Among the wreckage
of her soul,
lie shards of ribcage
(splintered like
the stern of a ship
that has weathered
many a beastly storm)
and fragments of heart
(veins as thin and lifeless
as the gossamers
of waterlogged spider webs).

Sunken treasures
you could call these things,
waiting in this perpetual limbo,
this Bermuda of Lovers Lost.

"Girl, overboard!"
he'd cried
(even though he
had been the one
to push her over the edge
in the first place).

Imagine that:

wrists tied behind her--
what hurts more?
The rope burns
or the cuts?--
feet sweeping despondently
across that doomed plank;
she can feel her love's breath--
frigid as Neptune's sea-bound winds--
undulating against the back of her neck.

She turns around slowly,
and he shoots her that
pathological
barracuda grin,
promises her that he cares--
truly, he cares--
that she means something to him.

But many a thing
a pirate does thief,
the truth
being one of them.

The next thing she knows,
she is plummeting
(watch how she does fall for him)
towards the convulsing
stretch of grey beneath her,
and as she whips about
through the bluster and the rain,
she stares up at him
with wild, pleading eyes.

She wants to scream out,
"Why?"
but there is no room
for words (or poetry)
upon the lips of the drowned--
after all,
dead girls tell no tales

From the moment
the tale of her ruin
made itself known,
mankind has
coveted proof
of her existence.

Many a curious hand
has stalked across
the glossy veins of maps
and the cracked vertebrae of books
enclosing information
most pivotal to
her secret whereabouts
and the tragic evanescence
that initiated her exile.

Many a
sailor
explorer
scientist
poet
have perished among
the gnashing jaws of the sea
in their pursuit of
the glory
her exploitation
would surely bring.  

In response to such
grievances--
the reality
of losing oneself
in the midst of
searching for what
has already been lost--
imagination--
the belief in magic,
in the seemingly
unbelievable--
was outlawed
within the
human psyche;

now,
they say she is merely
a madman's legend,
a myth concocted by Plato
so as to warn against
the perils of greed.

But never did they consider
that perhaps she did not
want to be found to begin with,
that her seclusion
has always been a necessity
so as not to repeat
the monstrosities of the past--
so she should not resurface
to satiate their earthly desires
only so she can be drowned anew.

{Atlantic}

See the flower girls go by
holding petals up to god
holding hands before the lords
and shouting out “come buy”.
they dip their pens and write in pollen
they offer crimson roses
for a fiver, see them
take a knife and form the petal
into the perfect, imperfect shape
of a star.

See the crowds that gather round
and coo and cry in awe
at such beauty and such artistry
see them cheering at the sound
of dripping life from dripping fingers
slick and
wet and
red.

for a fiver see them
the maddened flower girls
holding hands before the lords
and shouting out “come buy”

A lizard's tail,
dew in the night.
Ambrosia from the gods.
A drop of a
mermaid's tear.

This is Floccus Magni.

Shadows of the dead,
harrows of the living.
Joys of the darkness,
terrors of the light.

Let's entangle ourselves in lace.
While you leave trails of swelling bliss.
When all seems lost, it can be found.
I'm crazy because of the dead silence.

forgive me  my madness,
eccentricities,
        my faults
my tenderness  
   that pain
a thorn inside my brain
and skin so human
   that it hurts
my eyes of marble
   so hardly
knew intense; a sight
beyond light and that
     thrump
          within
the cargo vessel  
          held;
lifetimes of love
and sorrow some
of which my soul
measured
a life on hold
    to save this spot
  so much like Gold.

No boy will ever
want to **** me

if I forget
to put on makeup
in the mornings
lips red as Eve's forbidden fruit
succulent enough to
bite
tongue
devour
go down
cuz my nose don't
look so My-Big-Fat-Greek-Wedding
mountainous-side-profile
when it's caked in highlighter

if I have short hair
because short hair means
I'll look too masculine
in the ninth grade I
had a pixie cut
faith
trust
pixie dust
I could feel
my light burning out

(I never did believe in myself)

if I'm not thin
starve
binge
purge
two finger diet
VSCO diet
have you seen
the lovely girls
on the internet
in their
tight bodysuits
Coke Zero
figures
MVP
VIP
they'll get first access
to his ****


if I'm a *****
cuz how will anyone know
what you've really
got to flaunt
when you have to wear
a uniform to school
frumpy plaid kilt
white polo shirt
every button a barrier
like the notches
on his belt
tie coiled
a noose
around your neck
every casual day
I wear fishnet stockings
***** necklines
with push up bras
even though
I'm already a D
cuz I gotta get that D
gotta compensate
for being a ****** somehow




if I don't shave my
legs
stomach
*****
three days before high school graduation
I bought a thong
and got my first Brazilian wax
even though I didn't have
still don't have
a boyfriend
but I wanted him
to be my boyfriend
thought I should be prepared
thought maybe when he saw me
clad in
cleavage
periwinkle
floor-length gown
blue Converse peeking out
from underneath the tulle
I'd be his
Belle of the Ball
that he'd
take me
**** me

love me

but how could any boy
ever love me
in all of my
warped-perspective
grief-possessive
passive-aggressive
self-ob­sessive
manic-depressive
glory


how could any boy
ever love me
after reading
this poem?