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Zoe Mei 6d
nineteen in little more than a week:
already time slips through my fingers,

days trickling through the cracks
in the sidewalk, leaving

me rubbing my fingers raw against
seams in the parched pavement, wondering

when the rain will seep back up. I heard time
runs faster as you grow older,

an ever-tightening spiral of minutes days
decades blinks of eyes

and I wonder how I will bear it
when even now I am grasping

desperately for anything in reach,
anything to slow the locomotive

down, and all I get is red-scraped palms
from slapping past tree trunks,

arms too skinny-weak to pull, to hold any
branches as the train whisks me by

Zoe Mei May 7
I met a cat
a few weeks ago
black and white
on the city sidewalk,
collarless in
the deserted evening.
I stopped
yards away,
no chasing
crouched down
stretched my hand out
she hesitated
I smiled
๐˜ญ๐˜ฐ๐˜ท๐˜ฆ ๐˜ฎ๐˜ฆ, ๐˜ญ๐˜ฐ๐˜ท๐˜ฆ ๐˜ฎ๐˜ฆ, ๐˜ฑ๐˜ญ๐˜ฆ๐˜ข๐˜ด๐˜ฆ ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฉ ๐˜ฑ๐˜ญ๐˜ฆ๐˜ข๐˜ด๐˜ฆ
she stepped cautiously to me
I stroked her back
scratched between black
ears and then
she went her way
and I went mine
and only one of us looked back.
Zoe Mei Apr 21
i like stories of
fiercely feral girls
who tear from the womb
short-tempered and clench-******
bawling tantrums with red faces
hungry like black holes
starving to scratch, and bite, and scream
to shake the world for not being their own
who have not yet been carved
hollow of their rage
for a lady
does not

i like stories
of girls who will never
be tamed
never give up their
fire because it hurts
who fight unto their final breath
and spit into the face of death

who are stronger than me).
If you want to read about angry murderous girls, I highly recommend the novels The Poppy War by R.F. Kuang, And I Darken by Kiersten White, and Red Sister by Mark Lawrence. And if you want to understand female anger, read Rage Becomes Her by Soraya Chemaly.
Zoe Mei Apr 21
May the gods drink deep your blood
and may the crimson please their gaze
and may the iron scent whet their lust
that the taste may sate it
for you are my greatest offering.
For Iphigenia
Zoe Mei Apr 13
in time
the lens
turns large and flexes
and the colors of hands
the shapes of days
the wallowing stream
the hanging chord
for god is change is time
is infinite is ends
is frozen is stagnation
is a self
a sculpture in ice
glittering melting
a tale the same
in every telling
โ€œgod is changeโ€ is from the novel the parable of the sower by octavia e. butler, i highly recommend
the triple point is the exact temperature and pressure of a substance where it can be all three states, solid, liquid, and gas, at once
Zoe Mei Apr 9
not much more
than a metaphor
as a butterfly flap
is a windstorm.
Zoe Mei Apr 2
she wanted
to be loved
without barbs
so much
that when she snatched them up from their cage
she squeezed the life out of them.

she tried to be gentle
smoothed silken wriggling bodies
with light fingers, soft words
but they trembled at her touch
thrashed escape from her grasping hands
even as they dozed in her brotherโ€™s palms
so again and again she caught them
by the tails
with sudden fists
round rushing ribs
from huddled corners, piled dens
and held them tighter and tighter to her chest
wishing more than anything they
could be enough to fill her fractured lungs
as if love can be pressed from hearts
like wine from grapes
as if she could drink
without tasting poison

they died young
from her
venomous heart

she buried them under
the loveliest stones she could find.
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