16 Apr

we are not lords and ladies,

the lie is pretty

but the bathroom is still made

of hard tile and harsher lights,


of automatic sterilities

and wanton gossip as acidic

as the bile


waiting to escape our stomachs

when the lie fails and we are mortals

once more.


when we can die, and must 

reject the poisonous to stay alive,

and that after all


is what all these boutonniered falsehoods

are, bundled up in chiffon

and covered with idle chatter


but they will take pictures

of the facades, the corpses

call the pallor regal, the love

even cheated outward


star-struck, for the ages. 

Effort (less)

9 Apr

how I long to look through

your dream books, creep

those shadowed corners


but I have learned better

-secrets only serve the madness,

no matter to whom

they belong.


their silence is a sickness

and a violence against you

and even with my curiosity

strong as it is


I do not have that capacity

for careless cruelties anymore,

not when you too are a being

who knows to teach things of magic


comfortable with allusions of sharing

the nighttime with a being

halfway between damned and divine

without ridiculing the creature


who believed such things. and so

the only payment left so that restitution

may be achieved, in the wake

of such kindnesses


is the silence that will not burden you

with its secrets, that will not ask you

to believe in things that are necessary,

but so too, cannot exist.


6 Apr

I do not think I will ever

understand it, or maybe

I will simply always refuse

to give it its rightful name.


but I want to let it wash over me,

submerse myself in the blackness,

forcibly kept there

and in accepting


of the anger draining from that type of I soul

maybe I could heal it save

the broken boy from that place

of confusion.


from the lust that

drive, what they told him

to call evil.

Because I am so used to drowning that running burns my lungs more now

4 Apr

and i will not today,

because it is not my place

to have nightmares in your name


not my place to fear things

that are certainties. i will not

because my backpack is too full

and so the pages of my book


must be exposed to the rain

and it will swell them, and even when

it dries it will be changed. I will not

because I am used to eyes 


settling around my flesh

in all the wrong sort of ways

and light is not meant to combat

that type of darkness.


and maybe there was no sunrise

this morning. the sky already

too grey for even those barest rays

of light. 


and that is as good a reason 

as any, for the silence to stay.

“A heart beats in threes, just like a waltz”

1 Apr

I want to wrap the notes to wrap around me,

until there is sufficient repetition

to cover the whole expanse of my body.


a more complete covering than

even mortal hands, or lips

could ever hope to accomplish


after all, you love this song

once, so then its blanket 

on my body would be only

one step away


and I would be awash with its rythm

in my blood, in every limb.

For the girls I forgot I wanted to be

26 Mar

maybe it is all because I was given 

the wrong name, and I have been

searching for it all this time.


because when I was young

I was not a flower, and when

I loved you I was not a gem,

and never have I been the type of person


to listen to a god.


but neither could I be one myself,

or drown in the flowers,

let the mirrors crack and 

succumb to the curse of love.


no, I was not the lady in that lake

I do not crown kings, or know

the proper way to hold a sword.


but it seems that I am now the type

of person to be made of water

drown in myself, and maybe if

I see my reflection someday


it will look like home to me

-if not to you. but I know the syllables

now wrap around me wrong

even breathy under the moonlight


and after this line, after all the lives

what is one more name.

because the liar’s paradox taught us that truth and language have no place together

25 Mar

if i told you i was shot through

long before these words

were even a possibility at your ears

it would be true story


it would just not be the most true.


but it is not my place

to thrust this sadness upon you

no. the world will do that

well enough on its own.


I want to mend the broken things

but I cannot. because i still have the urge

to push, to run away. because I have

rejected this reality


refused to be a part of it

stuffed my ears with melodies

and my veins with ink

and I will not be a part of its wrongs


so this story cannot be true, and cut

as the truth always does, but neither

will I lie like every other illusion,

so when the day comes


when you ask me for what I cannot give

i will not tell you that I was elf-shot

that I have lived and drowned in oceans

and still wondered how they had more water


than my body can produce, i will not

tell you about the shadows

i will not tell you what cannot go

even here,


because sometimes the only story

that can be told is silence

the hush, after the campfire has burned out

the moments in dawn when everything is sleeping


and suddenly the words on the page

are stars in the sky and it is beautiful

because there is no noise there, either.


25 Mar

winter is the time to tell stories

of adventures, not walk out

and make them anew.


not when there are spiders

in the dusty corners of my bones

all wrapped up in fabric

that cannot be peeled back and aired


not when my seven-league boots

are buried under the snowfall,

too heavy to drag up from beneath

the banks.


not when any water droplets

on my wings crystalize in the lightest

of icy breezes, like oil weighing

down butterfly wings.


no, it is the time for blankets

that still cannot be piled high enough

for tea, and blood spilling on snow

for barricading the house,


and it is torn out wood-work

and tables without flowers

it is stories at fireplaces

and burned fingers when you forget


and lean into the glass.



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