Tongue-tied,
he called me callous
said it was his favorite thing about me
I flinched anyway
I do that when people walk beside me
I’m shying away
I’m begging.
I’m a bit twisted
He bit my back
and called it lovemaking.
It was a short walk
every time
You couldn’t stay
even if you wanted to
Now I carry
hands full of old songs
Our bodies became mounted callous
two heads, three hearts,
drunk and lethal
I’ll bury the paths to my heart in brick
Spear her into the earth
Play pretend with your skin
Bleed raindrops
and lotus flowers
We marinated in muddled portals
A black hole became what we are
What a perspective.
Kill Me
Frantic Fragile Fucks
How To Be
you see
i know how to be
courteous,
a beggar;
believer
a star in the night
holding me
By the Door of the Music Room
by the door of the music room
what does one do
when sound hums like prophecy
to the rhythm of one’s soul
spoiling all the way home
anointed with myrrh
a finger on the temple
what does one do
by the door of the music room
I Turn Void
Gasping for your air
I turn void
I cave in
Absorbed by your flesh
Seeking words of salvation
a cure to the spell
Fatal devotion
I’ll rage without it
Won’t care about anything else
The One Who Stayed Grounded
He aroused me till numb
My heart sedated by his insanity
Caught me mid-revelation
Reaching for me at the height of his vision
.
I wanted him to come with me
But he wasn’t that type of guy
It pained him to watch me as I’d fly
Still front and center he’d release me wild
He ached to carry me whenever I fell
.
Rubbed me up with aloe vera
And intuitive kisses to heal
Wanted to make it well
Fading as I opened to it
Defeated in the win
So I held him also in sin.
Only Spirits
It’s what I do best—
cry and sob,
dry and aching.
I surrender to explosion.
Consumed in one breath.
There is no space.
Only spirits.
Only spirits
— from Repetitions of Ruin
(incantations from the same wound)
The Ground Still Loved Me
I’ve been crying hard.
It’s what I do best.
The ground is loved on by the seeds of clouds.
But I’m fragile,
and I soften in explosion.
When I experience grief,
I face it suddenly.
There is no space
— from Repetitions of Ruin
(incantations from the same wound)
I Try To Unwrite It
Sometimes I reread the poems I wrote for past lovers and feel like… this was too good for them. I try to take it back
Too tender. Too raw. Too sacred.
Bitterness shows up first.
Memory comes next.
With it the soft ache of truth.
I remember why I wrote it, the little universe we lived in for a while.
And I remember.
I remember it was theirs. Because a version of me meant it.
Even if they didn’t deserve the whole poem forever.
Some things are real just because they happened.
And some people get lucky enough to be written about.
The love was real, so was the poem.
So I give it back.
Freegrandmaa 