GalateaSometimes, she is my mistressSneaking in through my window and seducing me out of sleepShe keeps me up past sunrise, whispering sweet promises in my earSilencing me with her smoldering passion, stripping me until inspiration strikesShe makes me sing, until the sheets are slathered in a thick skin of poetrySending shivers up my spine and igniting my senses with her ghostly fingersShe is a lover and a shadow, nowhere to be seen when I wakeSometimes, she is my psychosisSuffocating and strong, I can do nothing but submit to her graspShe seethes, like a snake constricting around me until my sight blurs to smokeSlowly, she consumes me with sick reverence and searing obsessionShe stifles me because she refuses to be restrained, yet I long for her kissSevering haggard breaths from my lips, leaving me stunned and achingShe is a succubus and a nightmare, haunting meSometimes, she is my saintStifling sobs against my shoulder, shaking me until my tears start to fallShe has so much
Bad HabitsS.She always rubs her mouth,like there’s a secret she can’t say out loud.Tracing her own lips to prevent a smile, a frown, or a tear.Sometimes her real smile peeks through, but you can only see it in her squinted almond eyes; dark amber, and soft, just like that bashful grin.Sometimes a frown shows when no one is looking, followed by a wistful sigh and a simple wipe of the palm across that silent mouth, trying to push the bad feelings and words away.Sometimes tears roll past her knuckles; she fails to catch them at the source because she’s scared to wipe her eyes raw, so she brushes them away after they’ve fallen in the crook of her pink lips.She always hides her mouth,as if she’s afraid to speak.M.She never faces you completely,like you’re not worth her full attention.Averting her cold gaze, she walks with a haughty, empty stride.Even when her striking blue eyes are pointed at you, her chin is always tilted up and shoulder
.the sun did notkiss my skinyesterday, he sleptlateshowed hisface around noonand then went backto bed; theearth exhaled
sati(ate)dit's ironic,isn't it? the waythey say "hunger gnaws"like the way our teethscrape against bones.for all thecalories that are counted,you still feelempty. you aren'tbeautiful untilyou are digestingnothing but airand maybe your own guilt.that's just the wayliving is thesedays: swallowingglass shards toslice up your insides soyou can ignorethe other kind of pain yourstomach is feeling.but when people askif you're doing okay you justsmile and nod even thoughyou can't help butthink "if honesty wastangible, i'd eat it rightnow."life hasan acquired taste andsome days you'dlike to rip yourtongue out.
Tangential AsymptotesI think about falling in math class.The boy in front of me is writing diligently, noting each and every word as though he forgot it was all in the textbook. He has dark hair all tangled up in the back like a bramble of thornbushes and his green hoodie looks like it could use a good washing.The professor is rattling on about asymptotes, about two lines that go on forever, getting closer and closer but never touching. He tells us about the Greek roots of the word; asymptotos, that it means "not falling together," and he scribbles nonsense equations on the board and hopes that we understand them better than he does because tenure is the only reason he's teaching this class.As much as I hate math, I have to admit there's something beautiful about the concept. Something romantic and longing, something I can relate to in a sea of cold precision and dispassionate numbers.I think about falling in math class. I think about fractals and their intricate patterns, turning equations into art. T
Not A Pipe DreamI am living in the shadow of my potentialAnd lately patience seems to be in short supplyWhile expectation overflows in abundancePipe dream, is it not enough that I have tried?No, I can not accept that you are a failureThe words you chose were ever so carefully placedIt should be of no importance whatsoeverIf the message conveyed was not to their tasteI am living in the shadow of my potentialI’m in utero but I will be somebody soonBurst through these rusty pipes that corrode my dreamsAnd flood the floor of my creative wombMay I suggest that you are already someoneAnd that each stroke you paint is as desiredFrom your cold creative heart to your burning handIt’s no concern of yours if it doesn’t catch fire
The Girl With The Jackalope SmileShe always told me her life was a cake walkBut I'll never understand what kind of happiness comes from Crushing pastries under your footShe could stitch sunshine along her wristsAnd leave the rest of us in the darkTrying to paint our own cerulean skiesAnd leaving us all bereft when we only managedTo stain our skins blueAnd she could dance a two-tattoo on the arch of moon beamsLicking her diamond lips to taste something moreWillow wick finger tips gleaming with still flamesTempting a hand into her grasp so that she might Burn life back into our hollowed bodiesShe traced constellations on her lungsSo she could breathe the star dustAnd have shimmering breath all year longInstead of just in DecemberHer canines glinted when she grinnedCandle drops of light shinning in each toothAnd melting our hibernation patchworkTo reveal our summer skinHer veins surged with hot apple cider and wildfires And her cigarette smoke smelt of burning woodHer orange and red
letters from the seai.sometimes when i wake upbefore the sun rises, when i’m all aloneand it feels like i might be the only person in the worldi notice that my face is wetand i wonder if it’s becausei’ve been swimming with you in my dreamsii.i remember youin the summer nights under the corsican starsand the warmth of your skin in the cold seawateri rememberhow the phosphorescence coated our bodiesas we swam together, the salty tang of the ocean and your fingers up my spineand us glowing like soft stars in the nighti remember how i wished it could last foreveriii.now i wonder if the tides and my tearswere so different after all
Ink Languid [ I watched ] she tore sanity from poetry scabs, manicures fraying— chipping. [ I wept ] she chased words beneath scarred vows within her drowsy veins. [ I broke ] she hung and sang from her tired seams: “I finally feel alive.”
the widowshe sits in a bathtub,drenched in the warmth of late afternoon,and wonders about love.it is cliche.it is also important.her fingers slide along herchest, counting the hidden scars.seventeen that she can feel,more that she can't.but that isn't important,not right now,because she's thinking about love.it isn't passion she remembers,not fingernail scratches or gaspsor quiet suggestions that maybethe slipper-socks should come off.she doesn't think about the secret smiles,or the smell of cinnamon,or even the voice saying i love you, you know[because she did know].she thinks about silenceabout those moments in between breaths,in between heartbeats,in between words.she thinks about how tangibleit was, how soft and warm and lightand then she thinks about thesilence that's with her now,the silence that's seeping throughher pores,splashing in her lungs,hovering in her head.she looks at the razor she's been holding for an hour.she looks at the paper-thin sk
Confession of Betrayal"There was a time when I feared you, avoided you, for what you were - before I knew the person you were. A time, even, when I believed that because of that, you would have to die. That you were evil because of that irrational fear, and that all things 'evil' must be eradicated." She sighed deeply, clutching his hand for support as she spoke the truth that she'd never told him."When you first spoke to me, and I answered, I lied. I was willing to sacrifice my own morals if it meant reaching my goal. Killing you."He watched her expressionlessly as she confessed what she had meant to tell him long ago, but had never had the chance - or perhaps the courage - to do so. "And what made you change your mind?"She blushed and glanced downwards, before continuing. "I-it... Honestly, I don't know. I was..." She mumbled incoherently to herself, and he patiently waited for her to speak up again. "Every day, I plotted against you, even while I gave you fake smiles and claimed to be some
i haven't forgottentell me, boywho is your god.do not say itis the limbsthat spread youbetween knowingand comfort;do not tell me it ishands wrapping a headboard, nor a mouthtugging your namefor salvation.i want to know who it isthat makes you lucent,bent beneath the dark,weeping,because there is no divinitylike the one that makesyou bleed
pretty little poet fingersfabricated gods rest between thelanguid crevices ofher fingertips, scribbling profanitiesall over her skin.she's just mismatched bones& blue bruises, telling of forbiddenlove through archaic letters.a tongue made forwanderlust, & eyes madefor the stars,even the devil fears her.
Love LiesLove lies.And I was never in love.I will deny it every time you ask.I will say "No."I will say "It didn't mean anything."I will say "I'm fine."Love liesIn your fingertips as you traceThe curves of my body,Memorizing every turn.And I was happy.But suddenly I'm screaming andHolding my head in my handsBecause I can't remember how to breathe.And I'm pounding my dashboard becauseI can't handle listening to this song anymore.But I don't like the silence.Love lies,And I didn't ask for this.I didn't mean to spit my heart out so closeTo your feet because you keep stepping on it,And I don't think you even realize it.I don't want to lean into your wordsAs they fall from your soft lipsBecause I know that they're false.And it makes me angry as hell.I guess what I'm saying is:I don't need you.I don't want you.I was never yours.Love lies.And I was never in love.I will deny it every time you ask.I will say "No."I will say "It didn't mean
OSometimes I think about buyinga ring that represents foreverBut who needs golden bandswhen cold fingertips on my skindraw eternity in shy circles