#fraynarte poems on Hello Poetry

fray narte Aug 2021

august

august is a map of my fullest aches. it always has heartbreaks for me to feel. it is all the wrong lights hitting all my wrong angles and now i'm facing a mirror of my body covered in torn traces of breaths — an empty space, a backdrop for a sight of star dusts lingering. august is a map of my feet where the sea has buried technicolored glasses — all swelling, all wounds dulled by the salt and the summer rain. soon, august will all wear off like a cruel high; it's done seeing me mourning, and i'll be an empty shell for september to wash away.

walk past me in the shallow seas. walk past me in full aching state. walk past me — look past; i long to be a ghost of something delicate, something not terrifying, something that doesn't haunt.

#fraynarte #words #poets #poetry #spilledink #spilledthoughts #writers #august

fray narte Aug 2021

Salvadore

i am looking at it now from afar — that certain kind of pain that would mirror mine; how immense it must be to go through it, and i can only imagine getting out. how immense the pain must be, how terrible, to wish for a kind of comfort only a certain, abrupt finality can bring. i am looking at it now from afar: skin as gray as mine and lately, the daybreak just brings in its rays more nights for us to swallow.

if it brings you any semblance of a cold comfort — the one you seek, i hope you know, i'll die in your place. i wish i can take it all away.

#prose #words #spilledink #spilledthoughts #poets #fraynarte

fray narte Aug 2021

w.m.

your slow, burning kisses live off my trembling skin, for this alone, i will run out of poetry. i will fall at your feet, graceless, and at will. and i know this is madness. this is a disaster. this is the calm — all rolled into quiet, prosaic longings i can't begin to comprehend. this love, it scares me but not enough to run for my life. and i will have every bit of this moment committed to memory. i will bury it inside my ribs, away from the selfish hands of time. i will keep this love in a vial, hidden away beneath my tongue. always — this is my kind of always, my love, and some parts of me will never outgrow being yours.

this is the kind of madness i know. this is the kind of disaster. this is the kind of calm.

in the dark, i whisper, "tell me, love, does it scare you? does it scare you enough to run?"

#sapphiclove #love #wlw #sapphicpoetry #sapphicpoets #fraynarte #poetry #poets #spilledink

fray narte Aug 2021

Winona

I want all kinds of love with you. The kind that leaves a holy mark on distant, ivory skin. The kind where daylight blurs your edges into something soft. The kind where a kiss is a chaos of storms. The kind with orange butterflies — the kind where they're consumed by flames. The kind that hurts and leaves you writhing — fragile, broken, and covered in wounds. The kind that screams under the rain. The kind that yields, like sunlight in February's palms. The kind that poets do not know about. The kind that leaves and finds it way back — the kind that always does. The kind that never leaves at all. The kind that's an almost. The kind that I'll pay for with my bones. The kind that haunts you after the years. The kind that holds on. The kind in wrinkles. The kind that lasts. The kind that stays. ❤

I want all kinds of love with you.

#love #sapphic #sapphicpoems #sapphicpoetry #sapphicpoets #sapphism #wlw #poetry #fraynarte

fray narte Jul 2021

Bell Jar

i stand in a pit of deep anxiety,
its shapeless form outweighs
all the sunsets i stored
inside my skin —
for keeping,
for the dark.
my arms outstretched towards its colors
are last bits of innocence
the only part untainted,
the only part that doesn't flinch —
at the voices,
the movements,
the arms clawing from below.

six feet deep —
maybe a higher number,
people cannot mourn what they cannot see.
soon these spare lights, these spare words, this spare comfort,
they will all dissolve into a shapeless, formless,
state of corruption;
i am a body, hazy in a jar
dumped at the back of an anthropology museum.
preserved, not rotting —
people do not mourn things that do not rot.
and mourning is all i do in a suspended time,
in a time that moves and doesn't wait.

i stand in a pit — on my feet
with twisted legs and washed-out skin.
i still, as though before a mirror
seeing this weight in full clarity —
it shows in my face, blank as a sheet of ***** ice
where i am buried in.
i still, in my pit, my feet, staring:

the rest of the world is shapeless as it moves past me,
formless as it walks by.

#poetry #prose #fraynarte #words #poets #poet

fray narte Jul 2021

meredith

my skin has always been mine to break. it is a crime scene i can never flee, and i have to live with the fact of being both the perpetrator and the victim. i am an inconspicuous shadow melting in a rustic kitchen, waiting to escape — waiting to be found, and this anguished aching has begun to chew on my fingertips, like a bleaching agent yet, some things always leave a trace. some things always leave a trace. some things always leave a trace. my hidden scars, my manic letters, striking in their blood-red words, my hair all chopped off like diseased dahlia stems. my fingerprints, like the sins of a roman governor washed in vain. my loudest angers. my quiet hurting.

some things always leave a trace. i wish i can dissassemble my body and carefully lay myself — all detached pieces, on a dinner table, and wipe myself with a washcloth. i wish i can wipe myself and lo, i am good as new. i wish i can wipe myself spotless. i wish i can wipe myself clean.

#prose #spilledink #poets #poetry #writers #words #fraynarte

fray narte Jul 2021

too many cruel warm days

sunset has me by the neck but not everything it lays on becomes beautiful and healed. all i do is curl my body into a small, tight space where the dusk begins and spreads. all i do is sigh my sorrows. all i do choke, and heave, and ache, at best — in full bright, bruising technicolors.

#prose #spilledink #words #writers #fraynarte

fray narte Jul 2021

cruel july sundays

this lonely room is full of rosewoods rotting under the july rain, i have knocked on them way too many times, my knuckles can barely remember a period without the dull aching from the splinter — they can barely remember the stray bits of softness left here and there by the girl i used to be. still, knocking hasn't saved me from the insidious caving in of these humid walls. knocking remains an unanswered gesture and i have stopped asking questions. i can only sit, small and in bewilderment of my stagnation.

this lonely room is full of rosewoods rotting under the july rain and maybe my skin will soon be drenched enough to give in and fall, like a giant scab of a wound long healed. i am my own wound, breathing, quiet and careful in its self-inflicted state. this lonely room is full of rosewoods rotting and still, the veins in my wrists are mine to scar while waiting for the calm after the rain. i am the tree bark in a state of decay. i am a storm sewn shut like a bitter memory, like a piece of bloated flesh. god, all this cold is foreboding. this lonely room is full of rosewoods rotting under the july rain and i hope my skin weathers and erodes, like worn ***** soil, just in time for sunlight to look at me — just long enough for me to look back and feel its pity — its kindness — its warmth.

indeed there is a state of calm in an eroded consciousness. it's the closest thing to daybreak. it's the closest thing to peace.

#poetry #fraynarte #spilledink #words #poets #writers #prose

fray narte Jul 2021

Talitha

my skin is made of dystopian days knitted together
until they resemble the dying seconds of my worst light

i am naked as a gaunt body under an indigo sunset — its weak light beams
feel like the browning stems of a *****
and my wrist is the soil, the aftermath of a war —
has it ended?
has the ground stopped rotting?
has my body?

i hope it doesn't get worse than this.

my skin is a piece of a brick wall
inside an abandoned church, it echoes
a kind of desperation, a kind of compulsion:
what am i doing?
what am i doing?
what am i doing?
i am a widow that prays to gods who are long gone,
in a church that no one visits anymore.

my skin is a map of prayers in a dead language
and there is no new word for the kind of mourning
the kind that silence can barely contain
without breaking into a scream.

it has always been loaded; i have always been loaded
in my fragile stillness, in my best and worst lights.
i hope i don't get worse than this.

#poetry #poets #poems #fraynarte

fray narte Jul 2021

girl made of sandstones

I wish to flow, to pour,
to be seamless,
as the raven hair of a drowning woman;
it stays on the surface
but my head is beneath the water —
I am choking on my own cries.
I wish to be fluid and gentle as the sunlight
as it guts me open —
it looks immaculate with the knife
But I am the stones in a dead river,
the lump in my throat that doesn't quite fit
the size of my mouth;
I have swallowed too many suns
but the water floor still looks too dark,
I am a silhouette coughed up in the dawn,
the loch ness monster,
the still waters,
the body that goes nowhere but ashore.

I want to shed my skin,
pour it all and run dry —
be lighter than the sun.
I want to grab the god of time by his neck;
and out there,
Ophelia is still picking flowers,
humming to the fragments of sorrowful song,
her dress flows like a quiet brook;
it leaves only her sins in the water —
like a snakeskin in the Garden.
it leaves nothing but her sins —
they flow as she walks away.

Here,
in the middle of who I am

everything flows but me.

Choking is the last thing I remember.
The sun, the last thing I see.

#poets #poems #fraynarte #words