1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
O FevraleWitching hour, welcomed with a sigh,bare-breasted and ink-stained in the night.Half in love in this half-life half-light;pisat O Fevrale navsnryd, dreamingof the gods. Wanderer, today I died anddied again, and whispered prayersto clasped hands… until the nestleddroplets fell away like sunrays at dusk;and when moonrise came, I sang again.
Alla RabiosaScorpio's tail slips low—a mari usque ad mare:from sea to seaover me, a devil in the sky above;and the Huntresspeels dawn like an orange.(Fling meamongst the stars:the Mad Queen's cosmic mirage.)
SehnsuchtOctober again;and the curtains billowwith broken glass echoes andMendelssohn's bride waltzingto better times(einzweidrei)She becomes the rain,and breaks her own heart as the sounddripsright through us.
Little FuryThe storm throws you to my door, drenched and bloodied, god-light dimmed. The crest of the hill is underwater. You have no boots. Morning dawns cold, clear, a watery gold. You are gone.
Prelude Nocturne;I conjure the moonas dusk crests, a wave across the sky I am lovely and lonely in the night, shadow- shackled to the mountainsideand the mothsunfurl their hamsa-wings asmama calls me in.
ApsaraFind me sunken into thelotus field, bathing skin silvergreen,waist-deep and pinkin sunset, and we will cry:for three-faced elephants,for rain,for the dancers threading gracebetween their fingertips—until I dress in the heaviness,a sarong of heat.
LiliyaBright-eyed,bird-bonedwhisper girl;dark-dressed,moon-backedmistress of light.
Sundropo n some days I watch you rise and ragewith a new yearfirework fervour–untamed and glorious,pulling the years togetherwith a snap of your fingers.but some days you are languid,stretching like the summer dustingof freckles along your forearms, theslumberous strands of hair shutteringyour sky-eyes from the morning light.on these days, I think the earth spinsslower and the birds sing a littlequieter. on these days, I lookat you and I think:sundrop.
you need to have a plan...so here's toconventional wisdom.1. relocateto some forgotten shore.2. fall desperately in love with i. the ocean ii. the sky iii. the honey sunrise and iv. the steelgray winter dawn.3. sinksoul-deep into the water andbreathe.4a. search out the requisite words i. from behind white and blue curtains ii. and underneath clam shells iii. and in the wakes of fishing boats, and4b. pluck them from the ceaselessscrawls of sunlightagainst the slopes of waves.5. make time for i. poetry ii. and other selfish pursuits.
something lacking this way comesshe smells of smoke, tastesof cheap dreams and cheaper makeup,sounds like someone who's usedto giving; her eyes are twoglossy sunsets out of a fewtrillion that have set before--when she shuts them, no oneblinks.
MuselingRed wine ramblescurdle the air, but stillyou dream; half-moonbody curled in thelamp light. I am leaving,I am leaving, choking onsome holy word—the floorboards creak,a sonata for mychangeling shadowwhilst you, hair tangled uponthe pillow, are spun gold.
Van GoghSlip intothe first vestige ofmorning, theblush of a summer'sday already aglowalong you—your silhouetteglistens, an aureoleof molten goldas sunflowers puddleat your feet.
forest firesmy signature scrawled across allof your sentences like a stain of apologies:i'm sorry for anchoring you to my hiplike a one-sided promise, like a flood of insincerity.i'm sorry for collecting you like a well of wishes,for whispering you into every crack in these walls.i do not have the depth to tether our limbswith the tautness of our smiles, but i willbalance you on the edges of my knees untilyou slip away.i have been kneeling with my arms outstretchedwaiting,but the divinity of your touchnever graced my expectant stance.our bones built forest fires together,but it was always my tears putting them out.
i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost, kissing stylish arsonists + I still love every sky escaping from your lips
beauty is a state of mindforgiveness is thescent the violet leaveson the foot that stomped it;I am beautiful in remembrance:I am beautiful in a body two sizes too large, in eyes dilated with questions (eyesyou cannot name; gray like the ocean, blue like the heart, green like the fever dream I cannot wake from) I am the hair of a lion, a wild thing, ignition upon tempted glance. I am the skinyou cannot name, always fleeting; the chameleon you always see but never truly take in. and I know a boy carved of ivory silence, &
desiccatei.you were 22 years in the making,a sponge without watersince the day they plucked you from the oceanand left the sea salt to sink into your pores.ii.I was something too heavy to wade in,barely able to breathe,21 years in the makingwith floodgates barring my emotionssince the age of four.iii.At the first sign of droplets,the salt of you drew me inand eased the heaviness of my heart.iiii.In your confessions of self-love,in your tales of embrocation,I was only ever your liniment;our brevitywas a thing to be forgotten from the start.
to the girl with hungry footstepsI'm sending all my words backto the people who need them--people who wear scars likewar trophies, like jewelry, likean identification for those sufferingfrom the same acceptance ofself-hate. this is to the peoplewho sleep with one eye open, whocry when footsteps enter their roomat night; this is to the girlswho love by cutting their heartsinto snowflakes and watchingthem melt. I left you behind andI can't be sorry for that.you are the type of beautifulthat kindly asks the worldto fuck off. the days we buriedhave decomposed, headstones aresnapshots; sanitized breakdowns,rusty tongues, sighs lacedwith fear, I love you, I loveyou. saturdays were the bestbecause we could sleep throughthe nightmare. you painted me apicture of the world with your wordsand they made us wash it awayfor being transparent.we were afraid of nothingbut the monsters in our eyelids.back then, we counted dayslike shooting stars; it took 67to wish myself away. thisis for you, skygazer;
maria:she is splayedbeneath the moon, a[star]fish out ofwater; dry-eyed &melancholy, sheswallows the sounds ofsummer, devours clumsilykeyed piano concertos& suddenly, sherealizes - this is how it must feel tobe [at peacewith] death.
gossamer loveyou will love a womanwho uses the wordgossamertoo often. she willdiagnose dead artists' descentsinto madness and laughtoo loudly at jokesno one understands.she will braid crowns offlowers, she will write poemsin constellations, she willtry to walk like a dancer sono one can hear herleave. she will bean ice sculpture, and whenshe cries, you'll convince yourselfshe's melting, she loves you, you'vechanged her, you'vechanged; she will wear youlike a comma, likean incomplete thought,likeapausein her story, andshe will leave you wonderingwhatyoudidwrong.
.when her love left, it leftthe house emptyand she saysi hope one day it'llcome back to me,cos i don't keep this shotgunon my front porch for nothin'
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you? i. summergirl,you are crowthroated and tumblingthrough the aspen grovehair on fire with sunrise, lungsfull of sky.eyelashes like wildflowersand every morning bringsa new spray of frecklesand a sharper curve to your collarbones.the cornfields hold no shadowsfor your lighthouse eyesand there are no endings in thatsurefooted smile. ii. you have grownso fast.autumn finds you with broken anklesleaning on an oak branchand watching the skies.crow to sparrow--you are quiet.summergirl, there is peace in silence,perched treetop,fallen antlers in your hands.you will come to mourn your deer.keep them close. iii. by winter you have paled,and like the streams your eyes have frosted over.you feel the chill--there is no need for sight.summergirl, th
wallflower clippingsthere's scar tissue in her throat,swollen around the words she never said;dark rings around her eyeslike planets unremembered, anda staleness to her touch,the crystalline Dead Sea.she's living like a storythat's already been told"if no one loved youwould you mean anything at all?"in that moment,we forget to exist.
we were found beneath the seai've been meaning to tell you(i swear i have)i'm hopelessly addicted to throwingmessages in bottlesand losing themtothe milky way.i had once thrown them across the mid--length of seasbut then you wouldfind them,read themand leave them,much like the nights you foundrhythm in mymetronome sheets.i found your messages(i swear i have)i'm tired of shooting seagullsto protectand watch them flytothe milky way.i had once chased them shouting mid--length of the seabut then you wouldwrite a letter,throw it to me,and windowsill sit,much like the night you foundpoetry on myscarred stomach.and then i found verses(i swear i didn't mean to)tattooed belowmyfloating ribs.i thought you stoppedyelling metaphors to keep meafloat thesewater-galaxy-borne messagesin rundownwine bottles.i just thought you'dstop painting your dreamson my saltyskin.i wrote fabricated honesty(i swear i didn't mean to)surfing belowyourfloating ribs.i wanted to whisp
we are not a fairytalewe are not a fairytale.I am not the strong lead with a heart of fire,bones of steel, and eyes of vapid curiosity;motivation seeping throughmy every last intended action becauseI was written this way(the heroine falls only to rise again:proverbial phoenix, burning outbecause it is the cycle of mylife) and you, you are notthe beautiful travesty, perfectly composedto strike me where I’m weak and[almost]human, delicately wovenlike the tapestry of my dismantling—a subtle irony where somewhere, a writerchuckles softly, understandingwe are blinder than church mice, bornin a makeshift world of darkness whereI’m not sure whether or not the sun willrise again tomorrow, because it won’t existuntil someone breathes life into it,but no. we were never so luckyto be carefully orchestrated,a composition rendered foranother’s satisfaction. I am not theclimax, nor the resolution, but a lambwith Stockholm Syndrome anda tendency towards peoplewith
NecromancyShe thinks there are nebulaein the rough of my gutter bones,some stargazing sanctuaryfor lonely outcasts to lay their heads.I am but a car crash,spellboundinside eyelids,& red inked correctionson crosshatched skin.Made up of moans,the clutching of bedsheets;I am contemplatingripping my ribs apart& provingI never had a heart at all.But my moon shy love;she is determinedto try & wake the dead.
you could read to me foreveryour vocal cords collapsed withthe heaviness of your words,repeating the same exorcisedtruth that you caught over thephone when you moaned to me.it took a thousand splendid sunsfor us to see eye to eye, for youto know why I weep over bookpages and not people and why i keep some stories tucked betweenmy alcoholism and faltering acidtrips. your voice and mine havethe same cadence and we're caughtin the ceasefire between our cords.i've always been too exhausted, outof my mind to tell that eachoscillation we've let our voicestake has been plucked betterthan a million dancing beams.
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
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