#friathethirteenth
dearest stranger,
i am too abstract now for my own good. i feel and hold myself, in place, in my hands and i slip right through like sunlight, like tiny moth scales, like the delusions of a sauntering ghost, like all things unreal and untouchable, like a madwoman, laughing away in her free fall to an unsteady ground.
and all the flowers are cheering in their surreal, psychedelic scarlets, and all the rocks are breaking, and all the words are failing to capture what i truly feel.
am i still despairingly corporeal, like paper napkins and panes of glass? am i still in actual flesh, now that god doesn't exist? am i still as tangible as this last, frantic breath of a letter?
am i still actually here?
bidding my farewell now,
ginia
Mar 3, 2022
Mar 3, 2022 at 11:35 PM UTC
If dig on my skin
deep enough,
will it reveal a shallow grave?
Shallow —
but deep enough
for my wasting bones —
deep enough
for rotting flowers,
deep enough
for me to rest?
Sep 5, 2021
Sep 5, 2021 at 1:03 AM UTC
i.
i carve the sadness out of my ribs like well-soaked marrows;
they fall off like a drunken secret —
a poem within a poem within a night-long quietude
that i disturb
like a child's stomping feet among the prairie dusk.
ii.
i carve a poem,
whole and out of my tightened throat
like a reverse magic trick,
but my hands break in casual irony.
i carve a word out of my tongue
but all it does is bleed.
iii.
i carve a feeling out of a callus but
my paper-skin is left too long under a lavender storm
to still write letters like these.
iv.
the sky cries to a drunken oblivion
as i unwrite this poem in indifference.
i let myself go, like that
dead houseplant drooping in corner of my room
and cheerless, quiescent sheets
watch to pass time.
Dec 23, 2021
Dec 23, 2021 at 9:06 PM UTC