Tag: love poem

exhausted from the effort my
hips have made to
prove my might to
men,
I let her show you
with her flesh and borrowed guile,
more cultured manner,
a divine proclamation:

she summarizes
what I really meant
without all my nervous
containment and flustered
public self-flagellation.
she seems objective
so you trust her,
and she had a dream like that
once so you conclude
I am the cat that chased her,
skinned her,
wore her like a trap
you fell right into.
she is a mouse
wearing my mouth
and she is quavering.
I needed her to say the one
thing you had been thinking
but had yet to fully take
so I possessed the space
inside the shaking room
between us.

take a kneel.
I’m in your ear
wearing my best butterfly
costume.
      you could use something.
when you fall asleep,
why don’t you give way
to the chase?
you’ve watched me hunt you
every night this week
from the safety of my yard,
but here I feel your emaciation.
your ribs.
you are starved.
take a knee.
          take a run.
take your jaws and
put em on me.
I become the doe,
and you become the forest
trapping me.
            you could use something.

it’s time you taste
your own shaking
prey.

“spiritual practice”

“Name your torture,”
one of them said
with a cute wink.
I wanted an orchard
but I swallowed the vodka
he handed me
willingly.

I don’t believe in simplicity
or explaining the meaning behind things
            it’s why I write poetry
I say with a hint of clarity.
He fingers my locket,
I recoil in panic.
I choose the silence,
complicity over barreling ascension
every time I meet one I might
like.

I had a mission to destroy my darkness,
but darkness has a way of consuming
all it follows
so I spent the winter indoors.
started to explore and name every puncture:
early childhood rape,
early childhood confessional
in bad dreams and pissed sheets,
early childhood neglect without a male
role model or a safe space to yell about it,
early childhood sibling who later hung himself with
vodka ropes, and a funeral attended by
no one.    I swirl my glass,
listen to the chunks of ice beat me up
inside.
There are only two sentences I’m ever
after: birth
and subsequent fatality.
I do a quick twirl on the way to his bathroom
to show off  my scorpion tail
so he understands his options
for the night.

I asked him to stay awhile
while I calmed my own poltergeist.
he just wanted to hold hands
and watch me cry without connivance,
without adding words to delusion
alluding in silence
that I don’t need the completion.
I need the space
to see the illusions I created are
in dire need of straightening before my ire
turns to rueful violence,
turns to self-asphyxiation,
turns to creeping vines of fear threatening
to bind the whole garden in budding violence
and complacent nooses I wear boastfully,
as if the greatest power comes from murdering
yourself in front of an
audience.

My madness looms sometimes;
a distant thunder that never sparks but
erupts into sudden forest fire,
 lightning strikes right behind me
so you always know how to find me.
I only hear voices when they’re booming
so God usually delivers things in a way I hate
to get me to listen, breathe,
cut my own intestines from the ceiling
where I hang myself most days.
God demands I stay,
but I let go of his hand and
turn to him and say:

“Well, if you’re not going to kill me or fuck me,
what are you doing here
anyway?”

5.

I’m haunted in several kinds of
cadence and burdened
with unmanageable lust.
I’m replaying the way
you never said my
name, the way I keep my nails
short in case I turn on myself
when I’m turning myself
on.
Someone has to touch me
at this point.

The way I begged
for you to send me a magpie
some mornings,
the way I long for it still,
it hurts.
The way in which I elongated
the word u s
so it looked bigger on paper.
I let it last
a whole year;
grow leaves, grow fingers
dotted emerald green with pink flowers
and then sorrel and bare,
baring its brown
bones to the birds
who perch in earnest search
of shelter so they can call on
one another in fight,
famine, or flood.
I watched us
drift to the floor
in detritus,
becoming
a new organism that grew roots,
that craved sun,
that lapped water and pollen and
seasons.
Letting it fall
in frost.
Letting it crown
despite the real
us.

Kiss me in the light of
these new found
bedevilments,
I lick the mirror
with feeling.
It is December and I am
already freezing.
I am relying on roots
for nourishment.
I am hibernating
and emptying.
All year, I am sturdy and foreboding
like a honey locust
dripping thorns down her spine,
dropping leaves all down your walk
so you will always be reminded of the
pine that encircled you when you first heard
my forest chorus:
the long form I wrote of
u s.
Look at me again and
again and
again: now
I am leaving.

I am chopped into several pieces.
I am becoming paper.
I am becoming waste.
I am becoming the spines of books,
archaic adjectives
that you chase to replace your
chilled silence with a word
that offers anything but
a returned question mark.
You thought that all devils
wore black and sauntered
and spoke coolly with promise,
but I am the devil
who wears anything
the world will offer,
including white,
and offers some
warm reprieve
like a velvet-lined casket
floating over the open
sea.
I am listening.
I am wide open
and encasing.
It was never us
I came here
chasing, I finally admit to
what I am
drawn to.

It is waiting.

“death”

im a stifled violence
unleashing the knife of my spine
inch by bloody inch
and im walking towards you.

my name is Circe.

I am God-drawn
and celibate
and obsessively
testing myself.
I look good
all smothered in your blood,
you look better
hanging from my bookshelf.

I am
scratching at your chest
and other places to let
the mice know
what I own
in case they forget
what I did,
who I am to you,
and come back
hungry for a hole
in that
home.

they cut across the black cat
lying surreptitiously
under porch rail
licking the flecks of skin
from her paw,
mistaking her for shadow.
they don’t cut
far.

they are mice
lying down
that are ripped
like the line of your
spine,
neck to base
in shreds.

you too are mine.

“the welcome mat”