1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
HaikuWriMo1Church spire, stretching,weds the moon.2Slate skyand a heavy heat;collapsing.3Embroidered stars—celestial needlework.4Fairy wrens:steeds of elven knights,armoured all in blue.5Raindrops—wet wings,startled honeybee.6Huntsmanupon orange glass:a specimen, fossilisedin amber.7Scarred grape,veined in gold—kintsugi.8White blossoms,fallen like snowdrops.9Eagle in flight,great wings cradlingthe half-moon.10Pastel sun,peeking from a soft,smoky grey duvet.11The world settles;the heavens awaken—storm.12Black swans:two arrows in tandem.13Mirror-verse—sunset’s reflection,river-bound.14The yellow of anold book:crinkled paper moon.15Tangled in old web—a spider, noosed.16Rough brushstrokesof a smudged landscape:Impressionism.17Giant’s treasure:pot of molten goldspilledalong the treetops.18Raindropslike gemstones,flinging light.
NetherThe world unfurls:becomes a gemstone, sinkinga mirror breakinga thousand splintering realitiesand I am lost —forgotten who I ever was,forgotten how to breathe.
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
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.
NymphTranslucent asa dragonfly wing—her hair fansin the water, andthe sun bleeds.
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.)
SurrealismThree a.m., andGod is in my bathtubagain—sipping whiskeyhallelujahs;backlit bya freshwater moonin the mother-of-pearl sky.
PompeiiDrumbeat from above;trailed by ragged, ashen dogsfed only Vesuvius’ shadowuntil the heavens split—sodden map becomespapier-mâché fingers andfrom afar, through a veil of rain,a chorus: the mournful dogs howl,cursing the gods.
an irrevocable truthi.snowflake child, you are a fine exampleof the incandescence of a human lighteven under innumerable umbrasi see you- ruby and bloomingferociously fighting your wayout of a pile of rubbleii.my anemone, my halothat comely wraps around my moon pithdo not fret if i self-stumble, fumblewith my fingers, and mumble to my toesmy center of gravity is oft frail andmeek to begin withiii.you are lead cause of the diamond flecksscattering about the carbon of my pupilsyou do not leave meyou teach me to besnake-eyed yet shotgun-hearted-a sapphire wanderlust lividfor life and star-gazing sights, you mapconstellations on my freckles and fright iv.look now at how i'll find my lighthouse loverthen tend to some kidsand grow out of my gills and into grey hairsthen tend to some kids with their own kidsand reminisce about friends and phenomenai signed my name on a patch of sky withall on my own exceptthat your hand never left minethat if i were to crumblelike the sandcastle
inhale, inhalethe birds are singing in the deep haze of dawnand your bones are loose inside your skin.you learn gratitude from the trees.
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.
Shy TruthsI spilled a cup of oceanand opened my handshoping to catch the truth.Empty seashells,broken clams,and a palm-fullof worn pebbleswere all I caught.I guessthe truthis shy.
PSit's come to this-- definitionsof memories and people and dreamsI’ll never know firsthand like reasons for living;this realization that Iam a stagnant planet, loston its orbit home; thissearch for a justificationto keep on breathing oceanwhen my lungs won’t toleratesalt. I woke today in the waterto angels swimming around my feet;coral, pearlescent anchors dragging medown, down, sweetly lullabyingabout you, dear, and the daythe tides washed you away.you are written in my skinas much as the lies I live bydaily. you are the beautiful things:the sun waking up in the morning, thestars pitying at me as I try to fall asleep.the watercolor sky sighing, thevirgin clouds crying, the last notesuiciding itself into silence.
first relationship finale i sit my head into my pillow stack weather-worn restless multi-torn i breathe in breathe out s i g h deeply, feverishly c r y not because you were ever in my bed -i have yet to become a carnivore too young to taste the indulgence of flesh but because i have yet to feel the weight of your head your thoughts at unholy hours things places persons situations that have made you the broken being that you are b r e a k i n g me in to
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, &
shooting starThe space betweeneach star is a tragedywaiting to happen --and you fallfrom the skyall too easily.
Ruminations on a Fallen Star, Not Yet Fallen A priori:Though I am not in love yet, I will be.I remember how our eyes will meet;you will see the green stars in my eyes for what they are.I am afraid.1. I am star-crossed, tattooed and traversed;my clumsy limbs build a bridge of my bellyfor the constellations to write their paths onto my pounding heart.Some days these star charts are a chain link fence across my bodyand on others—I can trace your name in the lines between my stars,not the name you bear now but the true one I have always known,the one that is for me.2. Nostalgia is always poetic, but the blood memoriesare harder to pinpoint; they do not catch like butterflies.We cannot feel their feathered scales, their veined wingsjust their violence against the insides of our veins,the strength they give us, the gods they hope to make of us—cruor vult, and I may only hope to survive their frantic seas.3. I have never been so aware of all the muscles in my neck,of the way my
Sloped CeilingsA black galaxybillows around moon-rock knees;bird-shaped and lonely,the constellations twinkle--stickers on a dark ceiling.
Pears and Peaches (Things They Don't Teach Us)On Monday, he eats peaches. His right arm is curled against his chest like an embryo and as I hurry by, I imagine that it is a side effect of a stroke brought on by grief. On Tuesday, he eats mandarins. He clutches the fruit in his right hand and peels it with the stiffened, arthritic fingers of his left. As I hurry by, I imagine that he earned that arthritis with a lifetime of labor. On Wednesday, he eats bananas. He peels the fruit slowly, his rheumy eyes lost to memory. As I hurry by, I wonder if he is thinking of a lover. On Thursday, he eats grapes. Some of them are brown and pitted, liver-spotted like his skin. As I hurry by, I wonder if he made it to the supermarket this week or if they are all that was left from the week before. On Friday, he eats cherries. They are a rich burgundy and his lips are bleeding with the colour of them. As I hurry by, I notice that he has tucked cherries over his ears and he is smiling. On Saturday, he does not eat
waking upand imagine my surprisewhen my insides bloomedinto so many dandelions,and in a single breathi becamehollow.
don't trust me unhinged like a stolen surge of ocean, I become what your girlfriend thinks I am: drinking alone, forgetting your name until it flowers from my blackberry throat I wash my tangled hair in your kitchen sink, malingering
RemorseI am riding high ona cloud of angel's dust,cajoling almost-forgottenregrets and half-heartedpromises from beneathstubborn finger joints;the light of dawn singesmy shattered wing bones.
Andromeda on CassiopeiaI am an unripe novaborn of a blossom-warm wombtucked in my mother's bosom-I was prematurely plucked. Thanks to my mother's harmI never learned of love-only of being adored.Adorned with endless diamonds,I am worshiped in light-years.
Things to Be Grateful ForI am gratefulfor a husbandwho always thinksof me first.--I am grateful for the placesand the peopleI can visit in my mindafter a hard day;I am gratefulfor our world, so filledwith things to inspire me,with wordsto create the storiesI lean onwhen I'm feeling weak.--I am gratefulfor a partnerwho knows my vicesand loves me morefor them.--I am gratefulfor every morningI peel layers of dreamsfrom my eyes,push the coversfrom my skinand can startwith a fresh slateand a clean heart.--I am gratefulfor a best friendwho buys me chocolatewhen I need it,who trusts me to knowhow much I can handle,and who sticks by meno matter what.--I am grateful for every choiceI get to make;for every wordI can pick through,dust off,and use;and for every opportunityto learn something newthat comes my way,even if it's wrappedin heartache.--I am gratefulfor a manwho understandsthat when this townfeels too small,I will need to break freefor
The BarricadeThe spine is a jealous loverthat clutches its spindly armsaround the lungsin a fierce cage of boneto protect the tendernessburied beneath,where it can’t be seen(by love)It embraces our organswith a possessivenessof the heartbut even this shadowfriendlooking out for uscannot fully barricadeagainst splinters(from love).With the huskof aorta and veinthere is a knotthat can be undonewith the grazing of a smile.Even the spinewill bend under the weight(of love).
i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost, kissing stylish arsonists + I still love every sky escaping from your lips
DuskCrowning glory aflame,a golden QueensurveysJeweled ladiesrevel in the comingof night.