AbortifacientZeus blows overlike the paper houseof your childhood,and it’s never niceto see god lose, butsometimes he fallslike a thunderbolt -comb-fingered,and smoothingevery face flat into boxes,and it’s never niceto see god cry, butsometimes he spillslike the memoriesdropped from cardboardflaps, and it cuts aboutas sharp as the edgeof broken dreams.(and it’s never niceto see god break, butsometimes: he shatterslike cathedrals)
GastricHellchild – wildchild –and even the wind could notbend my name into flowersto call over, but it couldwhisper beneath my heartof things which made me yearn& my shoe laces were notbunny ears but two stragglingsoldiers coughing in the dirt:I was raisedwith too many warscremating my cerealinto ash and milk-sunsof days that morphed by nooninto the uncommitted saluteof star-made beds.Click, boom,in seven keys(like rainbows) -losing grenade pinsin each breath -all wildfire;I swallowed down my breakfast.
In Which I Tell Myself To (1) Survive2. Do not choke yourself with the name of a murderer around your neck. Instead, let it in. Give it the chance to testify, because more than likely: it will understand. It will tell you we all must kill something which we love. But do not let it give you its name: you, white rabbit girl, grow too attached (too fast), and you do not yet know the angle at which to break snowcapped knuckles into letting go.3. Open your chest like dislocated jaws swallowing down the ends of
Painkiller and Co.So you want to be a painkiller?We’ll need the physician’s signature – yes, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here aaand here.What? It’s a prescription; did you think it’d be easy? You must have never been one before! Well, don’t you worry: I’ve had six so far, so I know how the pieces of this circus fall. Just follow me!Now, I’ll take you for the weekdays, but on the weekends I’m Liquor’s. He’s a jealous son of a bitc—well, actually, we’re kind of just a steady thing right now. You don’t mind sharing, right? Great! Because he’ll be here to pick me up around eight - you know, when the cutting and shot glasses are torn from me like a fistful of hair? Oh, but don’t worry about cleaning that up: that’s Regret’s job! She kind of likes to use the evidence as things to mutter about damning herself for, so she’ll be upset if you touch anything!Got all the rules?…
Growing PainsThe day I grew roots was a messy collage of sap and broken dreams. I had studied trees in the first and second grade but never realized how close I would grow to becoming one. At that root-growing, fifteen years were in my tree—my deciduous spine, some days more willow than pine—and it was smeared into my canvas that some in the world take pleasure in logging. My father once told me that man cared nothing for forests, for the purity in nature, and in that moment I saw its truth: I was no longer someone I knew, but a girl with handprints on her chest and quiet in the way that I halved myself to die.In the moments my eyes were closed, it became easier to not see sky-birds, or any possibility of unfolding the shattered pieces to create some semblance of some other whole—or the majority of whatever I was supposedly preordained or fated to become. It was even harder to believe when I was crammed between the clashing intents of beds and windows, just to feel stuck or like
Killing Poetry (is easy)All I left in youwas the dusty trailof coffee,but you should haveknown that poets prey onheartbeats, a throatof hyperboles and the teethof an ink-claimed martyrto swallow in, down,every daydream you'd have seenin the wells of star-struck eyes –to breathe carbon-dioxideto any starving moleculeof lungs you'd dare let risefrom the depths ofbloating pond-bellies;and you should have known,that once your heartbeat stopped,I would burn through anotherhibernator in another boutof what my mouthcalls poetry.
A Sister's FootnoteBlooming in darkness, my sweet Ravenwing..."Fly Icarus," cry I, Daedalus-lipped:Falls shan't find thee while sparrow-throats still sing.(And love, I weep... weep for lives spilled - not kept!)Beware thy oceans, and beware thy suns,But live not a life prison-held by fear,For radiance shines on that unblackened,And apprehensions do nothing to steer.Man may throw his stones - consume wildfire -But midnight bird, thou art a brim-filled wind.Fires will ravage, and they be carnage(Though burns come from any hand); blood, listen:Worry not o'er self-altering flames,For life maketh not hell, just waiting games.