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Omphalos (in progress)In the afternoon, when it’s more humid than you’d think a mountain town would be, I perch on the cement balcony framing the coffee shop below my apartment and write sonnets to the remaining memories of my brother. The lingering smell of apples hangs in the October air and my skin, it feels heavy. Around me lay ceramic pots filled to the brim with half-dead plants that Jake and I had, to no avail, attempted to raise. They’re sad and wilted, leaving something to be desired. I’ve lived here, with my brother’s best friend, for five months now. Living, really, isn’t the right word–I’ve taken up residence, but I am not alive; if anything I am dying here. I don’t know when time started to stand still, but these last months have felt like eons. Time, she holds on to me with her perennial tendrils and roots me to this dystopia. It feels like one day Milo was teasing me about being too cute to be a boy, and the next Jake showed up at my
preciousI am I am
A princess from the sky
I wonder I wonder
Why it is that dogs spin in circles
Before they lay down
Why fathers pass
As quickly as water under a bridge
I hear I hear
The laughter of a sibling
The mewling of a cat
As I descend into my bed
I see I see
My castle walls
Melt into pools of wax
My steed become a mouse
My self spoil
I want I want
To be adored
To be held
To be precious
I pretend I pretend
That I am something
More significant than this
That I am dancing as I lilt down the stairs
I feel I feel
The gossamer threads of a perfect gown
Slip between my fingers
And fall to the ground
I worry I worry
That the dust will stain
My delicate gown
That my reputation will be twined
I am I am
A princess from the sky
I will write enough words
To form a book
And you will read this piece
And cry a few tears
And you will think i am beautiful
I will dream enough dreams
to form a reality
and you will no longer be a piece
and i will cry a few tears,
and think i have a worth apart from you
ravelmentand on occasion we will find ourselves
tired, yet still awake, counting the
ticks on the clock as opposed
to the tocks that follow,
and chewing away at
finger nails, and
Manifest Destinyyou once told me i had
in my head
(you said this because i was delicate,
and sweet, like botany,
and what bird wouldn't want to drink my nectar?)
i shooed you away,
guffawing at the though
of me being desirable to
although it seems now
those angel birds have infiltrated
tucked in under the pleura
like it was thier god given right to be there,
drinking the honey of my
but i cant help
entirely okay with this whole ordeal.
conservationthey've said that
you can only manage 150
at a time
and i sigh, picking and choosing
who can stay and who cannot
trying to keep myself
from closing a book
before its read,
or burning a bridge before its
is not as many
as it sounds
Freudianwhat if i were quiescent and
and calm like water,
lazy beneath a foot bridge.
what if i were literary like
but known like fallacies
and sad like fairytales and
acoustic guitars left,
in trashcans behind bus stops in detroit.
quiddityI've been writing
snippets of my sorrow
(which is transient and lamenting,
waiting for a place to nestle down
and spread like gremlins who are drowning)
as i listen to you chronicle The Day In The Life Of
and as much as i hate to admit it
i wish i weren't so sober
and i wish i weren't so clean
and i wish, really, that
this wasn't me.
How to be Populardon’t talk
go to parties
listen to friends
go with the flow
drink some more
don’t let them see the tears
as you cry yourself to sleep
for the most important thing
is to be popular
Forgiveness takes twoThe words are struggling
to tumble off my tongue,
and despite having
a fleshy cushion
to rest on,
they stain my teeth
and sting like acid
"I'm sorry," I stutter,
but the bitter taste
doesn't leave my tongue-
not because the words weren't true,
but because I know
I won't hear,
Mommy Is A Super HeroMommy Is A Super Hero
Standing before his class, he held his tiny report,
“Who is your super hero?” Was written in yellow chalk on the green board.
Exhaling his breath, the curly haired boy closed his little eyes,
“Don't be ashamed of yourself” His mother's words rung in his ears, “And don't ever cry.”
He began to read aloud, with a shaky voice.
to his class, he told his mother's story.
At age fifteen, she was a beauty queen,
the most beautiful girl in all of the world.
She flaunted her silky hair, bore her bare legs,
prided her breast. The boys treated her like she was a treasure chest.
They respected her rules, they “looked, but didn't touch”,
but there was one older man, who from her, wanted too much.
All alone he met her, he approached her in the alley,
and all his mother told him, was that this man had treated her badly.
But what the boy didn't know was that she was taken against her will,
and that two months later, she turned up ext
The sound of silenceThe sound of silence,
Is so deafening,
That it makes my ears ring,
With the cacophony of my own insanity.
Being afraid to speakThe unpleasantries of past events
Were driven by the voices of contempt
Leaving me breathless
To that effect, I was left senseless
And when I laid under the covers
As I tried to warm myself from the cold stares
I shiver, as my skin turned white
By the solace of silence
But, as I overcame their sadness
I learned to embrace the cold
Until I was able to give warmth to others
Ideationlocked in a room
with only one escape,
or so it seems.
your hands shake and you drop the key.
Suddenly you're unsure.
Do I want to pick it up?
Do I want to find it?
Do I want to leave?
you think to yourself
there's no other choice.
find the key or corrode, or rust
wear down the hinge
use sadness as the key.
You have the answer now.
Just open the door.
Just walk outside and don't look back.
Let yourself leave with no regrets.
And yet you can't.
You're afraid, you think,
but you are actually strong.
Don't run away.
Don't take that leap.
cenotaph of stormsthe first thunderstorm
was triggered by a blunt pair
of scissors, sparking violently
against the lightning,
shaking in the wind.
the downpour pierced,
tattooed with no ink but
the dark bleakness
of an overcast morning,
infiltrating uniformed wrists.
hid behind the music block,
shaky raindrops rioting
fears, she fractured.
the second storm
wept a two year downpour
outline that dripped from wrist
to hip, sidelong silhouette glances
obscured by the rain.
stalictidal waves shuddered
frozen, until icy glass
fell in stained shards from
the stillness inside.
thinner, brittler, growing
in flurries of sleet and hail,
her outline was never filled,
though the floods threatened
the third thunderstorm
was a mist-ridden melancholia,
a dream for permanence
smeared in ink through
fueled by the hope
that just this once,
the rain would spark a
rebirth beneath the ground.
instead, a tsunami
washed away the ink
as tides so often do.
untitledcall me hummingbird.
leave me small tokens of your love,
fold them tightly
squares and tuck them
into the pocket of my favourite
pair of jeans.
kiss me on the nose
and miss me in your sleep
into the crevices of my heart.
call me lovely,
and hold my cheeks
betwixt your palms
and assure me that it is ok
to not be ok.
(love me please
dead dog julyI.
the summer heat lays limp in the city’s lap,
breathing long oppressive breaths.
it does not even lift its lolling head
to bark out hoarse indignancy
when a strange man brings the mail.
there might be heavy rain today,
brought by some swollen, murmuring cloud.
the world will whirl and howl,
then settle down,
to die a little more.
o, quickly, love,
press your back against the wall in fear
as the universe spreads her arms and
shuts her eyes
and starts to summon the end of all things.
come with me
to the place of windows full of speechless afternoon
hot windy whispers of half-formed solutions and resolutions,
sweltering sunlit meadows we’ll wander and then forget.
o quickly, love,
let’s to the season of forgetting
and unwind all of our harshest memories
and fill the universe’s mouth
with mute cotton.
i’ll whisper these words to you some evening
with all my exigency in the hand i rest on your arm—
AndromedaAmongst the darkened skies
Brightened by only starlight
Field & Sea.
Gravity is only an afterthought
Hilltops become ladders into the sky while
Inferior planets stare down upon the Earth
Jealous of such simplicity yet contemplating grandeur.
Keppler only thought of science
Linear, elliptical, movement…
Mythology had no such thoughts
Neptune & Nebulas both inhabit space
Orbiting across the lonely darkness
Probably never worried about mundane things
Questioning their existence
Right now or for all eternity such as us.
Shooting stars make us joyful while
Terminator is an otherworldly spectacle
Unknown to all those hidden in their houses
Various stars await us outside
Waiting to play like we did before
Xenagogue & inviting
Youthful but ancient curiosities.
Zenith induced euphoria continues until daylight…
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