it was hard when the world went still
but i think a special kind of love bloomed from it
a love i would never have found if i wasn't forced to care for myself
i find myself appreciating the small things far more often
the yellow flowers beneath the kitchen window
the way the light hits the chemistry building in the distance at around 8:30 pm every night
setting the exterior alight
a burning orange that glows just for me

there is an eery stillness of inanimate objects
they sit and stare, waiting to be used
frozen to a surface until brought to life by touch
i think this is how i have let myself live for a while now
coming alive only when desired by another
i think that i will be that other
for myself
for the rest of my days
because if need me, then i will always have purpose

Before I choked the air with weightless comfort,
I felt the buoyancy of unrequited love;

this heaviness of life so unfamiliar to me.
I have only ever seen the laments of the living, never touched,

and how their faces distort in a twist uglier than the wind
that carries ash and soul to rest.

How ignorant to believe that my ferocity was by chance,
the queen of Carthage built her demise

to loom over the love of her city.
Very quickly, I could tell no difference between the arch of

her spine and that of a warrior's. How naive of me
to have felt proud, as she used me to gaze upon

her legacy. I could not see the content in her eyes, and it was too late
when I felt a piece of me splinter and become one

with her sternum. If I could cry out, please know I would.
I crush my anguish into flame and warp the vapour of

her being to wipe your tears but you choke.
The only solace I can offer is the gentle caress of her spirit

as I carry her, as if she is Moses and I the Nile,
passing through to wrestle Hades for the reins of Hell.

linearity— what a concept
you want me to have, so badly
does this desire consume you
that you are unable to differentiate
your description of me

clever
funny
nymphomaniac
i play the game of feigned offence
manipulative?
no, sweet
****** up

there is a way you spit
at my lack of linearity unless
i am rubbing it in circles per
your instruction
underneath your torso
tense in anticipation

if you had seen me as a supplicant to pleasure
this time last year
begging to relish in submission, rather
than recoil in obedience
you would not question the pride i hold
at my ability to ******

When a rose does fester in the soil that kept her sweet,
Lilies and hydrangea left unscathed,
Should the hand that caressed her petals soft
Be plucked from the wrist it is rooted upon?
Were the fingers that introduced the rose to the sun,
To blame for the torrent that gave too much?

All the rain knows to do is pour; Zeus taught his sons his rage
And his daughters to consume.
So the rose did what she was told,
She submerged herself in the downpour of fury
Absorbing all that would brighten her beauty,
For what is the purpose of a rose, if it is not choked by its own glory?

I read a story once,
about the Strait of Messina.
And two beautiful women
who made a home between the waves.

The gods and their children
envied the ferocity of the women.
So in one fell swoop,
they snatched the earth from beneath their toes
and banished them to the only place they believed deserved them.
And so it was.

While earth picks at the cracks of its surface,
tearing itself limb from limb,
conflicts in the ocean merely strengthen the wave
soon to return to the rhythm of the sea.

How foolish the gods must have been,
to pour such power and lust
into the wildest weapon of all;
one that could sink its quarrel into the fractures of land they called home – if it so wished.

Men sang fear into their legacies,
the same men that raided villages for kleos
robbed mothers of their children,
and girls of their free-will.

But of course – the women within the waves were the monsters.

I think a year has passed
since I felt the first flicker of rage.
The spark that forced a home in the tense of my shoulders;
the small of my back; each fragment of my skin that tingles
when it remembers how a mattress can sting.

I watched you tie your laces
and told you I would see you tomorrow,
and I did. The day that followed too.
If I shroud myself in ignorance, I thought,
perhaps I can forget that it was me under your torso that night.

And the shroud kept me safe
for a few days, at least.
But after I saw you for what I didn't know to be the final time,
I reached for a warmth to pull around my shoulders –
and I felt you, for what I knew then, would not be the last.

I tried to teach myself to cope,
but the films I sought resonance from scolded me;
for not being the perfect victim;
for not setting my hatred alight as soon as I saw that look in your eyes;
for telling you I'd missed the embrace I should have resented.

I am angrier than I used to be.
Our friends remain yours, and I moved schools.
There is a cluster of horizons on my thighs, from nights I punish myself for the pain you ignited.
And now it takes just under half a bottle,
to feel with somebody new.

for a little while
i felt as though i had gotten away with something
very large
a flesh eating habit
that had taken bites out my thigh
to subdue the stinging in my head