scribbledshadows

Words. Lots of Words.

Storytimes — December 9, 2015

Storytimes


There have been a thousand nights.

A thousand ‘not tonight’s’.

.

A thousand mornings you have

not chopped off my head.

A thousand mornings I have

kept it.

.

I have told myself a thousand stories

so that I will not have to fear

the tomorrows

.

will not have to wonder, when it will come.

.

There have been a thousand mornings

where you have seen only your own

hurt

.

instead of your woman-less country,

the suffering, the daughters

you killed.

.

We have crafted thousands

of words together, you have

made me a thousand promises

.

Maybe they will come true,

tomorrow.

.

 

Unsaid, Unfinished —

Unsaid, Unfinished


I live with a ghost.

.

I let him in the front door,

second-hand sadness and all.

.

You can see him

-in the smoke curling off the stove,

the steam in the bathroom.

.

He leaves whispers on my cheek

-names of people long dead,

love letters long forgotten,

wars long past.

.

When he leaves the house feels empty.

.

I leave out drops of milk on windowsills,

fancy undergarments across the floor.

.

“There is life and vitality here for you!”

I shout, if only you would stay.

.

Caverns open up inside of me.

As though I am the ghost

-waiting for blood and water to flood back into me

along with the rush of his shadow.

.

I hear knocks, and I twitch.

I hear whispers, and I swoon.

.

The old house creaks with me,

like it misses him in its bones too.

.

I would let him in again.

Second-hand sadness and all.

I miss the whispers and old stories.

I miss the smell of death.

 

 

Prior — November 3, 2015

Prior


We are reaching for something beyond us,

calling out to the mother-void;

knowledge before language,

gods before men.

.

“recognize My honor,

My valor, My struggle,

I found the true thing

I had no need of mortal womb

or breath, or touch, or speech

to know this truth.”

Visions — May 2, 2015

Visions


I want them empty,

but they are full.

I want a lack of lines

.

Space, to roam in curves,

a world that does not

incite these kind of angry tears.

.

A world where we do not

make places for people

.

all mapped out roadways

and jurisdictions and over used tropes

and zoning houses and business

alike.

.

I want a place where my kind

was not cut from a rib

was not laid over the image of earth

.

to likewise be pillaged and raped.

.

A place where I am empty,

and my emptiness is without

further meaning.

Spattered — April 28, 2015

Spattered


It feels impossible to explain

the gap.

.

the great void between

the world of feelings

and words.

.

the gap that makes aesthetic lists of grotesque

bloodstains into stomach churning

that feels something like love

.

the endless blackness

of speechless sex

dripping and warm and dangerous

.

that cannot hold the simple form

of two people playing parts,

.

the subtle violences

of ideas, the fleshy

kind.

Fictional Problems — April 8, 2015

Fictional Problems


there are endless possibilities

itching at my back of my hipbones,

crawling out between my ribs,

spilling through the gaps in my teeth.

.

it could be vomit, and bile,

or tears mixed with semen,

makeup and sweat,

happiness, sorrow, insanity.

.

slipping between the milliseconds

hearing you call me a goddess

and a whore in the same breath

.

demonic, tied up in the

scratching. sloughing off skin cells

unsure of what will

come up from beneath:

.

mermaids or harpies,

your terror, or my own.

Pressure Fractures — April 7, 2015

Pressure Fractures


I miss holding them in my hands,

running with the inkblots

smudges, painting shadow-picture

reflections.

.

all leather and ribbon and cracked

spines with wetted corners.

~~~

honesty is the only way out.

I am bleeding fire.

.

I can write about these things

as though they are true for me

when I have never been there

.

never had a house in the trees.

~~~

I am a maker,

I make water

I could make life.
~~~

There is a secret language

I want to share with you

.

all careful brushes and fingertips,

but without the physical.

.

you can speak it in the spaces

between words.

.

know it in the smell before

and after the rain, but never

during.

.

Creation Myths — April 6, 2015

Creation Myths


A plant will always reach

to what you have told it

what you made it believe, is the sun.

.

Heat lamps, vertical irrigation,

it knows nothing else. We cannot

help but desire, and you have

planted each one of us

.

Down the line, in repetition

growing from one another’s ashes,

bones. The gristle of DNA

.

and something else I have forgotten,

reaching to the sun

out an east-facing window.

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