Scorpion"Show me your bones."More Like This
the atlas of her thighs quaked
as she misplaced her skin
in the backseat of his car.
"I'm a scorpion, you know-"
a messy promise
& she smirked,
sure of her limbs,
her scars, & her teeth.
"I dare you to stake claim to this clavicle."
ConstellationShe is dream dust,More Like This
too bitter or wise
for her own good.
A timeless dragon's soul
somewhere inside a
scaled shell, burning
the silence in her bones
alive, honeysuckle sweet.
She collects fireflies only to
set them free at 3am,
crying to an uncaring moon.
& she's begging for the stars
to take her away,
make this house a home
rigged in the sky.
She is already naked fever
swimming through the cosmos
& I orbit her.
Still Missing YouMore Like This
I thought I was past this,
That I was done feeling this way.
But why is it you that I still miss
And think about some days.
It appears you have moved on,
And I thought I did too.
I'm trying to be strong
And figure out what to do.
But I can't stop thinking about it,
Can't help but remember all the fun we had.
A possibility inside my mind has been lit,
And this idea has been driving me mad.
Could there still be a chance for us?
Could we start it up again?
I don't want to leave what we had in the dust,
So what does this mean for us then?
Maybe I should just come right out
And say what has been on my thoughts.
What happened has made me doubt
What I originally thought were my wants.
I miss you.
I miss us.
With these thoughts, I'm not sure what to do.
And I don't know who else to trust.
I can't just go up to my friends and say this,
What would they think about my choices now?
But I can't help what I feel and miss.
I'm still trying to figure out how!
I mean, how can this happen?
How can this
Post MortemI am a walking, talking universe of dead poetsMore Like This
who tattoo their stanzas into my flesh
with ghostly, typewriter fingers.
I live and breathe their worldly disasters
like a nicotine addiction I've never had.
Drowning in their scribbles
I kiss their shoreline romances,
envy their Annabel Lee's,
& carry their hearts in my heart.
I am 7am coffee on Sunday mornings:
a half drunk, hungover limerick
waiting to happen.
I am jealousy:
nothing more than weak words,
& a tongue-tied cliche-
but death becomes me.
BloodI've got a filthy mouth,More Like This
& a house of stars
thriving in my throat.
& I still have yet to tame
this grounded constellation
I call my temple. -Slithering
tongue hissing too many
"fuck you's" against my teeth.
I fear I will write myself hollow-
or until my bones are corroded away
& I am nothing-
an insignificant nebula
orbiting the wrong atmosphere.
But, my veins bleed sweet ichor,
& words are only words, Mother.