“there’s nothing more terrifying than your coven turning on you last minute.”
“i don’t know.”
“what’s more scary?”
“imagine getting ready to be hung for sport by a dozen men with a penchant for raping their victims first.”
The opposite of destruction isn’t creation,
they are lovers. It is longevity,
holding ground, staying put
despite your fire;
your interminable insistence on
burning your bridges,
your babies, your body
at the stake you made
to display your fervid creations:
everything you ever loved that stayed,
gone, lay
slain.
What does metamorphosis feel like?
Like my skin tearing at the thread of each inside, and
stretching.
Stretching wide into wings of
bone and vine.
we are sharing visions;
you are scared but
running forward on the faith of
no traps:
I am machete in hand
walking towards you
slaughtering everything hidden
She is turning mice to men
and then is turning
men to wolves
to find him.
i love you despite what you did to me.
“how to free yourself”
did a mouse steal your tongue?
am I the cat dragging it back
with an allusion to love
for the one who keeps her
hanging in a net, chained
to a bedpost while you
burn the place down.
you never entertain me with your stories.
I never leave your crystal balls alone:
knock them about and keep them
hidden from you.
but I slaughtered that mouse.
yeah, i ripped it’s throat clean
out, trapped my bitches in the
basement until nightfall.
didn’t I kill for you?
isn’t trial love?
a more violent truth serum
I offer than most; I rip answers
with my sudden eruption of flames
directed your way
(but hey you stoked it)
but I leave some blue vervain
on the dresser to soothe you,
mention it’s good for clarity and
joint pain.
no burn salve, something
slightly bitter.
final act of cruelty.
you chose solution in someone else,
and the lie.
I chose to withhold an antidote to your
meek eternity.
had I said “I love you despite what
you’ve done to me “
I know you would have stayed.
but vengeance tastes sweeter
than pride as you’ll soon
see. the way I devour,
the way I spit you back up.
the way I make you
taste yourself.
you? you will know
me by my title.
wait.
wait.
wait.
wait.
i
this is fresh.
like when my cat’s claw gets stuck
in my fingertip or when I
bump my elbow on the armoire
he let me keep.
things only last for seconds unless
they are eternal like
God’s choir,
mass extinction,
our howls like bells
like doom
like fate.
I try to tell too many
that this has happened before but
never with the same
patterning; the cavern
patience that’s filled with
liminality me in the
tub and dreaming.
I have no fear of the color
hazel or unmade beds
or the way you let your fingertip
trace my thigh’s Baphomet
as you turn to me
and say
this will never end.
I bet you never say a word.
I’ll grow to equatorial proportions
and bellow.
I have no fear of
mirrors, men,
mirages or monsters.
I have no fear of depth.
I have no fear of flight
or landing, heat
or frozen streams.
those talons.
those waves.
those headlights.
I have no fear of death.
you? you will know me
by my sudden strength:
silence and never seen
again the same way.
“the red book (revisited)”
suddenly, then all at once.
I felt her thin fingers caress my neck, leaving me tingling.
(two sentence horror stories, pt 1)
“grief is chaos.”
again, a love story about my brother.
again.
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