there is no difference
between love and liberation
and some were born saints,
you say as you help me
in the mugwort bath,
the smell of rose and geranium
circling the tile.
I plucked the petals and dropped them
one by one for aesthetic.
not free of indulgence, but
patient your fingers make
stems in the water
and I guess I am waiting
for something.
“the swell”
“if whatever you think comes true,
don’t let it go to your head,
and don’t forget to be humble.”
–waka poem
what is it that harms you most and is insidious?
to safely hold &
to be safely held;
is this the ineffable love
we have found?
I like to think my neurosis is unique, but it is basic self-flagellation; a constant barrage of whips at my back that talk like me, mimic my inflection with each insult. You’re no good is the simplest essence of these thoughts, but they use colorful and flowery language to flaunt their return each day. This is complicated by my incessant narcissistic paranoia that I am being watched and I am also unlovable and worthless while I am being watched. A spectacle in her aquarium; the siren that dances, the siren that lives in an oblivious state of self-fulfilling torture by maintaining her tiny stage and inviting the men who secretly hate her to watch. This is the human condition, someone once told me on a walk. They weren’t listening. I am sharp.
“I’d rather be dead,” I said.
09/6/2018
in fact,
resilience is sometimes the
only consolation.
so hold that tight
at night
like flesh.
11.
one dangling finger pointing
to her skin to remind you
how she feels
at night;
smooth like soft-shelled
murder.
“the photograph”
will you still lick my wounds
if I taste like someone else’s mother?
“the cradle”
as if I am even hurting anything;
some embittered tremulous
thing shaking her fist at the
moon and praying for a tidal
wave.
you notice the notch in my veins
before you even notice
the rain.
“flood”
January 5, 2014 and we
have arrived in
North Philadelphia.
“hypothymia”
daturamoon.com 