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kylie Mar 2020

i am ravishing, but i am ruinous.
my bones are connected by chaos,
my muscles by vengeance, my
teeth by blood—i am not a sight
to behold, i am a watercolor left
to rot.

the gods gaze upon me and hang
their heads in shame, in chagrin,
in white hot resentment. i am
medusa with peony lips and a
treasonous grin—there is beauty
in this cataclysm even aphrodite
cannot touch.


destruction can be found in the
hell between my hips, in crevices
where you do not belong. please,
stay back, or i will feast upon the
warmth in your chest, the grace
on your tongue, the light that's
in your heart.


but you kiss me anyway and you
taste like reparation. oh, my baby,
i cannot get enough. you wilt and
wither under my touch and i carry
you across galaxies.

you invite me to taste you and i
swallow you whole instead. i can
learn to live with the guilt in my
throat because it's more bearable
than feeling completely

kylie Mar 2020
venus was once a little girl until she was forced to be a vision.

there is an innocence in her eyes as she runs her tongue up your neck, along your jaw, over your lips, ever so slightly, because this is foreign to her: passion with the promise of love, not lust, a heart with no sharp edges. you tell her that you see her, that you love the heart in her flesh, not the divinity in her mouth, and she cries out loud, rosewater tears from opaline eyes melting like snowflakes on your tongue, they taste like candied grapefruit—still bittersweet.

she paws at your pectorals, makes a home inside your lungs, paints peonies on your eyelids with the blush covering her cheeks, you embody every single thing that was ripped away from her, all at once.

kiss me, you fool, she weeps, let me taste all the love i have missed.

you will give her every last drop
kylie Jan 2019
you let him in;
peeled back the layers
of your skin and
showed him your bones

you thought this would
be easy, but he is not

he takes your ribs and
breaks them apart as he
builds a home inside your

[he is no longer the breath
you exhale; he never leaves
your lungs]

he keeps you up at night;
you pray and he does not
answer and you realize that
you are so tired of all of

“how do you **** your god?”
you ask

[you get off your
kylie Jan 2019
my mangled heart strings
wrap around my chest to leave
an unwanted reminder that
i love you and
i loved you and
i will love you and
it hurts.

i used to wrap myself around you
every night,
like a caterpillar that didn't want
to become a butterfly —
but time doesn't stop for anyone,
does it?

i hit the ground as soon as
i left the cocoon.
how could i possibly fly when
my heart is so heavy?
kylie Jan 2019
i was never prepared
for you.

you blew me away
and then
ripped me to shreds,

a natural disaster with
no warning.
kylie Feb 2018
"i wanted to love you,"
you whispered one day,
"but you're just so broken."

run your fingers over my edges.
tell me where it hurts —
show me where you bleed.

— The End —