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.
Know Where To Fall
I melt into explosion.
I open up to it all at once.
The ground is loved
by the seeds of clouds.
— from Repetitions of Ruin
(incantations from the same wound)
Held like something holy, by something holy
Night Star
a star in the night
playing fantasy
on knuckles so deep
don’t think
that’s magic
Too Small
my heart is tired
she wants to go home
i tried to build her one
but they’re all too small
she never fit
Blotchy, Dry, Aching
I’m suffocated by spirits.
I just sit in my nest.
I’m blotchy,
dry,
aching.
Wail and cry and sob.
Wail and cry and sob.
Wail and cry and sob
— from Repetitions of Ruin
(incantations from the same wound)
Ripe and Mean
When we went without
I forgot my name
Things were not good
We’d be ripe and mean
We’d beg and fight
Skin splitting
Play tug of war with our faces
Growl through negative space
I am awake
I am awake
I am awake
I plead
insanity
I give
him control
Still
painting him in contrast
Collapsed
When I experience grief
I open and everything enters.
There is no space.
I’m suffocated by spirits.
I’m blotchy, dry, aching.
— from Repetitions of Ruin
(incantations from the same wound)
Freegrandmaa 