Jern wanted to see the heart
I’d locked inside a drawer.
I fished in all my pockets
but couldn’t talk to Jern anymore.
Tag: writing
Hear
You never croak, but you roar like a frog.
You bark an extended note, though you never howl.
You write her love songs, drunk on ale.
Buzzed on tea, I ink the sound down.
‘S’alright. My pen’s as neutered
as I always said it was.
And my love’s as strong as you strike
those chords
over, and over, and over again. Sway side to side.
I see the curves that your hips don’t make, man,Read More »
Ana-Bri
Ana-Bri,
Brawnasaur,
Brianasaurus rex
Loved me though
all the world
could see was my life’s mess.
Briana, the
open one
let me hold her soul,Read More »
At times, telling the truth requires
At times, telling the truth requires
saying contradictory statements
until you are understood.Read More »
the remnant condemned
I want to curl up in the middle of wreckage
and fall
fast
asleep.
I don’t know why.
a decimated
a desolate
a ruin of a town
the ashes of a house
I want the wind to blow the dust
and my hair all over me.
I want to curl up in the middle of wreckage
and fall
fast,
fast asleep.
And I do not know why.
Snowfall
Light but firm
was the kiss of snow the sky gave
the dotted tops of all the brown and green.
Perhaps light firmness is seen instead of felt,
for my lips cannot recall receiving such a one.
What has impressed
upon these rose petals?
Other things-Read More »
April (feat. in The Lanthorn)
Enamored folks in
the breeze stay silent. This sun
warms but cannot burn.
Hopes are heavy.
Hopes are heavy. That’s why we say that we get them up.
And I know that it seems easy,
but adrenaline rises in a rush
to transfer energy and perpetuate movement
when you’re faced with something grand enough
to be worth lifting hopes.Read More »
On Love and Appetite
I don’t walk around in euphoric affection-
I know I love my body because I love to know
my body.
Why it’s dry and when it bleeds, and if the seizures are going to stop,
what it likes to regulate towards.
My body knows what it’s doing; It has desires and needs.
I’ve faith in its imploring eyes, and it trusts me to oblige.
This is what I love most:Read More »
With the Victimized, White, Upper Middle Class Male
1.
He smiles, ‘Not you—
all the other girls who think your thoughts, differently,’
when his joke responds to me,
my thoughts, my way.
Almost like he was
not listening
or like his wounds are so big that he’s
a little trigger-happy,
prone to lash out–
to think his thoughts, differently.
Or, like he is lying to me.
Reciting the Good
Guy Creed
that he never believed.
2.
I smile, ‘Of course,’ with the slow release of lips.
The bitter
aftertaste of important words swallowed.
3.
He breathily laughs,
puts his hand up to pacify.
My lips form a smile, like a
dog playing dead.
4.
Maybe if you touch my hand,
my hand will have touched yours
as though saying it accepts the apology
you don’t make.
5.
He joys his jokes
that tinkle like rebukes,
and I sit down,
nod a smile—
well-trained.
6.
But my eyebrows flash knowingly,
for a tiger provoked
decides.
Maybe walks inside.
She patronizes the cage.
7.
Urgent words wash down
so easily
chased by the lies in which we were raised.
8.
When I become a butterfly, I fly into outer space,
and then out of it through one chip
in a snow globe of glass.
Alphabet Ravine 