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ally maková Jun 2018
I am a plum—
      io sono la tua prugna
and I fit in your palm,
in its tender arch
      upturned, stately
and I curl in its pits
of lines that quake
with the warmth of my weight.

My flesh grazed by your teeth,
      a hymn that carries
across the gleaming sea
and intertwines with the tempest
that soaked your black curls
but not your mouth—
      your mouth dripping
with my plum juice.
ally maková Dec 2017
I strain to return to myself—
a peony dewy-eyed, unbeknownst to
the bittersweet taste of your chocolate eyes,
yet biting into it
while you watch.

I dared to do that.
I became your dream
with my pure red mouth,
arched back,
eyes singing.

You wanted to listen some more, didn’t you?
But then, that is all you ever did:
You wanted,
nothing more, nothing less,
and look what you’ve done;

My heart crumbled into pomegranate seeds—
I pick them up on my knees,
smear my mouth with them,
staining it red
as I eat them.

I pretend they are remnants of
the good girl I used to be,
white peony petals.
I don’t want you any longer;
I want her back.
  Dec 2017 ally maková
E. E. Cummings
If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.
ally maková Dec 2017
my love, I think
I flourish in winter,
for while I slept
a serene dream
brushed its lips against
my cheek and for
a small moment of
naivety and frailty
I saw you and
you saw me—
your eyes spoke what
your scarlet mouth couldn't
and I listened,
your hands trembled
as did I
at the thought of
what they want to
write on my naked body—
solo mia, solo mia.

my love, I think
I flourish in winter,
for when I awoke
a snowflake sunk
into the fullness of
my lips and then
I knew I'd been
kissed by you,
so I smile
as I stand by
the window where for
a small moment of
naivety and frailty
I wallow in my joy,
for I know too
it will last not.
snow always gets me writing fr
ally maková Nov 2017
I lost a sense of myself
in the silk of sadness,
sprawled on my bed
of lilies and night-long moans
in lingerie and stockings.

Come look for me.

This darkening heart of mine
desires one dulcet dream only—
to see you dauntless,
throwing your head back,
desperate and divine;

Ah, please
Come look for me.

And at last when you do,
Ah, my lying love,
like a longing prey for you
I will lament not
the loss of myself,
for I know well
with your lace-like touch
you will lift me
from this silk of sadness
and not only will I become
your little poet, no—
I will be ultimately *pleased.
I haven't written anything in forever, which made me lose the poetess in me & that is what this poem is about. enjoy x
ally maková May 2017
lord, I ask you—make him good for me,
give him courage; make him mine

and in the meantime, let me dream sweetly
of feverish summers, him and his eyes

please do not deepen my agonies,
do not blacken them

make my agonies of beauty,
silky and sunlit with peonies,
birds singing, my mother laughing

because how will I stand yet another
bad dream about him?

please do not deepen my agonies,
do not blacken them

if you will not give me him, give me beauty
spat out of your mouth, warmed by your hands
I shall love it as if it were a lover
taken from my journal
ally maková May 2017
how can I write
when I am curled up
in these unblooming tulip
petals, the sunlight cast out
when I most need it
to pour it over me
and the whiff of
winter in this unmerciful spring

how can I bloom
when this melancholy I carry
flush against the bud
of my heart rips open
my flesh—
my throat dry,
my cheeks tear-stained
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