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some people are just old puzzle pieces
that no longer fit in these jigsaw puzzles — my palms.

i run high on its comfort —
i am no longer the dead air between my riddled words —
i am the rust growing in the tips of my steel bed —
such lackadaisical sight,
it is nothing like
cigarettes ashes falling on azalea flowers —
it's of no cinematic appeal.

i am a storm in a state of catharsis;
feel the last bits of softness break away from my skin.
i have outgrown my body
and its desperate need
to mimick the prettiest poems.

i still bleed, and it looks nowhere like sunsets;
i don't have to look like one —
feel like one.
die like one.

i am all these things. i am everything
but the puzzle of who i was —
like a mess of relics, blurring altogether
into one hazy memory.

these fragile bones come together
into something whole
something breathing.
something human.

and i am no longer a puzzle
that breaks at the feel of careless hands.
i run high on this comfort.
i run high on this clarity.
unzip my wrists —
fragile, handle with care.

i am drunk with the thought of them breaking,
resembling quartz veins
down in the mines.

unzip my arms,
this is an enclosure —
it is safe from all-seeing eyes.

unzip my skin —
i am bag of sorrows and bones
waiting to be unpacked
in a new rental room.
the walls are white; the sheets are clean; the flowers are fresh
and i sit in the middle of it all:
a slashed, opened mail
spilling shadows —
like a ghost inside a house.
a parasite inside a host.

unzip my body:

i am strikingly
all things
anti-thetical —
haunted —
a herald of infestation —

the walls are white; the sheets are clean; the flowers are fresh,
the sunset is warm — comforting.
the world spins in a blur.
and i sit quietly, in apprehension,
stuck in the middle of it all.

a ghost.
a prey.

the room is spotless —
i step out of my skin.
fray narte May 24
my sadness is a vagabond that cannot make up its mind. sometimes, it wanders to the farthest places and brings back a box of strange heartaches. other times, it begs to be felt, and i let it in — like an estranged lover coming back in sultry, august nights only to leave in the morning. and i become everything but me. sometimes, i can hear its breath, lingering in the sunless lines of poetry. other times, it kisses my most familiar scars. i yield, hoping for my skin to stop bruising so **** easily where gentle kisses fall. my sadness is a vagabond and i am yet to draw the blinds. i am yet to shut my windows and lock the door. one day, these ribs won't be prison bars — they will be for keeping out unwelcome, uncertain wanderers. they will be on my side of the battle.

and i will wake up, safe, without an estranged lover lingering on the doorstep — without its scent lingering on my skin.

i will wake up — me. me. me. grounded. not a tabernacle to be carried off. not a skin for sorrows to wear.
fray narte May 24
some things, too soft for my careless hands — nectarine kisses and sunlit skin. the quiet highs of being held, like dahlias dying after a month. vervain wrists dipped in a borrowed prose. your heart — and mine; my love, some things, too soft to not break in my hands.
fray narte May 19
my face is an open casket;
hear it recite obituaries and
watch the mourners cheer
and throw wild roses at my feet;
it's where the rot has started spreading —
like whispers. like applause.
rising, until my skin
resembles raw obsidians
until i am no more.

watch me hang from the ropes —
in hypnotic grace, like suspended light
flying, swaying.
a circus freak.
a certain state of decay.
watch me fall: a weightless,
motionless thing in the shadows.

a vigil.

yet the curtains fall
and mourners leave one by one —
their wrists, stamped with lilac ink.

a vigil.
a funeral.

a freak show and
its curtain call.

lay a cloth on this open casket.
i do not want to be seen anymore.
fray narte May 15
slice my tongue until the pieces resemble flower petals — until poems tremble on my very lips. on summer afternoons, they will look like the dried amaranths on your bedside table — in a city apartment you left. slice my tongue until the pieces resemble smoky quartz. it will sit quietly — each side showing the wild and quiet ways of aching. slice my tongue until it heals its wounds — until the sunset casts what's left of its light, and maybe my state of decay will finally look beautiful.
fray narte May 15
i will hold a gun to my throat myself,
yet somehow,
it is less violent
than the casual words of a god.

mad girls don't cry wolf;
they die. they disappear,
like cobwebs in a darkened corner.
in the shadows, watch me dangle
with a slip knot of fuchsias.

in the shadows,
watch me dig this body up,
until there is a layer of skin
and black lips and lithium quartz
and clichéd promises
you haven't touched.
after all, archaeology is
just an excuse
to look straight at my remains.

in the shadows,
let my skin cave in;
i will take everything down —
every misery, every deception,
every corruption, and every light.
i will ***** out the ******* sun
if it kills me,
leaves me cold as bygone walls.

yet somehow,
it is less violent

than to be loved by a god, until he doesn't.
to be loved by a god, but it isn't.

to be loved by a god: a euphemism, at best

to be loved by a god
is the curse.
fray narte Apr 17
i am quiet as
an iridescent, swan paperweight,
sitting and melting on sadness —
on sheets and sheets of it.

maybe this entire time,
i have been on the edge,
lying like a sand angel
and wading through dead buttercups.
i write a premonition
and call it a poem.

if these walls could speak,
they would call me a resident.
an outsider.
a hostage victim.
a sorry sight.
a paperweight sitting
in the middle of misery.

i am quiet as
an iridescent, swan paperweight,
sitting and melting on sadness —
on sheets and sheets of it;
oh, how i long
to fall and break
into a thousand pieces —

one, just small enough
to be invisible
to slip away
and have
no trace of pervasive sadness —
it glistens in casual,
technicolored mockery.

and i am quiet —
oh, so quiet.

oh, how i long
to fall and break.
fray narte Apr 5
a sheer curtain caught in a crossfire,
i stand here,
and burning tenderly —
burning softly before your eyes.

i liken myself
to a child's laughter falling
on patches of sunlight —
to persephone giving in
to the licking flames,

but she is no more than
a fading ghost,
and my skin —
no more than a haunted woodland.

i hold on to the flames,
to this perplexity:
how can immolation
look so soft,
so cleansing,
so **** hypnotic?

when it feels everything but.

a sheer curtain caught in a crossfire,
i stand here,
burning tenderly
into oblivion —
just as softly before your eyes.
fray narte Mar 28
all the weight of the night sits on my shoulders,
like a ****** of crows pecking on a graying bruise —
i cave under; my entire skin —
it falls apart, in grace,
from the constant touch, like liquid mercury;
such an anomaly, such an irony,
such words mused, lying there in a trance-like state
under all the weight of the night.
i wish it takes with it my sorrows
the second it lifts itself.

yet, i remain.

soon, the dawn will creep and break, eventually,
from holding me up in vain.

such a pity

maybe i will break with it.
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