Floral

woman in red and white floral scarf

I weary the ghost of tomorrow
by harvesting the fears of today
Sometimes I live in a future
where I gladly starve;
seeing nothing beyond this moment.
Sometimes I reap yesterday’s death
and grow it into orchids.
Sometimes I cut the branches and
fold them into an ending.

 

Heavy light

black and white photography of woman with nose piercing

the eyes of my past
are watching as I
grow taller,
bittersweet kisses from
a girl that didn’t survive
my future is so bright
I can’t see it.
What’s a victory without
a failure to fall back on?
I’ll stay in the safety of
the dark until my vision
expands.

 

Signature Move

woman lying on table

I’d rather not write
about what made me push forward
I want to own
what held me back
and I’d rather not tell
what I did to stay afloat this long
most of all I want to eat
what failures I’ve reaped
like souls on the edge
of the Grim’s scythe

 

Loved, Gone

topless woman with red lipstick

”beautiful”.
I seem to disappear behind the word,
I’m mirage, mock soul
who melted like sugar into your shallow
cup of beautiful.
”beautiful” is something
you don’t want
it’s what god said to man before abandoning him
it’s what was written in the ashes of every
world that burned
everybody loves beautiful but beautiful only
loves those who die for it.

 

Bipolar Tides

woman painting

you are: mud and seashells,
calm and storm
during ebb I can
reach down to plant a kiss on your watery forehead
on other days you remain a secret,
a soft glimmer beneath the waves
a statue of razors moaning.
with shipwreck eyes and the hands of every drowned swimmer
entangled in your hair
you begin to pull us down.

 

03:59

1. They say 4 AM is the most likely time to give birth
but I didn’t know when I knelt on the bathroom floor,
soaked in unwanted love
it also happens to be the most likely time to die
(some nights I can’t tell these apart)

2. I thought 24 years would teach me silence
how to talk without ripping
but your paper planes tore through my walls
whizzed past my ears like bullets
the winds brought them back as
postpartum depression / pleas
to an absent mother
that never would be me