do I practice baneful magic? of course. do I recommend it? no. because black magic reverberates. it’s repercussion has to land.

where does yours land?

somewhere deep inside of me in wait. nursed by her barbed cocoon just giving way for new offense,

then

burst breath of rage

I want to live inside anyone–
even their indifference is
reassuring. assurance of company
felt by the chill
of departure.
felt in a tangible way
by longing.

I felt hopeful when I finally met him,
heard,  touched and
cradled.
began to teach him.

first, light the candle.
write the dream.
that’s easy, then
put the cayenne in the bowl.
spit.
      I have blessed everything in this house
wave my hand over lines of black salt.
sprinkle it everywhere.
put the kyanite here to
infiltrate their thoughts.
          we are asking for nightmares.
it’s easier in pairs.
remind him how no one believes you.
put the tourmaline on the windowsill.

my biggest strength is no one believes me.
we ask Hellebore for veil.
here,

put the wormwood in the bowl,
darling. no, like this.
liberally, I show him
fistful, good,
more.

“ARACHNE”

He says I speak “incessantly”

I say “I’m a victim of a luckless birth and now I’m
subjected to your weird hoarding,
fucked guilty feelings about
your half-lucky start.”

“I don’t mean the unfortunate death,
|I mean the MONEY you get,”
I try to clarify. 

it’s january 10th,
and I storm out
but I can’t just
figure out how to get around.

“January 10th”

it’s got a tenuous feel;
like slipping
or promise’ these  government
fingers and really
buried hurts.resurfacing
in moments. in
explanation to someone,
detached, almost objective
if not for that one watery eye
you wouldn’t believe that the
narrator realizes
the immensity of what they’ve
survived..

–Allegheny Station

he says,
name your torture
there are two giant
bruises on each thigh.
I am careful not to hit them
as I shift my hem.
he doesn’t even ask.
I spent most of my time
that late winter
searching.
what you would say, ugh,
combing through options,
in flux and in search of
weight.
and some guy to hold me.

it keeps no record of wrongs.
i’m saying it out loud
and I’m noticing my drawl
drawn out that’s how I know
he’s about to come round.
placed toffee on the other
mantle the way he likes
try not to ask about
whatever wayward lover
disentangled.
waste.
of time.
but here we are
marking everything
xxx with my fire finger
so I decide to
begin again:

love is patient.

I am trying not to get lost
in the mirror
which is a tall fucking
order. we are two inches from each
other and I can’t help but
melt when the cool breath
hits my left cheek.
I’m plucking at the dress.
he grabs my hand
to stop my ticking.
what’s that?
he says.

this is where the poem begins

a friend told me,
let vengeance drive you.
and some say
it is better to pray that
your enemies have everything you want
than to pray they go without.

so we are both knives forward

and

this 

is 

where

the 

poem

begins.

–

we parted due to irreconcilable differences.

—-

as long as I am writing I feel fine about the harm.

—–

the amount of times I screamed privately and you still think I asked for your help.

——-

you need people around you who don’t need anything but make you look good and I need family. you like when people have status and i like when people care.

—-you just have to write—-

—-

catharsis is screaming in a bathtub and also “destruction is an action”

—

you just HAVE TO WRITE THE LITTLE GHOSTS SAID

—–

harder to write about the real pain you have experienced.

—-

you lied about who you are to use me.

—-

this is where the poem begins

—

you lied about your magic.

—

catarsis is revenge.

—-

you lied and 

I 

set

the bowlof pepper
tourmaline.
you don’t
have another chance.

————————

“I hurt. I keep that scream in and at what pain.
at what repeal of salvage and eclipse.
army unhonored, meriting the gold,
I  have sewn my guns inside my lips.”
–gwendolyn brooks, Riders to the Blood-red Wrath

you can shake your fist at any
foaming coast but her
break remains unscathed,
waves unmoved by anything
but tide, but
lunacy like you and.

you are barefoot:
some pedestrian gesture of
worship. bare faced,
palms up in moving
shrine. dressed in silver
locket and white.
perched on toes,
avoiding the shells and
ghost crabs that litter the beach
at gloaming.
you’re wild and roaming
the line seeking to slice
yourself, your guilt,
your insisting, twisted wrists.
steal the scissors from his girlfriend’s
pocket.
                    what’s it like to be a hypnotist?

take a seat.
notice your veins rock,
glisten with munition.
life’s a seething blade
and you wear yours deep
in your lungs.
hum for a bit and then
write it on the page.
have them sing it back
with vexation.
watch your toes curl in the sand
before you start wading.
have them say it out loud and
curse themselves.
you are seeking
redress. you are
seeking long due
turn of fate.
you are seeking
retribution:
the sudden wreck
that laid you.