oh, to crawl my way inside,
to scoop dahlias out of my throat —
and find the dumping site for all the gods
that died in my hands —
to this there is no absolution.

to crawl my way inside
and find the veins that survived,
the veins that did not —
the veins
too late to be saved by prayers.

to crawl my way inside
this skin — this catastrophe:
all flesh and a pool of blood
and all the nights i didn't drown
and perhaps soon,
i'll finally get to my ribs,
part them with all the softness
that my cruel hands can muster
and stare at the quiet, incomprehensible aching.


as though the calm will remain
suspended in the air.


soon,
it will all fall away.

but what if i am all the things i couldn't heal from?

hold at your risk; it's such thin skin —
delicate until it's not —
until beneath each layer,
gracelessly peeled back
isn't a doe-eyed girl
but chaos,
coming undone at the seams of a cold, pewter dress.

stare at your risk,
until what stares back isn't a doe-eyed girl
but lashes made of papercuts;
yet, wounds don't heal in silhouetted figures —
all barefoot on the ground where peonies fall.
all cold and bruising skin where the daylight hits.

wounds don't heal  in silhouetted figures
and the quiet morning cliché is that
it's the softest thing that leaves you hurting the most

lately, these poems are becoming mere abstractions
but the wounds, they remain tender
and the chaos still tries to find its way
outside this skin.
after all,
delicate things aren't meant to hold
this much obscure aching,
these much fragile bones.

lately, these poems are becoming mere abstractions
but the wounds still remain tender
under this cruel, pewter dress.

and they are tender, until they're not.
they are delicate, until they're not.


this is soft. until it's not.

Elke dag bring ek notepad op,
En begin ek om te skryf,
Maar die woorde kom nie.
Ek kan vra en ek kan smeek,
Maar hul wag langs die kantlyn
En spot my stil.

The world is an archery range and
Artemis' throat is a target practice.

What is this pale and moon-drenched skin
but a carcass to howling wolves —
their sorrows grow hand and grab her by the neck.

I always told myself to lie still
throughout the attack —
it'll be over before you know it,
but my lips are wounded from biting down a scream
and a carcass still weeps
long after it's dead
and my lung still bleeds
long after it's dry — lie still, my love,
because what if the calm trembles in a storm
and what if the storm brews in the calm.
Lie still, I say
but my legs weren't made to be a hunted prey's.
Lie still, I say
but my hands weren't meant
to carry the moon and all the sadness
she was ever told.

Lie still.
No, it's not only Atlas who breaks.
The world still is an archery range.

And tonight, Artemis takes her last arrow;
perch her carcass on the grieving moon —
a carcass, regardless, to all howling wolves.

a carcass — motionless;
a carcass
lies still.

And all of Delos mourns.