I went from being a frozen tundra:
algid, wide and growing fields of ground to cover with
no visible tracks to follow

unless the wind was kind and left
the prints

but it wasn’t often.
taciturn but for some
icy speech and bleak; 
caustic prose in
squalling breezes that freeze
and stick to your cheeks,
harden               bite your tongue
in frostbit chomps so it takes a while before we completely cut those
meek coughs off

just as they start.
before they form into spit,
white noise, handwritten
cards,
I sprout into a raging sun:

precocious and blazing
hot, I become
a long bending desert to
warm you up:
fields of sand to cover,
infinite high noon run,
no moon to come,
hollowing the others with
deprivation,
 promising mirages,
a wide and weaving
ever-longing
desiccation,

sudden sidewinders and a
slow and draining
drip that never hits and
dehydration,

never an inch of rain and you
find every trap I laid.

I start by slaughtering your brothers
in front of you to see
if you can stand it.

“sekhmet”

this next section is called:
datura moon, the video game.

 

what is it that I owe you?

IMG_0692welcome to the gauntlet.

“And you think you can you tell the difference?”
“Between a truth and a lie?”
“No, between how I got here and the weirdest thing about me.”

Book one:
The Woman Who Told The Stories

 

“if whatever you think comes true,
don’t let it go to your head,
and don’t forget to be humble.”

–waka poem

you would I say take

many needless risks

if you ever said anything.
just this week,
my apartment caught fire
three times before I learned not to
set the candles on the carpet.
I hung the burned black moon portrait of a woman engorged with earnest alacrity above the owl
candle holder and littered the altar with yellow paper daisies that danced towards the flames as I began
my bold request
for everything.
“the honey trap”

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