

i'm sorry i'm always
so scared
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