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Literature Text
in a season of wavering will
and ripe regret, I was born
too old - into a fragile world
of butterfly feathers and
springtime secrets, tied tenderly
around hollow hallucinations and
carefully called a "dream"
they promise you things
when you are too young to
understand the monsters under
your bed are really fragments
of you, left to disintegrate
in the dark. they say: you
will touch the world, you will
know the stars by name, you
will be our deliverance from
all the things we were not
you will be strong.
but they don't know, no,
I am a yard sale:
I sold my heart to a boy
with lilting lies and eyes
that looked human
I lent my bones to an
unstable night
I whispered my wishes away
down empty wells, and only heard
the shallow echo of myself
I sent my lungs down the
river – gasping for forgiveness
and I gave my voice
to the ocean, in exchange
for a little sleep
when they finally see me, I say
with a sawdust screech, I am
not all these pieces of me--
I have to believe somewhere
behind the complex of a mirror
and fluorescent flutters,
there exists a version of myself,
untouched--
a glass skeleton, unscathed, and
living out its life for you.
(no one ever warned me that stories
were better told untrue.)
and ripe regret, I was born
too old - into a fragile world
of butterfly feathers and
springtime secrets, tied tenderly
around hollow hallucinations and
carefully called a "dream"
they promise you things
when you are too young to
understand the monsters under
your bed are really fragments
of you, left to disintegrate
in the dark. they say: you
will touch the world, you will
know the stars by name, you
will be our deliverance from
all the things we were not
you will be strong.
but they don't know, no,
I am a yard sale:
I sold my heart to a boy
with lilting lies and eyes
that looked human
I lent my bones to an
unstable night
I whispered my wishes away
down empty wells, and only heard
the shallow echo of myself
I sent my lungs down the
river – gasping for forgiveness
and I gave my voice
to the ocean, in exchange
for a little sleep
when they finally see me, I say
with a sawdust screech, I am
not all these pieces of me--
I have to believe somewhere
behind the complex of a mirror
and fluorescent flutters,
there exists a version of myself,
untouched--
a glass skeleton, unscathed, and
living out its life for you.
(no one ever warned me that stories
were better told untrue.)
Literature
The rule of nines.
I know more about half-moon palms
than most know about lifelines
the kind that beg dandelion child,
love-yourself-breathless.
I know about forged castle ribs & broken homes.
Myths that are half fact & imaginary friend
turned bogieman -
Fangs that tear clear through ice-bone hearts
like they are nothing but pretty paper
to be folded over, again & again & again
by the hands of quivering youths:
Icarus, the reincarnated
sky conqueror searching for warmth.
Literature
I want to forget names,
& faces,
& people.
I want to forget their veins,
fingerprints forever burned into my eyelids;
wrists I can't look at
without longing to tear apart.
Spine full, and spiteful:
I want to cry
roses in my midnight tea
for these star collapsed lungs.
I want to cry for her
& for me.
But Shame,
she wont allow me the courtesy.
Literature
I could make a list,
but I merely bit my lip when she asked me,
"What is it you're thankful for?"
How could I tell her
I was thankful for this heart
that beats a thousand times over
when I hear her speak?
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Once upon a time in a far off kingdom behind the words you'd never say...
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Comments53
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This is absolutely breathtaking in its beauty and mastery. Gorgeous.