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fray narte Nov 2020
i.
the scent of sorrow, hanging in the air
rotting away what's left of this skin.
wrists — sewn shut
are wrists undone:
the morbidity of it all pervades —
this i confess.

ii.
look not. turn not, for
each careful stare, each scornful gaze
has me falling back into darkness;
maybe eurydice has found comfort in its arms.
maybe so have i.

maybe this is how it's always meant to end.

iii.
lately, sunsets no longer melt
into an afterglow —
they just turn into the night.
at least it dims
the futility of drawing each shallow breath
from places filled with smoke and dust;

there used to be something there:
this, i confess.
this, i remember.

there used to be something there.

there used to be something h e r e.


— fray // november, must you be so cruel to my trembling hands left with no heart to break?
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
Ferrin McGinness Jun 2014
downtown is
a much newer scene than even
i thought it’d be - i was
prepared to be
a novice. i was prepared to be
out of place. and this was
nothing, i could handle these
old odd eyes, i just
wasn’t ready to feel so
dropped in.

but i’d drawn a diagram
of this situation,
a different specific

(*******.
i can’t hear myself think)

why am i surprised to feel
so dropped in
when i’ve drawn it?
drawn upon it?

why am i surprised
that a new brand new
situation feels
just the same as the new situations
of before, when i’ve
had so many
that i can picture the the sensation
of my brain?

i’ve made a series of green lines
on a yellow, lined piece
of paper.

i’ve meant to take it
to my shrink for months.
once,
i had it in my purse and
my guts, when i entered,
decided to shrink.

i said
i was fine, and the same,
and i started to drop
the pills that stole my sleep
onto the streets.

it’s helped,
and i’m surprised. and my brain
feels more awake than
any other time
in the past
three
years…
so.

to which part of town
do i go to

from here?
Yearning apricity,
feathers soar higher,
pleading perfervidly to the Sun.
Sinking to the deeper suffocation,
I scavenge the soil for the astray nail.
A final spike to lock away the life.

As the light gets darker,
a pungent smell takes over,
smearing everything in its stench.
I descry my melting face.

Air implored perfervidly to break my obstinacy.
I dived deeper,
smiling at its desperate attempt.
Its hope to stop the dead from dying.

My fingers touch the inner debris,
aspiring to find the last nail for the coffin.
A couple of more suffocations later,
I find it;
hidden under the pile of thorns.

I pin it to my heart.
One last breath,
and I ceased at the dawn.
A part of my skin burns,
the other patch numb with cold.
Torn between the extremes,
I crave water.
Hundreds of gallons of it.
Anticipating it to soothe,
to bless the charred insides.

There’s a puddle under the table
or under my hallucination.
I can’t tell.
I touch it with my face, dreamily.
Each gulp as confusing as the last.
I am not sure how to tell
if it can be a saviour or not.
fray narte Nov 2020
i had missed too many sunsets hurting in silence. to this day, the sky is in a graying shade of blue. to this day, it is mournful and decaying over me — or inside me, i do not know. i had lost count of the months i shunned the sunsets and headed straight — disgracefully, to the arms of the dusk. besides, falling apart looked harsher, and messier, and more vivid in the light. and so i had missed too many sunsets; this too, is becoming a wound.

i wish i were kinder to myself.

i wish i could forgive myself.
I let it out at times,
the tethered soul of mine.
Let it savour the light,
hang in the smoke,
extract the trailing drops of life.

It tiptoes.
Scared to touch every being.
The familiar difference is intriguing.
I let it oscillate.
I let it oscillate freely.
Oh! The dance of the captive!

It floats through the words,
each syllable lumbers to make sense.
Scared stiff of each utterance.
The jibber-jabber could burn the pages
like its inside.

It puffs up. It shrinks.
It cuts.
I watch it bleed in hesitation.
Till it's again confined.
To dare is to touch,
touch the hallucination of your presence.
My reverie doesn’t do justice,
to your eyes under a blithe twilight.
My hands run through the air silhouette,
collecting wishes of you in my palms.
They come in handy when writing poems of our love.
I cut through the illusion,
afraid,
I will let you deceive my heart.
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