I keep pain in my pocket
in a white ribbon packet
Burning while I kneel in faith
that I should dance
In God's good grace-
that I should love a cleaner way
So I may not scare the light away
with my tendency to
lead with all my shattered pieces
sing their own enticing song.
It can't be long
before it's heard and
once more there is fodder
another fool into deep water
And like a totem that I bear-
Hope remains, beyond repair.
The ice I wear is silence.
As for diamonds, I don't own them.
I save ruby for my lips.
I save swagger for my hips.
I save crystal for my gin.
And the only thing I age is grace.
As for me I grow divinity-
The sin in me,
is confidently rising as I walk into the room.
If I make you feel I'm naked
when your burden down with fur-
"What does he see in her?"
If I make you feel uneasy,
and hold him just so tighter
because my steps are lighter
although my thighs are trunks
like mighty oaks they hold me high
so I can match my Tiffany eyes
to the Tiffany sky.
Wear your silver, wear your gold.
And I'll wear nothing loud and bold.
How dare I not adorn.
Not care about your scorn?
I am the bracelet that wraps the wrist,
I am the earrings lazy laying.
Designers drape me in goddess garb
while your childish glitter is fraying.
I wear years like men wear watches-
Proud and vainly count the notches.
Watch me slither, watch me wander.
Helpless but to become fonder.
This is a statement about aging and social media and the eternal dialogue of women and value.
The only time in an ordinary life that dying seems beautiful is when you are a teenager. That beautiful time where your skin is tightly wrapped around you like Saran Wrap and your mind believes every tear you push out of your eyes matters, counts towards something. You cry because your heart got broken? That matters, put it in your portfolio of beautiful broken pieces. You cry because you did not make the team/the grade/the cut/the audition/the clique/the bus … all of these things matter when your book is full of hauntingly empty pages. What nobody tells you is that once you fill your book with these small slights, you have less and less pages left for the big stuff that’s coming. The big stuff that should really fill your book. By the time you have something to write in your big book of beautiful broken pieces, you’ve filled it with so much crap and nonsense that there is nothing left to say.
I have nothing for you then.
Stop readingStop mother ******* reading.
I have nothing.
I am ******* empty.
I have nothing.
This was the beginning of a short story I am writing. I came back to it a bit later and think it would make a great essay.
In the hemisphere
and loud guitars
and cosmic dust.
Blanket of blackest wool above
Bleeding yellow in the out-there
And on the wooden chairs painted white
we sit to watch.
63 moons glide gracefully
and say the things
that move from tongues to fingertips
Lands sooner than the bitter words
It was under the nebulae
Where you gave me a ring
which you slung round a planet
with a ladder and rope
and you gave me a promise that is hung round the sun
so I jump up ride it when it if it orbits me slowly
In a moment of tiny, of small and sooner.
in a moment that's billions
of miles away
so before we we've been born
and before we've been lovers-
a star somewhere tucked our whole story away.
I will find us a night cloud
thick with our longings
and send it out shining to sell to the night.
Yes, I'll pack it up warmly
and hold it quite tightly then send it out sailing on
night after night.
Shards of the glass pierce my atmosphere-
Rocket Ships to the floor .
And as the red wine swells to pools beneath
I am swaying to the music of momentum-
Just enough so one might see,
That beautiful whole that once was me.
The water that is crushing me
is keeping me afloat.
I cannot feel the ground beneath,
and I'm not sure I can stand.
The pressure that is bearing me
is holding all my insides in
No longer see a shoreline
and I can't know I won't drown.
As I navigate myself,
and twist to find my East and West
I realize I've made quite a mess-
Left my compass with a gull.
The bird you see,
liked shiny things
and as I thought I had no use
for which direction
I might take
I felt it
quite an easy trade-
the weight of choices off my hands
And the bird with flightpath clear.
The sodden feel of water now
has permeated all my pores
and left me to shed salty tears
My feet ache for the ground.
I will tumble like the seaglass
with each wave my edges blur
perhaps the the sea will make me clean
Stripped of sin
and stripped of ache.
Perhaps this long night will end soon
If I can just
just a while more.
Thank you for taking the time to read my work. Comments and critiques welcome. I'd love you to add me so I can see and read your work as well.