#spilledink poems on Hello Poetry

fray narte Aug 2021

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 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

The Ghost of Mid-Decembers

It all makes sense now — the foolish way I repeatedly gathered my broken heart and laid them at your feet like wild roses, the cold feel of beer bottles, the anguish at the heartbreak trying to escape my chest, the desperate need for your cruel hands, the way new Decembers kept on hurting — it all makes sense now, the miserably intense way that I loved you, and how it was never enough.

I needed to be hurt like that. I needed to live your cruelty in order to love myself more.

#heartache #heartbreak #pain #prose #spilledink #words #poets

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

Yours, Eve

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

#poetry #spilledink #poems #poets #writers #fraynarte #words #poemsporn #poetryporn #wordporn

fray narte Jul 2021

forever an escapist

I'm tired of being celebrated for surviving traumas I didn't deserve in the first place. I want to drive and drive and drive away until I no longer feel the sunlight digging its nails on my bruised legs, until I fall to my knees and melt in the shadows, and all traces of struggling are swallowed whole by the ground. I long for the quiet: a Brontë girl dying before the ending. I long to no longer be visible. I long to be long gone.

#poetry #spilledink #writers #fraynarte

Spike Harper Jun 2021

To Search

Perhaps inspiration is the problem.
I have always danced with words.
Blending syllables and wit
Bending sentences at will.
Firing ink from a loaded pen.
Makes for good imagery.
As I flap the pages of this notebook.
Dropping tiny daggers with this tongue.
Trying to master the craft of symbolism.
With sarcasm.
Playing with these words like hooked on phonics.
Molding them into a scene.
Of play on words.
With less drama.
Maybe even worth less.
Like pay-less.
As we walk in eachothers shoes.
To better understand the roads we travel.

#roads #life #inspiration #misunderstood #connections #writing #poem #freeverse #spilledink