Skylark of the Bough

Skylark of the Bough 2d

I gave up swimming young,
although the bite of clorine still clings to me
like an afterthought-
skin soft like summer peaches
and just as sweet.

(Oh-
won't you sink your teeth into me, love?)

One of my first kisses was in the deep end of a pool:
I,
lingering at the bottom
and tracing the tiles with pruning fingers.
Them,
floating near the surface-
christened in refracted light.

(Water fills my lungs now
as I try to catch my breath
from my racing heart
as I look upon your divine form.)

Hand in hand,
swim into the cosmos with me-
we both knew our feet were meant for fleeing.

(So why does it hurt now
that I'm leaving?
Is it because it's without you?)

You look different in the water-
so different from the one I kissed
all those years ago.

(Is it cruel of me to say
I've loved you more
than I ever did them?)

I'll trace our love story into the sky for you,
mi vida.
Two fish tied together,
bound by fate.

Even though I knew
we weren't living off of a God's eternity,
I still crave the warmth of your body
engraved in my future.

(Who knew ichor
was so warm and filling?)

The inside of your mouth is so warm,
mi amor-
soft and supple
like the flesh of a fruit
(like the flesh of you)

But how am I to live
knowing I exist to hurt you?

How am I to live
knowing my heart beats
so yours may still?

So
with Fate's shining shears
I'll cut myself loose from you.

(Even though it hurts you;
even though it kills me)

Silver snips shining red thread.
Metal sinks into skin.
Gold ichor spills from holy wounds.

(I pray every night
this hurt you feel at my leaving
will heal over time)

Please, dear-
never forget I've loved you
beyond words.

Never forget how your hands
soft and warm, the shade of tree rings after a storm
still hold my fragile heart.

(Please,
won't you be gentle with me?
Won't you put me out of my misery?)

Never forget
te amo,
siempre y para siempre.

(Even though
I can't be around to see it)

Until we meet again.

(Please,
let us meet again)

In the original myth of the constellation Pisces, the goddess Aphrodite and her son, the god Eros (sometimes refered to by their Roman names, Venus and Cupid) escape the fearsome titan and son of Gaea and Tartaros (a child born out of spite, no less) by hopping on the backs of fish who where then memorialized in the cosmos for their deed. In some iterations of the story, Aphrodite and Eros turn into fishes rather than hopping a ride on them, but I think this version is more fun.

#starsign #pisces #heartbreak

Skylark of the Bough Jan 13

Untitled No.1

I suppose I'd say:

I hold my anxiety
in the space between my finger joints
as they twitch,
my ire in my teeth and jaws
as the shining pearls rooted in my soft gums
are ground to bitter enamel
(never my knuckles,
I've always been too soft for that).
My sadness must sit under my eyes
and behind shoulders
as they slump down
to hold me on cold nights-

But love?

I might say in my cheeks
when they hurt from smiling too much,
or the spasm of my hands
as euphoria engulfs me,
or in the giddy knots formed in my stomach.

But no;

I think I hold my love
in the cartilage
holding my ribcage together,
how it aches as if something is missing
(although nothing ever is)

#love #emotions #body

Skylark of the Bough Nov 2024

Father's Daughter

My father's wrath,
I've come to learn,
is a scared, tentative thing.

When it rears it's ugly head once more
against better judgement
biting and snapping and prowling
with bared teeth and teary eyes
like a bad dog
it has it's tail tucked between it's legs
(I guess that's where I get it from).

Never before
do I fear so fiercely
than under my father's hand.
I raise my arms to shield from a strike
that will never come;
I shrink from his booming voice like a mutt to thunder;
I cower under sheets like I'm a kid again,
biting back tears because I know if he hears
it'll break his heart-
and what greater sin is there?

My heart is a fragile thing.
A twitching, bleeding bird held in my father's maw
because that's all either of us has ever known.
Roots tied and tangled
until I cannot discern myself from Him,
choking on the guilt he feeds me.
So
when I shuck my skin from my bones
like worn and ill-fitting clothes,
he clings to the tatters
and mourns the woman I will not grow up to be;
mourning the body still growing before him
(And I, being tied to him at the heartstrings
mourn myself too).

My dad and I have always had a weird relationship. I've always been more attached to him than my mother - though both relationships are toxic. I often joke with my dad that we share the same brain, for better or for worse. Although, that's probably not true considering how he acts, but eh

#father

Skylark of the Bough Nov 2024

[i told you i was sick]

I want to create.

I want to weave my sorrows
into something that’s bearable to behold.

I want to be still-
like the stones my Nana mourns,
I want to rest beneath the dirt
(but I’m scared I’d be too restless
to lie peacefully).

Like the little world in my room,
(and the gaping maw of my bloodline)
I am ****** to feed the cycle that came before me
and rest.

My joints creak under the weight
of this petty mind.
My eyes bag under the weight
of these sleepless nights.
Yet still,
my hands ache for something just out of reach-
a longing for something more than I am now.

But words aren’t enough for this untouchable need.

#creativity #depression

Skylark of the Bough Nov 2024

Self Destruction

I WISH TO
CLAW MYSELF FREE
FROM MY WRETCHED RIBCAGE.

I WISH TO
RIP MY JAW
FROM ITS RUSTED SOCKETS.

I WISH TO
TEAR MY UNHOLY EYES
FROM MY DIVINE FACE.

I WISH TO
YANK MY ****** VOCAL CORDS
FROM MY ALL-TOO-PALE NECK.

I WISH TO
PULL MY WEARY INNARDS
FROM THE CONFOUNDS
OF MY STOMACH.

I WISH TO
WATCH THE BLOOD
STAIN MY CARPAL TUNNEL-RIDDEN HANDS
LIKE INK.

I WISH TO
LIFT MY BRAIN FROM MY SKULL-
TEAR IT APART,
SMOOTH OUT THE LINES
LIKE WRINKLES IN A SHIRT.

I WISH TO
S C R E A M
EVERY GRIEVANCE
THAT COMES TO MIND
WITHOUT THE GUILT
OF AN AFTERTHOUGHT
TO HAUNT.

but
I am all
too tired.

#sh

Skylark of the Bough Nov 2024

Holy Roots

I often speak
of the holy:
the high and mighty
the hands that guide me-
because that stuff never leaves you
when your oldest memory
is writing stolen stories in the back pews
(next to you)
of the church that ****** me to Hell
just for living; for loving; for breathing.
And
I often speak
of the ink
under my skin-
how it beats
with the blood
of my veins
how it rots
the valleys of my brain
how it festers
in the edges of my eyes
(Besides,
I’ve always thought
leaky faucet eyes and flatlines
were better fitting for me anyway).
And with calligraphy nibs
for teeth
and nails-
the points beg
for the weight
of the word
and the worlds
I could make.
So don’t mind
the blushing lines
on my wrists
& stomach
& sides-
that’s just me scratching the surface.

And
I often speak of
the hell I faced
in the soft heaven of my bed,
and how you Holy Figures watched
and waited
with blind and prying eyes
for the answer to come to you
on a rusting silver platter.
And yet,
when I served the cause
to this wretched effect
bloodied and blessed as it was-
wrapped pretty and proper
in a note I wrote in deranged worry;
you wept,
painting me a monster
with the ink from
my own ****** letters.
So,
cast from above
like One before-
a glistening gold halo
turned to petty pyrite
(how fitting,
for a follower turned fool).

So,
I ask
your Heavens now:
when I came to you
with prayers
and pleads
heavy on my tired tongue
in the pews of your Holy House
made Hell,
did you ever think to hesitate
before you began
to point your jagged fingers
and other weapons of war
at the silent space
between the lines of my letters
(that weren’t even there)?
Or did you hate being wrong so much,
six years of ignorance
was the price
you were willing to pay?
Was it worth it,
my Holy Roots?

Actually a slam poem I wrote a while back! I was raised Catholic, and of course, being gay/trans doesn't mix well with Catholicism. Tale as old as time. And because there's no real guidebook for raising neurodivergent queer Little **** (TM) with a penchant for getting into things I had no right to be in; they didn't know how best to help me. So, they didn't. Leaving me to my own devices so I could sort **** out for myself, in hindsight, wasn't the best idea, but it was better than the times where they tried to help but actually ended up making things worse. They try, though. And at the end of the day, it's all I can really ask for.

#religioustrauma #growingupgay #mommyissues #daddyissues

Skylark of the Bough Nov 2024

4 in the Morning

I hate four o’clock in the morning.

When the sky barely starts choking up colors for the new day;
when the foxes preach their screeching sermons to the dew-strewn grass;
when I can’t bear to face the day
again
and
again
and
again.

I hate four o’clock in the morning
because it reminds me that nothing will be patient enough
for my weary bones to gather once more.
It reminds me that,
like all things,
time will march on-
and I am not yet brave enough
to follow its battle cry.

I hate four o’clock in the morning,
and I haven’t gotten enough sleep
because I have given everything
to something that will barely give me back half.

But that’s the way of things, no?
We give
and give
and give
for what?

I think I forgot.

I have a tendency to wake up at 4 o'clock in the morning for whatever reason, and the worst part is it takes me a really long time to fall back asleep, so I wake up at 4 in the morning and I can't do anything about it :((

#wakingup #mourning #depression

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