a letter to each of my wraiths,
spirits of insidious intent.
to those who could not stomach
my tempestuous volatility,
the ones who grinned
and ran upon learning
I am a storm with skin.

the phantasms, loathsome and odious.
to the scorch marks you left upon
the deepest caverns of my soul.
melodious, vile, cloying, abysmal.

I drank every honeyed word like a promise:
yet it was naught but fermented love.
these are the odes for the ghosts
of my past mistakes.

I'll paint you all in a ravenously
meticulous light. you will have
your fifteen minutes in the sun,
before I set you all ablaze.



i.

you need no title, you deserve no name.
if you ever read this, harbor no doubts
that this is your trial.

you make me wish for an exorcism.
after all these years, your demon still sleeps within the marrow of my bones.

you are nothing more than a disease.

by some act of paradoxical cruelty,
I am unable to hate you. you deserve
it, but it is out of my capabilities.

you were poison.
you whispered sweet promises
that you didn't,
couldn't understand.
you tasted like pomegranates
and original sin.
you held me up when I
couldn't breathe, believe
in anything, or even stand.

thrice you sent me back
to the abyss.
in the end, we ascended
the throne as rightful heirs.

did you know what
you were doing?
did it even matter?
did you happen to care?

I'd like nothing more than to burn
every inch of you from my memory.

I dream of you on your birthday.
on days and dates of significance
that you have long forgotten.

you are a parasite. you were my muse.
I cannot help but wonder if you
understand what you truly are.
you have done that which is
unforgivable: I hope it corrupts you.
hate yourself for me, as I am unable to.

pray to whatever gods you hold
that you never cross my path.
I will annihilate you with a single glance.
encase you in ice so you may rule
the underworld alone.
I am your captive no longer.

I see you fully, in inscrutable detail.
I want to be the one holding the mirror,
all too happy to show you exactly
what you have always been. let it destroy
you: yet even that is too kind a fate.

your abhorrence festers within yourself,
your diseased and poisoned soul
eating away at the facade you built.
I'm tearing it down and exposing
your darkest fears and sins.



ii.

you are a brazen ballad of
burning bravado.

I'm done purging and
dissecting my soul for you.

you are not an enigma.
you are no daughter of the sun.
you are transparent.
you paint yourself in ashes;
desperate for resplendence.
I cannot stop you, darling.
just remember: I am the one
who taught you how to shine.

yes, it is true: I burnt you
with hands of unintentional
volatility. since my
transgressions; I have fasted,
wept, and atoned my sins.
yet desipte agreements,
promises of your forgiveness;
I have all but brought you
my head upon a platter.

I weigh my words upon a scale.
I do not wish to harm you again.
I am Atlas, pirouetting across
an endless sea of ice.
I dare not shatter you
with thoughtless words.
yet you have become a
threat to my own health.

I want nothing more than to repair
the frayed edges, yet I cannot
sew the tatters of fifteen years
with a single spool of thread.
restoration is not a one way street.

two weeks ago I bore my soul:
the fragility, voracity, my
undiltuted truth.
I forgave myself for what
I did in days past, at your behest.

it is, and shall never be enough.
no. not for the opulence
of a goddess. yet you are not
made of fire. you are ice.

opaque.

you have been nothing more
than a mirage. at least the truly
deceased only visit twice a year.
they don't leave unhinged promises.

“we could rebuild, recreate,”
and other half truths
you weave and sell.

you know just as well as I do, honey:
words are wind.
they do not bring warmth;
foster naught but sweet sighs
that shall never come to light.

your translucency is a beacon,
and you are the only one
unaware of how easy it is
to see through you.

I am truly sorry.
I am finished ripping open
the lining of my bones
to the lamenting cries
of unanswered echoes.

if ever your luster returns,
bringing substantial proof of
warmth, commitment; your needles
and thread: perhaps we can
recreate our tapestry.

until then, the silk shall remain
as it is: ravelled, fading,
matching your soul in every
transparent, powdery aspect.

red stains, fading, cracked, scented

     if i kissed your prints, would they kiss me back?

sighs, thoughts, spaces between prints

     spaces between words, between parted lips and floating thoughts the world! is so crowded with space but yours is the one i want to fill .

     but where are the lines? lines of loss, lines of lawns, lines of ink and rips and more stains and letters, in the hands and on the pavement

where are the lines?

why won't you go there?

why do you hover in these foul, indomitable spaces? why do you seek that which you should not?

     if the shadow of lines slinks in your quiet expression, then why are you still here?

     if the echo of your soft face lingers in my hands, if the whisper of your breath and the heat of your skin still singes my own, then why do you disappear?

lovely wraith, lovely memory of a thing that once was, why do you sit so alone?

because i am coming to your space, and if you can see me, of shadow and fog, then i will meet you there,

     on a line of our own.

>because it's a death premeditated and i can see it unfolding,

     sharp wounding painful

and the discourse in the sky is telling me so, yet why do i keep walking west?