The Art of Becoming Sacred Matter
Sweet Craving
She Will Return
You’ve inflicted a wound
down the length of her spine.
Sabotaging the currents
to maintain her movements
give way to the wind.
With the immense distance it provides,
she will carry on.
Her skin sticks and glows a little,
glistens in the sunlight.
She’ll return
and destroy all that you are,
leaving behind
trails of ash and stains
How To Be
you see
i know how to be
courteous,
a beggar;
believer
a star in the night
holding me
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 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.
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
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 RuinÂ
(incantations from the same wound)
Freegrandmaa 