Praise be to Sappho
Noblest of poets
Lover of words and women
Who gave us that language
So we could love women
As well

My life may have been taken from me
My names just a shadow of another
But these hands can still hold a knife
And take a man’s life
I can crown myself
And become my own god
Of blood, of sacrifice, of vengeance
And if I fall
Let it be by my own hands
Let them them slit my throat
And let no man even think
Of touching me

I’d cut open my ribs for you
Kidneys, bladder, stomach, bones, heart
Would all be my gifts to you, my prayers
Eat them, use them, break them, I don’t care
As long as you keep your hands in me
I’d be the worst sinner
Hell has ever seen
For you

I can’t help but be a child of Cain
My hands too ****** to be holy
Too stained to be washed clean

I was once told that we are our own thoughts and actions
So does that make me a ****** for being a bad person?
Is that all I’ll ever be?

The sin is strong in me
It’s the sin of not getting better
Of continuing the hurt
Past down, man upon man, wife upon husband, parent upon child, stranger upon stranger
Blood you keep coughing back up
That won’t leave your body

We touch so many people in our lives
But how many do we scar?
It’s human nature to both love and to maul
Especially on those close to us
Especially when we aren’t aware we’re even doing it

Now, I don’t believe in God
This poem isn’t religious in the slightest
But if I met him I would ask
Is Hell the last destination?
Can we ever get better?
Can our hands learn to be tender and to hold instead of trying to choke one another?
Is there still salvation for us, for people like me?

I don’t know what his answer would be
And I don’t think I’d want to find out

I’m the dog
Sharp of tooth and tongue
That bits every hand
And snarls at all
That walk by it
I’m the dog
With deep and long lungs
That howls at night
For a pull in their chest
That they can’t name
I’m the dog
That doesn’t know
How to play nicely
And is always sitting
In the corner, alone
I’m the dog
The vicious dog
The loud dog
The lonely dog
The scared dog
The weeping dog
The dog
That dog
Sitting in your corner
Always staring at you
Always waiting
For you to give in
So it can eat you whole

Ophelia was only remembered for being dead
Floating daintily in a river, surrounded by flowers
A spectacle for all eyes to see and drink up hungrily
But one day she’ll breathe again and rise up from her grave
White dress sodden, makeup askew, long hair soaked and tangled
And she will realize she she is and break free from that image
The one that held her dead for so long, drowned and lifeless
And for once in her life, her short-written life, she will breath with ease

You let the jungle in, dear
The steps leading up to your room
Are covered in dirt and plants
leaves brush past your face
And vines hang from the ceiling
It gets darker the deeper you go
And the growling gets louder as well
If you’re lucky you might catch a glimpse of a spotted pelt
And if you see a pair of luminescent eyes
All you’ll see is yourself reflected back in them