Pungent is such a thick wordFull of itself and aromaticSpoken on a practiced tongueInhaled with a full breathLike fresh cut grassIt reminds me of homeNestled in my father’s armsBefore he became a monster of a man
What is the true determinant of joy? Is it never having to argue my existence, ever-safe in the knowledge that I am human, worthy and deserving of all good things? I could save my words for wonderful things; shared secrets between sisters. songs in languages I don’t know. cries of unbridled pleasure. I would be…
SorrowThe day got rough seemingly out of nowhere. Tension is creeping at the edges of my brain, kneading on my skull like a desperate kitty. Needing affection like I need comfort now that the wind is the only other sound beyond my clicking on a keyboard. It whirls about recklessly, slinging heavy tree branches and…
I could gift you broken dishes
Stained in crimson and ecru
Would hold them in your soft fingers
I turned our pictures face side downAnd stopped playing the songs you sent meRemoved my favorite necklaceWith your smiling face etched into the locketFrom its home around my neckBreathed a new scent that I had begun to forgetAnd others seemed to miss
Wistless men frighten me — ambitious, powerful men with the world at their fingertips and my chest in their palms. They leave me to ache with longing, and my skin turns a sick, green pallor. These men and their dreams cut me so deeply that I am left frequently bleeding fear onto my fresh, white…
I think about the sun sometimes. Being her. Perhaps exploding with her, our brilliant light streaking through the universe like a crashing orgasm, leaving the planets and stars shaking, thrashing about contentedly.
Som days I look like my dad… distant, and very selective about my outward show of emotions. Other days, I seem to hold my mother more. Co dependent and relentlessly empathetic.
This one I think is meant to be performed. When I wrote it, it sounded like a monologue. Someone telling whoever would listen how she fucked up her plants.
Written one night when I couldn’t fall asleep and I was tired of the way I was writing my old poems.