thirteen..thirteen.1 month ago in Free Verse
i don't think about water-logged pearls anymore. only of the sea-foam that is buried under my fingernails. how long does it take to scrape away sordid words, wasted lies-
how long does it take to rid yourself of choked catharsis concealed in oceans of unknown?
( he found me wearing my pearl necklace last week.
i told him it reminded me of all the times i almost
he told me i shouldn't think about such sad things. )
i don't think about busted ribcages anymore. only of the hollow echoing of hummingbirds in their last years. when can you convince yourself that-
when can you tell someone that you love them without worry they will leave afterward?
( he found me counting my ribs last week.
i told him i was checking for the cracks left by too
many perching birds.
he told me i shouldn't be so paranoid. )
i don't think about the winter anymore. only of the color white and its vague way of telling us
twelve..twelve.1 month ago in Free Verse
our story was written in the teeth marks on coffee cups. mine was always red-rimmed with lipstick, his always had the remnants of grounds gracing the bottom. on those days that i was first to leave, i'd kiss the edge of his so he'd taste me in every sip.
he held my carbon between lithe metacarpals. we were such a lovely pair, we were such a lovely match; perfect to set fire to gasoline tears and cedar-tree blood.
urban flora hair;
i want up-does and new-age greenery. twigs for wings, dropped from fall-tinged maple strands, roots like facade bark. i want oak-brimmed breaths to stir in my bangs, and i want hands tangled in the crook at the back of my neck, pricking themselves on the roses there, staining themselves on the nightshade there.
taste the poison on our fingertips, lips smudged li
eleven..eleven.1 month ago in Free Verse
he died when i wouldn't look him in the eyes
and the swans screamed, baring their long, long necks.
they ran from the trees, the forest, the woods, afraid of timber branches with tender ropes. severity was in their skinny throats, and the reeds whispered with anticipation. they were only there for the show.
the swans had splitting tongues and fracturing feather shafts and slaughtered wingbeats in chests without heartbeats and still they bowed to the weighty boughs.
he said cedar girls never made it through the winter.
they died midsummer, but were smart enough to paint themselves green, sickly green, as to ward off the monotonous loggers of the fall, the Christmas-tree-hunting processions of winter, the gray-skinned lovers inflicted with cabin fever in the spring, and maybe, just maybe, they'd come back to life the next summer.
he said they never really did, though. things that lived like that never really came back in full.
he said i was an oak-lunged girl with swan