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fray narte Jul 2021
Your hands are a spare room for grass blades and wilting flowers —
they wound just the same now,
die just the same.
One day we will too.
I breathe you in,
stale air and brimstone fill my lungs
like the flood that came after us —
it has our name on it:
a misguided retribution.

I remember leaving,
the soil turning parched as our soles,
the shadows' first treason,
the cold, cold air,
the distance between our clothed body,
drifting away like continents.
Soon, you will speak in tongues,
a language you cannot love me in
and still, I'll call your name, softly,
like a desperate counter-curse.

I am still here,
a darkened rib for the devil to collect.
I am yours first, before I am his.
But you are worth the fire and the first sin it's ever seen
the crash site, the rock shards buried on my arms —
I am good as a dead woman — a wide-eyed mortal
I will walk to you on skipping stones,
sinking stones
with my bones set on fire and the world up in flames —
this is our undoing in the colors of a sunset
but it's nothing we've seen before.

I know good. I know evil.
I know flames and the way it burns. I know death and its finality.
I know a lot of things now,
but only one of them matters, Adam —

I know you are worth the fall.
Inspire by Mikael de Lara Co's As Adam
fray narte Apr 2021
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 2021
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 2021
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.
fray narte Nov 2020
what good is a poem under a scab —
i keep on peeling and peeling, asking
is there more to this skin
marred by my restless fingerprints —
they've all been but subtle.

what good is a poem under a scab —
it still is a wound
over which rusty dahlias mourn and spread
and maybe if i dig my fingers deep enough,
i will find an exit —
all ****.
all dust.
all quiet aching.
still, it's an escape.

and what good is a girl under a scab?
some of them are made to run —
to fashion wings and fly.
so darling, seal your wings all you want
all poetry and beeswax
and prayers to the gods
who do not speak your name,
and still, the sun would only watch you fall
as the sea spray worships
your scabbing skin.

all sad things belong to the sea
and maybe that is what you wanted.

maybe that is what you wanted after all.

— fray narte
fray narte Nov 2020
to this, i resign
and i will lie motionless,
as november nights lovingly peel my skin.

strip me down,
i am sick of feeling callouses.
i am sick of my sheets
licking all these wounds clean.
i am sick of waiting for tenderness
to grow from my open sores
so strip me down —
this is as loving as it can get.
to this, i resign —
to the mercy of lonely, november nights.

so hold me down,
a pillow on my face —
petunias in my throat:

this is as soft as i can be.

peel me open. peel me raw,
and beneath it all, perhaps, i'll stumble
on something that finally
looks like home.
fray narte Oct 2020
oh, to live with sadness, so deep — it has started spreading;
i can feel its crushing weight: a stampede.

my trampled bones have started to resemble
wildflowers as they decay
and the soil flinches at the sight
of something so pure —
something so tainted.

behold, the lamb of god
has become the big, cruel wolf;
this is what happens to delicate things
after they're done breaking —
after they're done rotting.
this is what happens to pure things
after the sins and sacrificial rites.

behold, the lamb of god —
the scapegoat
has become the wolf

and one day, it will outrun the forest fog — spreading —
one day, it will outrun the howling in its chest.
one day it will outrun the ironic aching of ribs, long emptied.

oh, to be a girl and not a wolf.
to live with sadness and trampled bones.
maybe one day, i too, will outrun myself
fray narte Aug 2020
this poem is a lovechild
of my weary skin
and the sensual creeping of an all-consuming melancholia;

my voice, hoarse
from calling for the gods
whose names all fall away
at the sight of my undoing —
besides, who falls apart
at ungodly hours
but sinners?

why hast thou forsaken me —
there no longer is a need for this
when they had all forgotten your name
hours before the daybreak.

and yet everyday, i still wake,
waiting for this bed to collapse
under the weight of my hollow bones, holding
the weight of the frailest chaos
to ever befall these sorry sheets —
i thirst,
for a new kind of skin, unstained,
untouched —
wide enough
to hold all this weight of sadness
lying in these sorry sheets.

i've wanted too many epitaphs for a girl who's still alive;
today it's started wanting me back.

now, i tire,
wrap the cloth around my skin:
all ashen, all stench,
all cold, all dead.

now take this poem.
take this lovechild in your arms —
all brown eyes and little hands;
half melancholia;
barely a girl.

now take this body;
take its peace.
bury it in a pauper's field.
Madalasapriya Jun 2020
It was raining over clouds
I found he is searching to get a shelter
He never lost  a hope
What triggered him to attempt his best

As he walked every mile
He heard a soul speaking to him
Just as he heard, it was me standing in pain

He felt we need to move on
Irrelevant  even if what it may
Just as he heard my cries
He took a lead to show me a shelter
He left himself alone in rain forever
Marissa LaMarti Nov 2019
There’s not much left,
other than a soft ash that covers the branches.
I could tell you it was angry,
I could tell you I’m covered in acid burns
Shaped like words, it hurts.

I could tell you the smoke filled my lungs
to the brim,
And left lesions of soot
across my low beating heart
At least everything is still.

There are no more leaves,
the only hum I hear
is the ringing in my ears,
and the tears,
are dry now, too.

I could tell you how comely
this all looks
The destruction, the debris-
but you deserve your own pity;
Abandon me with mine.
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