I used to think blue eyes were pretty,
his were not.
his were not cornflower, sapphire, baby, indigo, azure,
or cloudy sky blue.
His were midnight where the light pollution from the city blocks the stars.
Iceberg, squall, hypothermia, eventual death

I was a gifted child. Until I wasn't. I was the golden girl. Until I couldn't burn anymore.
My parents expected me to build wings of gold and fly further than anyone could ever try. I don't blame them, having a child to raise is like sculpting a clay ***, you can shape it the way you like, paint it the color you fancy. To raise a child is to play God. To raise a child is to be God.
But to be a child is to fall, to make mistakes, to fail. The thing about being too bright at an early age means you burn out by the time you're 16 and suddenly the world around you becomes more gray and terribly, terribly lonely. The fire is never warm enough, nothing is ever enough. And one day you find yourself begging to a godless sky, begging for a new spark.

There’s a tongue in my blood
that don’t sit right in my mouth—
words I know in feeling
but not in sound.
My grandma prayed in it,
soft and low,
like a secret meant for someone
who I never meet.
She’d stir the beans slow,
hum songs I never learned,
and when I asked what they meant,
she’d just say,
child, some things ain’t meant to be told.
I carry stories in me
that I don’t have the voice for—
songs without melody,
homes without maps.
My hands know more than my mouth does,
my silence says more than my tongue.
Some days I ache in syllables
I ain’t never been taught.
I dream in colors
that don’t exist in this country.
I write poems
with ghosts in the grammar.
And when I try to speak it—
whatever it is—
the words feel like someone else’s teeth
in my mouth.
But still,
I keep trying.
To shape the hush into music.
To name the ache without breaking it.
To say I am here,
even if it sounds like
something I ain't sure how to mean.

i think you deserve a soft epilogue,
my love.
you are a good person
and  you've suffered enough.

what's your drug of choice
hope
not the one that sits in a gilded cage a bird to watch.
no my drug of choice is wild hope
the one that raw bleeding and scarred
an alley cat missing an ear
a sewer rat ridden with fleas
that is hope
and to me it is a drug
the most addicting one of all

I could not find ballads or books
that spoke of the feeling of losing a friend
its not like a tsunami
that crashes into you all at once  
No
its slow like cancer
the kind that doesn't appear for months, years
it’s a stab of pain here and a headache there but manageable
then suddenly it strikes and sinks its teeth deep into you
coils like a snake wrapping around your heart
inside your ribcage
poison seeping into your veins
turning blood to fire
and all you can do is wait.

I grew up with soldiers—
their boots a lullaby,
their grief stitched into uniforms
they never took off.

I learned how to die
a long time ago—
not in flesh,
but in forgetting how to be soft.

We played with shrapnel like toys,
measured time
by the distance between sirens.

And still—
I carry their silence
like a medal
no one pinned on me.

Why is it always about Jesus' Suffering and God's Sacrifice?
Where is Mary?
Where is the woman whose reward for goodness and virtue was to have her baby boy tortured and killed as a warning?
Do you think Mary the ******, Mary the Mother, Mary the human ever regretted being good enough to earn attention of her God?
Do you think she ever quietly, privately, resented her faith?
Cursed her fate to be raised on a pedestal, carved into history as beautiful, weeping, covered in gold, cradling the body of her child?
How would she feel today, to step into a church and see above the pulpit, larger than life, the glossy painted likeness of her boy, thin and bleeding, looking to the heavens to a Father who would not spare him?
Was it terrible for Mary? Did she hate her God, in the end? Or did she stand tall to the last breath, a reluctant but obedient witness, faithful despite everything?
Was as she ever torn between her faith and her heart? Her love and her fear? The choice between loss or betrayal?
It would be terrible if she was in torment, but would be terrible if she wasn't.

P- pages torn from books coated in prophesies  
R- razor blades slice through memories
O- open wounds drip crimson blood upon chalk stars
P- pen drawn runes coat your skin drawn in black ink
H- haloed in holy fire angels descended with knife blade wings
E- eyes gunmetal grey rimmed with puffy red highlights
T- they call you proclaimer, gods words carved into your bones.

so take my dog tags and I'll take yours
and if we die in this brutal ****** war
don't tell them we switched
let me buried under your name
and you under mine.

we were created for each other
truly
not Adam and Eve
but Adam and Lilith

i was not created
from your rib
i was not created
to appease
your toxic masculinity

i was created
from the same clay
as you

equals
in the eyes of god

you are not violet
you are not hands filled with morning light
you are not  tears pooled in corners of my eyes
you are not broken coastlines
you are not chipped fingernails

you are rain the soft type
that slowly eases into a catastrophic storm
and causes a typhoon that sinks entire villages
you are the type of rain that trickles into a river before it floods

What did I expect?
To leave a haemorrhage
of violets wherever I walked?
No. A lost son is called prodigal.
A lost daughter is just called lost.

ghost
/gowst/

1.   The bleached whale teeth of your bones covered in layers of papery humanity, the blue of your Veins as they lie, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦.

2.   Static white and less, a phantom haunting your own skin. You were murdered, murdered, murdered by this coffin of a house.

3.   Dustless and fearfilled; can the dead die again?

If you are so committed to being perfectly lawful
that you would do everything you are told
never thinking for yourself
you're not good, you're obedient.

[people generally think blue eyes are pretty, but his were not.
they were not cornflower, sky, baby, indigo, azure. his were iceberg, squall, hypothermia, eventual death.]

The human thigh bone is stronger than concrete, a boy in a man's body tells me, as he ***** down a joint trying to **** himself quietly. I find it funny that we weren't built to break, our bodies are so strong it takes trucks to overturn us. the funny thing is, we were designed to survive but they forgot to make our souls strong. sometimes people talk to me about the invincibility of the human spirit, and I think that sounds really pretty but doesn't solve problems like how teenagers are taking their own lives off of shelves as if they were thieves in a seven-eleven. they say the human spirit can endure anything thrown at it, but then how come so many of us hate ourselves so hard we can't see straight?
the human thigh bone is stronger than the buildings we keep killing ourselves in, And I have realised there is a big difference between being alive and living.

I wanted to be born as a star
but someone had a different idea.

That's how I ended up as a street lamp. I die too soon and flicker too much. But yesterday I saw a moth trying to kiss me. It almost burned her.
I have heard stars do not get this luxury.

one time he and i were sitting in bed and i said "where do you feel stuff?" and he said "what do you mean" and i said, "here is anxiety" and pointed to my bottom left rib where the spiders start. he pointed to his throat. "it's here for me."
i keep anger in my breastbone, he holds it in his hands. i feel sadness on my shoulders, he feels it in his lungs.

Cancer took you like if had the right.
Like the world owed it something
More precious than it deserved.
( turned out that was you)

I hate it for what it did to you
For the way it stole your smile
And left nothing but silence behind
It made your body a battlefield
Then claimed victory like it had earned it.

I hate it for making you smaller
For the days it stole
The plans we made
That now feel like broken glass in my chest.

It didn't just take you
It left me here. Holding your name
Like a wound I can't stop bleeding from,
Hating somthing I can't even touch,
Wishing hate could ever be enough.

she has little innocent demons inside her eyes
they recklessly play with matches.
setting nerves alight
chocking her brain in billow smoke
and yet I’ve never seen sparks so pretty.

if you want to learn
what someone fears losing,
watch what they photograph.
- that explains why he never took pictures of me

To be born
your body made a pact with death
And from that moment all it tries to do is cheat

"i was written by a man" this "i was written by a woman" that.
i was written by myself because no one had the energy to pick up a pen and do it for me. i wrote myself with scavenged ink and put myself together bit by bit with agonizing scrutiny because no one wanted to write the details

'You're a heap of flesh and guts and blood in a wax museum.
The only thing real. Sickeningly real.
Crimson and warm where the others are pale and cold. Revoltingly red, nauseatingly alive.
You're a child in a graveyard.

in order to write poetry that doesn't spiral into despair
i must listen to the birds
and in order to listen to the birds
the war planes must be silent

i. there is old blood crusting under your nails like rusting metal and you don't know if it is yours or someone else's but he looks at you like you are something holy and you forget about the sins crawling in your bones.

ii. he finds you in an overflowing bathtub - head between your knees, nails carving ****** moons into your skin; later you tell him yes, sometimes shower water against porcelain sounds like gunshots raining on your skin.

iii. your name is a whispered prayer that spills from his mouth and he repeats it over and over like a mantra; he breathes words you recognise from a dream and they condense in the frosty air between his lips and yours.

iv. he tells you that your bruises look like galaxies and holds you like the world has cheated him of you for far too long. tonight, you run out of names before he runs out of kisses.

v. hazy-gold sunlight sieves through the moth-eaten curtains and frames his face and you can't stop holding his cheeks in your palms because he is here, he is here, he is here, and you've long grown tired of wondering why he hasn't left yet.

the feeling of powerlessness
that turns good men
cruel

-you know the oldest lie in history? is that power can be innocent

The moon hangs over the earth
A dead thing
Over a dying thing

Stop looking at me like that,
with pity in your glassy dead eyes.
all I am to you is a tragedy, right?
Stop it.
Stop ******* looking at me like that.
Do you hear me?

I will break you with my bloodstained teeth.

My English teacher said
The opposite of love
Is hate.
But it's not hate,
It's apathy.
Hate still breathes,
It's fiery, raw, and real.
But apathy?
Apathy is a void
Where nothing's left to feel.
No anger, no tears,
Just empty.
So if you ask what's worse,
Hate or apathy,
I'd say apathy,
The silence,
The hollow space,
Where nothing is felt
And nothing is left
Between us.

As Icarus fell, he laughed. Because for the first time in awhile he felt something.
He felt the wax burning his skin.
The wind rushing around him.
And the sea acting as cement.
For it was Apollo the sun
the Anemoi who controlled the winds,
and Poseidon who witnessed his last moments.
But it was Thanatos and Hades who took
him to his new home. Where he could live a new life in the underworld.
And thats what they don't tell you in school.

The angels come down to late,
their feathers crawling with mites and eyes flat as snakes.
turns out their wings are so white because they use bleach
They came down from the sky, but you think they fell.
The smell of ozone lingers in their skin,
and Glory Glory Glory sounds like a punchline.
They promise altars and arks;
Their prayers sound like static, stitched together from dead languages.
They hum lullabies in reverse, backwards tongues behind broken smiles.
You ask what god they serve.
"Ours," they say, as if that should mean something
Their halos flicker—cheap fluorescence trying to imitate holiness.
The light around them peels paint from the walls.
They cup your face like a blessing, but their hands are too cold, too tight.
You are not surprised when their throats are torn open,
revealed to be hollow.

I did not ask to be this
This hideous creature of crimson soaked skin and snarling voices
But this prison of flesh is the only gift you ever gave me
So I will stretch this skin until I fill every crevice and crack
And I will wear it until you regret that you created it.
You made me a creature to be feared.
So fear me.
-prefect little creation

***** burns my throat
but your name hurts my head
so i would rather black out with a hangover
then stare blankly at my hands
trying to forget what its like to touch you.

Fire turning anything and everything in its path to ash that is how some say the world will end, others believe it will end in an exquisitely haunting ice age but they are wrong it didn’t end in the world being engulfed by blazing flames and choked by thick billowing smoke clouds, it didn’t end in a ice age that slowly froze the very sea and turned everything to eery sculptures of ice . It ended with the raw devastated scream of grief so heart wrenching that the stars fell one by one into the icy darkness of space. The sky bled; darkness rose where the stars once were erasing lights across the once glowing planet and then the change. Instead of griefs broken voice there is silence. Silence that swallows the world whole, that screams but no sound follows,

they call you useless
and paint bruises on your sides.
you nod and stay silent

veins to young drowning in amber liquid
stashed in duffle bags to pour down throats
bibles pages rolled to form cigarettes
clutched between burnt fingers
throats exposed as smoke pushes of mouths
with scarlet smiles made of red teeth and ****** lips
god gave up on us years ago  
bones bent under a chapel ceiling
ghosts spread inky fingers inside my chest and strum my ribs
nights and days lost in a blacked out haze
god asked to much of them

i wont glorify or romanticize heartbreak
for me it was a kind of death
and i was forced to keep on living

i. I wasn't always a house on fire, but I've always been full of light.

ii. Constellations get named after either heroes or griefs. Wild heroes. Wild griefs. The outpour of emotions within me is ancient, bronze-tipped, earth-changing.

iii. Someday I will return to the salt and the sea. Someday to the sun.

Icarus soared through the sky
Towards his god
Blinded by love
The sun rising painted them in blazing reds, oranges and pinks
He flew into apollos fiery embrace
I can make you immortal
Apollo whispered with sun-soaked lips
How ?
Trust me Apollo whispered
grazing his burning hands along the wings of wax
And Icarus fell, feathers alight in flames
wax tracing burning patterns of hell fire
along his arms and down his back
he plummeted into the seas embrace
the air from his lungs tearing out of is throat
Icarus sinks sight turning to blackness
Now immortalized in tragedy
Remembered forever for loving a god

you were destined for glory

the fame and privilage

i was destined for war

to be the gun with no name

-fates been playing the long game with us love

young, corrupted by tragedies of war and exile
alone in spite of himself
boy made of ash and a honey soaked dawn
rust on his hands, in his throat, in his lungs
bright-eyed, rough edges, scraped raw and twisted with time
where is his soft epilogue?

This is a story about two boys
The taller one has a gun tucked into his waistband
And thinks the bullets are meant for him
The older one has a record player in his head
He sings along to the same five songs
They know each other
Down to the color of blood
And the sound of bones breaking
But they are strangers
The one with the gun keeps forgetting the words
And the boy with the music Won't let him shoot

Someone once said rage is still it just sits there this heavy dark thing in front of your eyes making you feel nothing but the hunger beating in your empty chest . So your forced to face it and open your mouth wide to swallow it whole. But rage is a thing with bones and blood and screams that turn into flames, so you chew on it take in all the sharp bitterness that makes your tongue and mouth and words go numb you don’t even know when it reaches your throat because its already in your chest.

do you ever tell your parent that what if you can't do it and all they say is "I know you will". No mum. What if I can't ?  what if I disappointed you? what about my guilt? where do I keep this feeling? why is it so heavy? what if i fail? what then? will you still think of me as your brightest kid? will you still use me as an example for my siblings? will i be an example? what if i couldn't be that intelligent always making you proud kid? what if i fail mum? why is this feeling so heavy? where do I keep it mum? What if i fail?