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  • “Name your torture,”
    one of them said
    with a wink.

    I wanted an orchard
    but I swallowed the vodka
    he handed me
    willingly.

    “The Gorge”

  • “I just want to be seen,”
    I am looking earnestly up at him
    confused about why I fell down
    in my house and couldn’t get up easily.

    I’m, at this time, 34 and
    my blood levels are fine but
    I have taken
    and I begin to list
    them…

    ma’am, are you suicidal?

    “the hospital series”

  • sitting in front of the fish tank
    again,
    after now having what i believe to be
    my 9th panic attack,
    there is a man with his ear
    bleeding.
    I am familiar with this place.
    “I’m fine.”

    you can take your knives in here.
    they didn’t even notice my taser this time.
    I am concerned that I am going to
    suddenly stop breathing one day.
    and you will,
    the little girls tell me,
    if you keep mixing drugs this way.

    but remind the audience that no one ever believes you
    as a precursor to understanding how
    badly

    you

    just

    want 

    to be seeeeen.

    “the hopsital series”

  • but i’m a martyr for this,
    I crave
    repercussion;

    even self-abnegation
    needs an audience
    or else it’s just plain masochism
                      lonely and caustic
    without the gentle recompense,
    the moist poultice,
    the final amends:
    the touch of her
    sadist’s fingertips
    after she laid her.

    all cathedrals use pain as payment
    and my crucifixion,
    while self inflicted;
    is just as spilling brook,
    and baneful.
    my bloodletters will wash
    the splashes from my feet,
    take their time
    with each laceration;

    stitch
    my gashes
    into temples.

    “Lilith”

  • I saw this quote. I had written it long before I understood what it meant. shifting from one section of the Earth to the other without leaving my house, I read it again tonight.  “I am a boundary to something else, but I don’t know what.” I was a thread.
    Soon after, we took a bath
    in chamomile
    and I told him
    every scary dream I ever had.

  • ********

    but I feel the root rot and darken

    without altar, water

    or speech.

    you walk in and

    I’m here now

    growing into a black stem.

    you walk in and look

    right at me

    and I don’t know

    where to begin.

    but I found the

    aperture.

    you walk in and

    look right at me and

    my shiny white teeth

    forge a new smile.

    I begin to grow,

    unfurl, hum

    softly.

    “datura moon”

  • you just have to begin.
    you hold my hand
    when I speak.
    I am nervous inexplicably.

    just existence is a trial.
    count the candles.
    set the rocks.
    sip the Angelica root and
    begin to drool an acid fire
    into the bubbles.
    I feel your chest behind me,
    moist, throbbing.
    in my waking hours,
    I practice walking across a lake
    with black boots.
    it’s an icy sidewalk on
    a ledge but I pretend
    that it’s a long pond.

    when he first comes around,
    I notice my wrist,
    then my jaw,
    surrender.
    I have an urge to burn the
    house down first
    but in a long quaver,
    forget the nonsense:
    the counting of the pulse,
    the spotty mason jars,
    my blood dripping on a red
    throw blanket, laundry,
    my childhood–effete,
    mold speckled shingles,
    my sullen dead father
    and his one last breath
    alone–we think–
    sometime after midnight,
    right before Christmas.

    “the bath series”

  • I begin to teach him.
    put the cayenne in the bowl.
    I have blessed everything in this house.
    sprinkle black salt.
    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.
    my biggest strength is no one believes
    me so they never see me coming.
    here,

    put the wormwood in the bowl.

  •  i’ll remember you a distant
    coward, back turned save
    the way you had to face
    me momentarily
    (when I was pleading),
    your fingers laced
    with blade to turn.

    you’ll remember me bleeding; a 
    frenetic champion of unfurling
    without witness,
    your rival Phoenix,
    more quiet than you think
    and less likely to withhold
    my secret passion,
    years practiced.


    got the agrimony and
    ague root to prove it.
    got the mirror laid.
    got a stone of yours.
    got a really belly laugh going.

    “black magic”

  • this next section is called: grief, or

    the very quiet scream

  • I remove the rest of my top
    and close my eyes deliberately
    to show you the length
    of each thorn.
    wear my eyes like a hooked rose.
    tongue pressed
    against your chin,
    my lips trace
    your jaw       I am softer.
    having been tempered
    and forced close:
    you know,
    darling,
    let my teeth hit your lip

    I have never
    become divine without first
    becoming storm.

     been learning
    performative emotion
    to keep the ones I’m fettered
    to warm, and to feel their
    slippery manacles tease
    the tops of my feet
    like feathers as they pull
    me back.
    paint my lashes black


    and they’re wet 
    and
    shaped like little
    bolts.

    1.

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