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Payton Apr 10
today has been so long and so tiring; i think i should lie
down. the anxiety has me feeling like a stranger
a lot lately. it’s not the only thing getting me down
it’s always the same sad songs that i’m listening
to that make me feel alive it’s usually always music that brings light
back into my life but lately, music isn’t my only friend

sometimes, i wonder if you really are my friend
i can’t help it, i know it’s the anxiety telling me a lie
in the same way my depression tells me i should “eat light”
my mental health has turned me into a stranger
but it helps to know you’re listening
it helps to know i’m not alone while all of this is going down

whenever you hit me up, ****** up and down to hang, i’m always down
sometimes its not me, but you rather, who is in need of a friend
i know what its like —how it helps to know you’ve got someone listening
and of course i am always happy to —even if i’m not happy, and i won’t lie,
i’m not happy, but i could try to bring you some light and though stranger
things have happened, it would be enough if i could be your light

and you could be my light
guide me through the dark, lift me up when i’m down
or even, just keep me company while i reckon with this stranger
that is the result of my mental health, just being there, being a friend,
talking to me for hours on end, when sometimes its all I can do to just lie
in my bed, quietly listening

and i know i spend a lot of time listening
but its comforting and it makes me feel light
somehow, it banishes briefly, the lie
my brain tells me, trying to keep me down
of course, the lyrics to this song fit —"thoughts of a sober friend”
i don’t mind and i’d even say for you to be sober would be stranger

i remember when you were just a stranger
i’m glad you kept talking and i kept listening
and im glad this happened the way they did —you being my friend
and us bringing each other some small sliver of light
in a world of darkness that seems to go down, down, down
we splash through the shallows of the expanse, chanting “don’t believe the lie”
Payton Mar 1
In the pedestal bowl rests oyster and artichoke and chilies
She has rinsed and now carries them carefully, as if they are the keys to the kingdom and they are
If thou art a Grecian goddess, then I be the sophist, the bush tender and the like
How I long to be a handmaiden, though—servant in the shadows, attendant awaiting in the alcoves
How long does the maid spend freely in her bedchambers? How much time is spent warming her pearls and pendants and armbands and rings?
How often does she go to the food stores and pluck from the cornucopia, the food of love?
How I yearn to be the chambermaid, warm water and oils and rags ready when it came time to wash the day off.
How I desire to be the one advising her attire, dressing her ******* in silk and linen.
How I yearn to come with pomegranate, fig, and frond to fan her while she gives pleasure, fruit in hand.
How I envy the handmaiden who knows her as closely as she knows herself.
Payton Mar 1
If I were never again to look upon your face, more magnificent than pure moonlight, I shall pluck out my own eyes,
that I might never look on anything else again,
that I might delight in your beauty in my minds’ eye endlessly.

If I were never again to feel your skin, like silk beneath my caress, I shall cut off my hands,
that I might never feel another beneath them, that I might never feel myself beneath them,
that I might relish your touch in distant pleasure always.

If I were never again to hear your voice, that sweet melody to my weary ears, I shall sew them shut,
that I might never hear another honeyed sound, not in music, nor moans, nor mundane mouthings,
that I might preserve forever the last enchanting utterances to pass through your rose lips.

If I were never again to smell you, that rich, earthy scent that drives me mad, I shall plug it up,
that I might never soak in a pleasing smell, that I might never let the stenches of the day-to-day,
keep me from forever adoring the varying, yet haunting fragrances of you.

If I were never again to taste you, those sugared velvet lips, I shall take out my own tongue,
that I might never enjoy neither worldly fare nor the flavor of another,
that I might savor you in memory for all eternity.

If I were never again to have you, a painful return to the dark ages, I would cast myself wholly and completely into watery depths or rising flames,
that I might never experience time and space without you, love.
The title —αναίσθητος χωρίς αγάπη —is Greek for senseless without love.
Payton Mar 1
I'm the kind of girl who burns through guy friends like rubber on tiers, like sulfur on matches, like gasoline and kerosine and flameward moths.
But I don't want to burn through you.
We just go together so well—like puzzle pieces.
You and I are like day and night, sun and moon.
If you only knew how it eats me up inside, keeping my cool.
I feel this tiny spark dancing in my heart and it threatens to rake my body in flames, ready to pounce on me, licking and biting at the first sign that I'm falling for you.  
I'm really trying to hold my fuse right now, but one second we're joking and laughing and in the next you say something that tugs at me and I feel my hold on it slipping.
If I don't burn you first, this fire in my bones will certainly consume me.
Payton Mar 1
Steel at my back
a welcome intrusion,
confirming my own suspicions, permitting my desires
—sharpening them, even.
Fuel to the flames.

Silken petals drip
sweet, honeyed molasses dew
nocturnal flower blossoming
—firelighting below Diana’s gaze.
Spindle to depression, kindle and spark,
we set the world ablaze.

Caught like a butterfly in the spider’s web,
trapped, held mindlessly, mercilessly betwixt
pleasure and pain —saccharine release promised only
from the combining of silk and steel, catching fire
and melting into one.
This poem was written in 2020.
Payton Mar 1
"Oh God," she says, hands clasped together, fingers entwined, knees bent.  
He doesn't answer; /he does.
/he answers with earnest, continued, devoted worship,
head bowed, eyes closed, his mind devoid of all else but this
—this soul-shaking, earth-shattering pleasure, this blessed communion between man and woman,
the Holy Spirit an undoubted ****** through the candlelight,
this holy practice wherein they do some of their finest praying.
This poem was written in 2020.
Payton Mar 1
Every little move, every soft step, every breath I take,
I am reminded of him; I am reminded that he was here.
I savor the subtle soreness, the secret that only we know
—the remnants of pleasure that reside there.
They remind me that I am his, and his alone.
This poem was written in 2020.
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