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fray narte Jul 19
I stick my fingers in my throat
and throw up a basket of swallowed suns;
under it, my tongue is parched and pinned in place
like a dried house moth on an entomologist’s hand
that nurses it back to life

and demands devotion in return,
a poem in return.

But I have purged the feeling being out of me
like a cold, cold man now averse to the ways of his younger lover
who is alive for all of it — the lust and the starving kisses
and the quiet deaths in the morning only to haunt at night.

I leave letters for my bitten nails without meaning a single word,
and go to lie with the superficiality, the hypocrisy nesting under my tongue.

I have started writing poems again — see where they take me this time
and find myself here, once more
where a fool unpacks her baggage and out I come rolling
like a dead body with a foaming mouth, a brown moth burning under the sun,
a leech that scurries under salt and needles,
slowly eroding like sanity.

She thinks, therefore, she is, they say,
but at what cost? She looks on and pens this poem
with a tiny smile on her lips.
written June 6, 2022, 10:53 am
fray narte Jul 14
my father pours his beer on my mother’s wounds.

i bet she rues the moment
god fashioned her out of his hollow ribs
and him, out of the twigs breaking
under her careless, tiny feet when she was fourteen.

hollow and broken, the walls fall
all over me like ancient, perishing twin cities
and lot’s wife never looks back; the angels never look back —
i crack like a lightless dawn that wants to disappear
but my brother has started to look like me —
wearing an all too familiar silence, an all too familiar sadness
wrapped around his neck like a cursed talisman.
my sister’s wrists are exposed; i check
for bitterness, and cigarettes, and boys —
maybe i hid them better and held them tighter away
until i was pale and white as a ghost i longed to be,

hollow and broken, the walls fall; the door flings open.

i no longer have to hide my wrists,
but i crouch to a cluttered corner of my room.
every sudden movement, every unchanging voice,
and i bow my head low for my father to pour his beer,
like a baptism of the heathen who accepts the words of god.

my mother’s wounds shine like biblical relics
kept in my body — too fragile and small
but i was not made for the word of god
who calls himself by my father’s name.
— written may 22, 2022, 6:40 pm
fray narte Jul 11
i still wait for my bed to dip beneath your weight —
70 days, 70 taunting moons still come and go
without a trace

the shape of your tiny body.
i know you are weightless now,
and the bed doesn’t dip — my heart does
until it resembles a blood-red, pink flesh quicksand;
i wish we had fallen here instead, within my reach;
you can reach for a rib, a branch, a lifeline,
i would’ve given you the whole cage —
warm enough to keep you home, each bone will bar the door
and keep death outside and eye to eye with me.
the first one to blink loses.


maybe he would’ve lost his patience
and taken my heart instead —
every dip, every beat, every pump that lasts,
no more now,
and all my angels will keep you safe,
and the bed will dip under your little pink paws,
and orange feet


as i watch from the other side:
you are all the living colors and the world is pale like a ghost.
— written may 16, 2022, 11:28 pm
fray narte Jul 8
“i set my deadfall hands on fire —
swallow the ashes,” i wrote and laughed
as these words turned black with rot

in two months,

i am no longer inside the skin
burning away vividly at the feet of the sun god.
i am not a body at the crematorium
with matchstick-fingers and gasoline;
my bones are whole, pure, pearly, quiet white.

i have been holding my breath, waiting
for the smoke to clear without choking.
i no longer want to write about the flames and the embers and live-coal hearts;
i put my poems down, my cigarettes and pitchfork
and step into a gentler flare,
and stick my tongue out to lick the sunbeams —
they’re warm against my taste buds,
like honeyed milk and hibiscus stews.



i am four years old once more,
sleeping soundly on my mother’s lap.
Written last May 16, 2022, 9:10 pm
fray narte Mar 4
dearest stranger,

i am too abstract now for my own good. i feel and hold myself, in place, in my hands and i slip right through like sunlight, like tiny moth scales, like the delusions of a sauntering ghost, like all things unreal and untouchable, like a madwoman, laughing away in her free fall to an unsteady ground.

and all the flowers are cheering in their surreal, psychedelic scarlets, and all the rocks are breaking, and all the words are failing to capture what i truly feel.

am i still despairingly corporeal, like paper napkins and panes of glass? am i still in actual flesh, now that god doesn't exist? am i still as tangible as this last, frantic breath of a letter?

am i still actually here?

bidding my farewell now,
ginia
fray narte Mar 2
𝐼𝑓 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑢𝑡,
𝑎𝑛𝑑
𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓  —
𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑙𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑠,
𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑎𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑐 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑠,
𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔
𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙,
𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛
𝑤ℎ𝑦 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑠𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑦?


𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑑𝑜 𝐼 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙
𝑠𝑜 𝑒𝑥𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑦

𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒅?
fray narte Mar 2
when will the world quiet down into a throbbing, feeble ***** that i can so easily crush?
fray narte Mar 2
i spend my days sighing away, digging away at each layer of disillusionment. when will i get to the bottom of this? when do i get to see my bones, all bleached out to a lifeless tan? when do i get to poke them around like live coals, desperately reviving a dying fire? when do i get to see myself, in my highest, truest, most foolish form, and have the closure — both underwhelmed and overwhelmed?

i've lived longer than my younger self would've allowed; tell me, did she know me much better? did she live just long enough for me to inherit her despair? have i gone dancing too much with illusive lights, only to get home heavy, burning, and blinded? did she know it all along? did i know it all along?

tell me, was it all for this? tell me, in the name of all my splendid highs and in the drawn-out silence thereafter  — is this it?
fray narte Feb 24
oh, to self-soothe like a wounded fawn. the hours are unmoving. the lights disorient. the city collapses on top of my head.

this world is too impatient with bewildered hearts like mine.
fray narte Feb 24
𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑑𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠. 𝑚𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑’𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛.
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