His palm envelopes my fist,
Folds over each finger,
Swallows my wrists.

His palm enveloped my fist,
Folded over each finger,
Swallowed my wrists.

In response to Edge by Sylvia Plath

"The moon has nothing to be sad about,  
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag."
-Edge by Sylvia Plath


The night drips on and on
As they all just watch.
Wonder what got her so far-
What's got her in knots.
This is how they wanted her,
No denying that now.
Perfection in her silence,
Her last breath,
Her broken vow.
The moon has nothing to be sad about.

She looks down on her with apathy,
Just another face in the crowd-
They watch her as she scorches it
All to the ground.
Her body a vessel for pain and for persons,
Her mind gone numb from being treated so worthless.
The moon-
Having seen this all before,
Illuminates the horror within that small home
Staring from her hood of bone.

Although not new,
It is still tragic-
To see such a woman drained of all her magic.
To have once brought life,
The same that she has taken,
And now on her kitchen floor they all lie
Naked.
The moon just sends them back
To the roots of being- for
She is used to this sort of thing.

Life here on earth feels particularly brutal,
Like there is no escape
And to dream of such would be futile.
Don’t let it get you down,
For it is truly just womanhood,
You belong to the silence-
To the frowns.
So tightly sew that pretty mouth shut,
Sworn to be either dead or gagged-
Her blacks crackle and drag.

I am a daisy in the dead of winter.
Upon first glance,
my petals blend into the snow as if they are one.

Gentle,
and kind,
my vernality becomes a responsibility.
Stay warm,
Stay pretty,
Stay sweet,
No matter how cold the snow gets.

Vulnerable to anyone who may decide to rip my roots from the ground,
I savor each moment,
try to bask in the green of my own leaves,
and remain soft.
Remain alive
despite existing in a world
that would rather see me wilt.

Most mornings, I meet her in the mirror. I carefully brush through her hair, wetting her down, just to see her clearer. We whisper about what is ahead of her; silently lament about what is behind. Gentle with my hands but less with my mind. I know I owe her.

Know I own her. Know that even at my best, there is so much sorrow between us. So many unmeant apologies, unmet necessities, unmatched niceties. So many men I allowed to touch her, to toughen her, to tangle up her tenacity until it was treacherous. I feel I have betrayed her in the most vulnerable of ways. I feel I have run out of happy lies to say.

Most mournings, I meet her in the mirror. I tie up her hair, knotting it without care, just to see her clearer. We scream about what is ahead of her; daydream about what is behind. Brutal with my hands and more with my thighs. I know I owe her.

I check my dad’s breathing while he sleeps.

Meet the sun at the horizon and together we sneak
around the corner,
avoiding the floorboards that we both know have a tendency to squeak.
It’s in these moments that I love him the most,
when his eyes are closed and he’s almost at peace.
There’s still hope for the day so long as he speaks.

Or maybe he’ll sing.

Our lives could have been beautiful,
had he learned how to fight it.
Had he grown past the affliction
that left his own family divided.

And some days he tries,
although he denies it.
I know when he’s clean
because the come down is quiet.
It’s borderline silence
coated with the threat of violence.

On these days all I can do is try
my best to pretend I resonate
with this man from hell.
Not a stranger, I know him too well.
Sometimes I see his anger in my own face.

Desperate to escape his youth, he forgot about mine.
And I’ve had this nagging thought for a while
that he only loves me when he’s high
enough to look down and remember I’m his child.

I still catch myself dreaming
in the moments between blinks,
of a better time for love to have struck me.
A better place for hurt
to have wrung me.
And I can’t help but wonder
if he also considers us unlucky.

I had always wanted to love him,
the way that he deserves,
one that’s both unconditional and sublime,
but it was ripped from my grasp;
there’s always too much pride.
Perhaps we could’ve seen beyond the risks
in another lifetime

Because he sits among my ribs
heavy against my heart,
humming along making my head twirl.
Wrapping me up,
like his hands in my curls.
And it’s a shame that we’re not soulmates;
at least not in this world.

I’ve always been a sucker for fate.
In love with the idea that the universe
has tied it's strings into knots with me in mind,
but forever skeptical of
anything that I couldn’t confirm.
How I ended up in front of a woman and her tarot cards is beyond me.

Between us is only a table,
The length of which makes a few feet feel like miles.
Distance is a funny concept,
Close enough to smell her perfume,
yet I feel
It would take an eternity for my hand to reach hers.  

When the card between her fingertips whispers to her
the potential I have in being a mother,
I want to leave.

It reminds me of when
My boyfriend tells me he can’t wait for the day  
That our magic comes together to create something worth stretching for.
The conversation leaves me with nightmares where I am alone and full with something that doesn’t quite feel like mine
And I leave him a week later.

All I’m doing is skipping the inevitable conversation
About the things I won’t give him.
Because between him and the woman in front of me,
I don’t know how to tell them that
motherhood is not something I expect within my deck.
Motherhood is a foreign concept that wakes me up each morning sicker than the last.
Purging myself of dreams of small fingers wrapped around my own.

I don’t know which combination of words
wraps the disappointment in pretty paper
And gives it over like a gift in the hands of my future love,
Allowing him to tear away at the layers until all that’s left
Is the box that I have stuffed this ugly truth into.

I have a list of names
Pressed into a book like flower petals that have been dry for far too long.
Like maybe some things are still beautiful after death,
Until they turn to dust.
Like maybe one day I will bring into the world
a child whose face fits these syllables,
Or maybe they’ll turn to dust.

See I like kids
And when people tell me that I will change my mind,
I tell them maybe.

Someone once told me that I was “denying nature”,
But it feels more like nature has denied me.