A crow looked at me
in his eyes I could see
all the wonders of the galaxy.

Reflections of stars,
the earth's weeping scars,
unraveling minds and their memoirs.

Under sacred moonlight,
held in black claws of night,
our deepest desires are clutched tight.

O Crow! What spirit do you hold?
With whose voice do you scold?
Does it still slumber in your pile of gold?

The Old Ones knew you,
and now I will too,
when I die and rise on black wings anew.

take your thumb,
dip it
in your weeping wounds
and smear the gore
on my face.

you have stained
the folk dress
that my grandmother made for me
but I do not care
because I love you.

golden beast
your smile
becomes more like
a snarl
with every
passing day

your eyes
like pools
of acid
shining with gold
dripping
on my face

your claws
sitting
on my chest
when the sun
rises
each day

your fur
smelling
of midnight
dusted by dreams
soaking
with tears

your touch
gentle
like brocade
beckons me
to close my eyes
and sleep

and sleep
and sleep
under your weight
forever

let the memory of me
fade
into the night

forget my voice
forget my touch
heal your scars

you don't need me
anymore.

the water here
is clear
scoured
with acid
like a prism

no predators
lurk
in the darkness,
they strike
by daylight

with overwhelming force.
everybody sees them
nobody does anything
we are all too afraid
of the humming lights .

bite down,
hold on
to this swirling world
with all your might

once you find your home
never let it out of sight.

in an instant,
god's golden hands
can ***** out
that feeble light.

once you find yourself,
never let them out of sight.

dappled light
falling
like rain
through paper leaves
and lazy rivers
of rushing dreams.

illuminating
the cold, grasping hands
of those below.
we wanted to believe
that they were asleep
but they never were.

you may pick
the wild berries
but be mindful
of the thorns.

wolves live here
and they love
the smell of blood
after dark.

there is not much difference
between lips stained red
with berries
or with blood.

dip them in sugar
in the old wooden bowl
and feast
on summer's warmth

there is not much difference
between the girl in red
and her dark, dark eyes
and the wild wolf.

i bent down
to look at a pink sea shell
and the ocean devoured me whole
with a roar,
and a snap
of crushing blue jaws.
but i only stayed a moment.
she spit me out
because i tasted
like bitter bile
and melancholy
and said
come again some day
when you're happy;
come again some day
to die.

The sun said:
I will vanquish gods for you.
I will conquer stars for you.
I will devour worlds for you.

And the moon replied:
You don't need to do any of that.
All you need to do is survive;
that is enough for me.

these flowers
were not grown with love
I fed them with blood
and now they hang from the ceiling,
glistening red with dew.

the glass is scuffed.
there was a bear here, last night.
she tried to break in
but I shot her,
and she unraveled

into millions of pieces
of colourful silk.
someone created this beast.
someone gave her a name.
and I ended her life.

sleeping
on the bank of a foreign river
under a blanket of snow
you approach me
singing
a folk song
that I taught to myself
for comfort.
you reach out
with your scarred hand
to pull off my cloak
and there are human eyes behind it.
you tell me
I am no longer a monster.
you tell me
everything will work out.

The rain battered branches
thrash and shudder
in the dim light of one window.

One person,
still awake,
deep into the stormy night.

Listening to
the howling coyotes-
they were not here last year.

They howl for the desert winds
that they miss so much,
but only the thunder responds.

A low, resonant growl.
I am tired too.

I wish to walk
on threaded moonbeams
through dreams
on velvet silent paws

not worrying about
the heaviness inside
and whether or not
the universe will hold me up

to look down
at the turning world below
and not have to ask
if I am safe here.

Bittersweet nightshade drips from your lips
I want to be coated in your poison spit.
My dead skin is datura white,
two mad dreamers dancing through the night.
I can feel your trembling claws
swaying with the foxglove’s paws.
Cut me open and I’ll bleed sap,
strength of the yew fighting back.

The mask is beautiful,
ivory, with golden filigree
and studded with crimson rubies.
But the eyes behind it are empty,
dull and lifeless.

I have been living a lie.
Split in half by the she-wolf's fangs
the husk shambles on
while I lie dying
among the fallen leaves.

While I lie dreaming
among the drifting snow,
it turns to rain and flower petals.
Wishing to never wake up,
wishing that this is all there is.

Sweet fae doll,
dressed up in all soft perfume and glitter
to make you look alive.
Like a dragonfly on a downwards spiral,
or a sheen of blood on a white marble floor,
the glitter in the corners of your eyes shines.

I wear sweet absinthe on my lips
and dark rings under my eyes
and I wonder- do you ever look like me too?
Do you ever cry at night?
Is your radiance merely an illusion
to be robbed by the moon?

Do you not exist until someone sees you,
little quantum illusion?
I wish, I wish, I wish
my face would crystallize and shine
and the resonance deep within
would be forgotten under shadows.

To get at the marrow,
crack open the bones.
The screams of the conquered
"We want to go home."
Flying like birds
let out of the cage
right into monstrous
black jaws of rage.
Insatiable hunger
for an insatiable mind
maybe next time
they will be more kind.
Not to provoke
the slumbering beast,
not to awaken
the unholy feast.

Your skin
paper thin
peels away
when I touch
like a brush
there is sludge
pooled underneath
the residue
of thinking through
the theories
of deities
and karma
arising
from leaving me
alone in peace
to slowly rot
eyes turned inwards
collapsing
egg
rosebud
samsara
beats
like a drum
the unending thrum
of human hearts
and the earth
resonating
repeating
growing restless.

Every time you look at me
I feel a little less real.
No matter how I try
I cannot stop you from
dismantling me, pulling me apart
piece by delicate piece.

I prayed to the old gods
and they promised me that when I die,
I will be born again as a raven
so I can scavenge the pieces back,
because it only takes a day to harm
but it takes multiple lifetimes to heal.

When you look at me
I feel the winds of the rapture lifting me up
Oh, I am a sinner,
rabid, manic, unholy
but I will fall on my knees for you.
I have boiled my wings
and produced sweet nectar for us to share
in anointing ourselves.
We shimmer like mermaids
dancing in parallel through the sky.
There is a reason
why sirens are women
and the earth is a mother,
not the kind who is cold and vain
but the kind who provides.
The kind who gives us teeth
to make a last stand when
backed into a corner by howling voices of hate,
and teeth to devour each other
before time devours us all.

Nature follows Witches' laws
you get what you give
three times over.

Leaping from shadow to shadow
on malformed legs
with an inhuman gait,
you leave us to feast on the scraps from your table
with an appetizer of rat poison.

One day shimmering hands will drag you under the sea
and you will understand why we have canine teeth.
We are predators. We are built to feast.
Stalking and pouncing with cat's paws
incapacitating with snake's fangs
crushing through bone with dog's jaws.

Can you feel it?
Can you feel the curse?
Can you feel the abomination you created?
Here is where god abandons you,
takes one look at the beast and leaves you to fight it alone.
All the holy light in the world
could not expunge this terror
like all the prayer in the world
fails to protect the vulnerable from cruelty.

Over
and over
and over.

Lay me down
until the snow covers my skin
like a blanket.
Watch as crocuses and violets sprout
from my still beating heart.
Pick them, and see
the patterns my blood makes in the snow.
Oh how I would love to be a feast for wolves,
for them to sing with my voice
next time the full moon rises.

I love how
the hot water cascades over me
burning my skin,
reddening my old scars.
I want to hurt again.

I love how
my tears spiral down the drain
and spiral into the sea.
Oh, will the sirens pity me
as much as I do?

I love how
I can walk between worlds
as an entity, scrolling through time,
turning eternities into seconds.
I have the eyes of god.

Until I am curled up like a baby,
lying on the hard tile
and shivering in the falling cold.
Only rage illuminates
my empty soul.

I love how
I can wander endlessly
and end up in the same pathetic place,
the same alluring fantasy
of making you suffer forever.

I am one with
the lovely velvet darkness
that covers my light
from those who wish to ***** it out.

And I am one with the moon,
who sends me sweet messages
when a voice
would have me caught.

And I am one with the violets,
picked by a lonely girl
arranged into a bouquet
and then thrown away.

We were too scared to stay.

Little lost kitten curled up in her cocoon,
with a halo of the moon,
a halo of the moon.

Liar, liar with the calico fur,
but hear how I purr,
hear how I purr.

I want a lover to keep me warm,
keep me safe from the storm,
safe from my storm.

Curled up in the closet, talking on the phone
I want to go home.
I don't have a home.

Damaged little kitten with the tiniest mew
Am I safe with you?
Am I safe with you?

That night, you would have found me,
sitting in a tree and watching the fireworks
from the city in slow motion,
opening themselves like lilies,
framing the night with sparks,
fanning into the darkness their sweet perfume.

My nadir, reflected in your eyes,
I see the light of the full moon.
Rippling like silk,
soft to the touch like velvet.
What creatures lurk beneath those waves?
What jaws will close around my curious hand?

There is a place in my mind
where there are ropes made of vine
hanging down from the moon,

supporting a swing,
covered in flowers that sing,
I'd love to go back there soon.

His lover, so fair,
who makes her home there,
has wings that shimmer with light.

While he is asleep,
in dreams so deep,
she runs to me every night.

Transcend with me.
Make yourself believe,
and maybe you will visit me too,

in my grand delusions
the sweetest illusions
will finally make themselves true.

Shatter my glass eyes and allow me to see,
invite in the lights of the galaxy.
No longer koi fish, now dragons are we
out of the fishbowl and into the sea.
Leap over that swirling waterfall with me
falling in wonder through eternity.

If you were to undress me
you would watch
as I peeled off and discarded my wings.
You trusted the mirage
that covered up the void
behind my eyes.
My existence is nothing but illusion.
My halo is nothing but mirrors.

Drench me in
the sweet stardust
that falls from your lips when you speak.
I know you have a silver tongue
but I am already a statue-
if I must be rusted inside,
at least let me be plated
in glamorous lies.

Today I think I will
carve a little heart into my neck
as a memoir
of when you bit me there
and I licked the blood from your lips.

I keep my wings locked in a jar
So I can't use them when I inevitably fall.
Until their gentle iridescence decays
and they crumble away
when I inevitably lose my grip
on this tenuous reality,
and float aimlessly through life
like a snowflake
borne on a gentle breeze,
not knowing which way is up or down.

We are just
angels under the bell jar, eating each others’ wings.
Twin anomalies that annihilate each other-
Leaving behind the tiniest scraps of our existences
to be framed by a collector.
Devoid of context, tasting faintly of liminality.
Devoid of context
how easy it is to forget
my own purpose for existing.

No wonder this one turned out violent.
If you take an innocent child
and hit her, and scream at her,
you drown the angel within
and the rusalka rises from the mud.
No wonder this one turned out wrong.
But of course, it isn’t your fault.
Maybe it was the school. Maybe it was the friends.
Maybe it was the TV and the internet.
Conveniently, it was not the poisonous ideas
about total obedience, and angelic femininity,
and a special place below
for people who do not fall in line
to march to their death.
No, we were never angels.
Never had wings that could save us.
But at some point, we were human.
Now, we are aliens,
peacefully drifting through space
until something greater stirs the heart.
And with Jupiter’s wrath in my wings,
I rise.
Now see,
my teeth shining with blood and gold
and hate.
I hope you are afraid.

Please don’t be mad at me.
Please don’t hate me.
I’m trying my best you know,
it’s just that sometimes,
even the sun gets tired of holding herself up.

You don’t
feel real
to me
anymore.

I’m afraid that if I touch you
my hand will pass right through
like a ghost.

The sad thing is,
I can’t tell whether you’re the ghost
or if it is me.

Sometimes my mind
feels like it's flying away from my body
traveling at 200 miles per hour
into another dimension.

Now, be closer to me.
Close enough to smell the blood through your neck,
close enough to absorb me,
so you can understand how much I love you.

Sometimes my mind
feels like it is trapped
in a well of chemicals
in a cage of stars.

Now, stay away from me.
The version of you I made up is enough,
the version of you that exists scares me,
so please join me in a daydream instead.

I am embraced by
The Left Hand Path's
righteous rage.
Watch me throw
my halo in the trash
my wings in the trash
your words in the trash.

Only I can **** them all.
Rampage, rampage,
until angels lay at my feet
like fallen stars.
God can't do anything.
Only I can.
Only I can save myself.

empty, empty
hollow like fangs
hollow like eyes
that hang by a string
observe everything
observe everything.

Little dragonfly, how is it that
your wings are sharp enough to cut through glass
with questions like
What would happen if I let go?
What would happen if I jumped?
What would happen is I chopped up her body into tiny little pieces
and fed them slowly to starving dogs?

Don’t you know that
you are the reason my hands tremble when I pick up a knife
you scream with glee, beckoning me to take action.
Just one cut wouldn’t hurt.
Just one stab in her back wouldn’t hurt.
Just one taste of the blood pooling in your hand
would solve all your problems.
...
But you don’t really want to do that, right?

Here are the long, stagnant days
when the wind no longer stirs the leaves,
gilded with drought.

The heavy air settles close to the ground,
smothering everything but children’s laughter
and the droning calls of cicadas.

Which would I rather be?
Both of them run free through the stale air,
and both die when the heat dissipates.

A child stoops to pick one up,
marvelling at its diaphanous wings
before crushing it in his little hand.

The crunching sound cuts through the silence
as green liquid oozes through the cracks in the shell
and the cracks in the child’s fingers.

Wiping his hand on his pants, he moves on
and discards the corpse
without a care.

Then, he skips off into the distance
scuffing the dirt in that familiar rhythm
kicking up a cloud behind him.

After the sun sets and the cicadas have gone quiet,
I follow his tracks with a small plastic bag.
Gingerly, I pick up the corpse.

Like the child, I admire
how it's wings shine in the moonlight
and slip it into my bag.

The trail of scuff marks lead to a playground,
dripping with the smell of decay.
I cannot see where it is coming from.

I perch myself on the swing
and notice that I have outgrown it,
as the cold plastic digs into my hips.

From my vantage point, I stare blankly into the drying field.
All is silent, all is still, as my ghost pale legs
kick through the air to move the swing.

My childhood went down the drain with the heavy July rains,
was left to evaporate after the early morning thunderstorms
and now I am in stasis with the thick August air.

To the angel who lost her wings,
this dark rusalka gently sings.

Those drowned sisters living below
light our lives with dark halo glow.

Watch the feathers fall from the sky-
cast down by God, whom you defy.

Your dark side, so sweetly expressed,
in your eyes, easily impressed.

Our iridescent songs, they fear,
the notes, rising to heaven, hear!

Call down God from his stolen throne,
reclaim it, to make it our own.

No longer does restriction reign,
in our hedonist realm arcane.

Revel and shout, it has arrived,
the great Before has been revived!

I sit by the window on a Saturday morning
with nothing but a cup of tea in my hand.
I was too late to watch the sunrise, so instead
I watch the way the flowers blow in the wind
painting streaks in the canvas of the sky.
The incessant scratching of a coin against a lottery ticket burrows into my mind.
My inner voice shouts over it, just to remain in control
filling up my head, pushing out my thoughts and threatening to explode
but perhaps it is too late.
The scratching already comes from within.
It reminds me of the time I scratched my arms raw
after my mother told me
no boys would like me if I kept hurting myself.
Just like the time my mother told me
that I could never make it as a poet.

I redirect my attention to the window
trying to focus on what I want to see
(is that what they tell you to do in therapy?)
Unfortunately,
I had already wrung every drop of poetry
Out of this humble garden.
Back in the kitchen, my mother stands up,
and I notice the scratching has stopped.
Instead, the sharp and familiar sound of ripping paper fills the air.
I am reminded of all the poems I had ripped to shreds to start anew
as she curses and throws the ticket in the trash,
dramatically slamming the door.
A selfish part of me is happy that she didn’t win.
Because I know that if she did, she wouldn’t hesitate
to do the same to our lives.

Relocating us to a place
where flowers and fountains are found in rows
like fresh cuts on an arm
and not in haphazard paint splatters
like stars in the sky, or freckles on a face.
A grand white mansion,
elegant as a mausoleum,
where the sound of scratching
and early morning yelling
and late night sobbing
would echo through the empty rooms
bouncing from wall to wall
until the house threatens to fall apart.
Or else, we would be on a plane,
to some far off destination,
Sitting all in one row and
shielding our phones from each other,
thinking how much better it would be
to sit amongst strangers.

You are an angel.
A bit like a bird, but less free.
A bird can fly and sing wherever she pleases,
but an angel's hands are bound in red ribbon,
constantly paranoid,
constantly pulled
this way and that
to ensure she never falls
off the straight and narrow path
losing her halo,
bruising and tearing her wings.

At night, one can hear her sing
attracting the attention of a bird
whose powerful talons may untangle the ribbon
and set her free.
But she dismisses her with a smile,
knowing that the one who has power over her
has thousands of eyes, watching her
every second of the day
every second of the night
constantly
always
from the eternal in between.

(and you were the muse.)

Your alabaster skin - one with the keys of the piano-
pouring out your heart in your saccharine voice.

Through my eyes, it was dreamlike light- echoes of the moon floating through the water
like blurry images of hands intertwined.

My heart clenches every time I picture you
because you have replaced my blood with honey.
The sweet ache coats my veins and spreads throughout my body.

How I wish I could lay you under the shade
of the grand willow tree on a gentle midsummer night
watching the stars and fireflies- sometimes unable to tell them apart-
and braiding violets into your golden hair.

Every action deliberate,
every thought dripping with poetry
coating my skin like fresh morning dew.

As the universe expands-
We slowly drift apart.
The space between us will grow forever
and I’m okay with that.
I now understand that each of us are
unfathomably
eternally
perfectly
alone.
In our own heads.

Occasionally
a single intrepid photon slips through the veil
and I smile when I see it.
We were never really meant to be close,
but I am still happy to see
that you’re okay too.

Festering scabs-
an angel's wing.

Rose thorn stabs-
****** lips sing.

Pearlescent skin-
putrid glow.

Dead within?
I don't know.

Wasted youth,
rotten brain,

hard truth-
down the drain.

Angel's face-
rusalka's heart;

a dark place
from the start.

Sometimes the rain is invigorating;
washing away a year’s worth of black dust,
proving that yes, we are capable of forgiving.

Sometimes it rains so hard
that the unopened flowers are pelted off the trees
before they have a chance to open or bear fruit,
starving out this year’s clutch of birds
as the bedraggled petals rest upon
the ever hopeful eggshells.

Cryptic terror angels follow me each day,
I wish I was better at scaring people away.

I lock onto you like an enzyme,
to catalyze your rage, and force you to bind.
Allowing your own vitriol to dissolve you,
reduce you to nothing but a stain.

A harmless puddle of organic matter,
once an angel,
now straining through my fingers,
harmlessly trickling down the drain.

It is where people like you belong.