Introspect, Weaponized

6.11.2016

There is a pain in my ribcage
that hasn’t gone away in weeks.
Breathing is impossible
unless
I conquer something warm
to my side.

The Photuris firefly mimics the mating lights of nonviolent females
in order to lure males to the ground
before eating them.

I wonder if animals with teeth
pity the things they kill
as much as they want blood. I
wonder if it is O K to be
disappointed in a meal
that bled too easy.

They do not know
what I want
because I sit on the emptiness
and grow out evils in my hair
and they can’t touch me. You
can’t touch me,
sad man, lonely boy,
you don’t know if you want to talk to me
or fuck me,
so you watch me.

I wonder if I should see
a doctor about the stabbing pains
in my lungs.

Watching usually isn’t enough.
They always try to hold you
like you want the same things they do,
desperately, pathetically.
But you’re soft-hearted and
you don’t mind being held
if it gets you closer to blood
at the end of the day.

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Capturing Myth, Retrospect, Weaponized

Rubies and Garnets

It stings less,
this betrayal. I have been waiting for your whiplash
with my back bared,
spine curved into an elegant
parenthesis.

For you,
I let my own blood bleed,
I had it run in rivulets and gobbets
down the ivory of my untarnished arms.
For you,
I left behind my Black Sea,
and found an abundance of saltwater
in its stead.
For you,
I have cloaked my arms
in those rivulets and gobbets,
in these rubies and garnets
mined deep under the soil of my brother’s skin.

O my poor eyes – obsidian blinded with your flashing pyrite,
and so I have been a fool to think of you as gold.

I have turned away from the Sun,
burnt out by a wax candle: this Corinthian bitch,
this Western whore,
hair like flax, face like milk. Who is she?
Who is she
to threaten my ashen heart? This alchemist slut,
who is she
to turn my gold into lead?

O my poor love – my inflamed lie, I gave into an instance of weakness,
and its sweet price, my king,
will leave your coffers empty.

You will be left lapping at the edge of sweetness
(you made a far worse tradesman than you did a husband),
the honeyed nectar between my legs
for some common cunt.

And even now – here –
at the precipice of your despair,
you have given me a weapon,
slipped the hilt of that cold dagger
into my outstretched hand.

I have sunfire in my eyes,
and magma pounds through my veins;
my ashen heart is pressed to emerald,
warmed by lava, by the blood of the stars.

Remember the rubies,
my false darling,
remember how you took me in your arms
when I was cloaked in the blood of my brother,
my blood.

Remember the garnets,
my unfaithful lover,
as you kiss your garnished whore
on her cold and poisoned lips;
remember the jewels
as you take your sons in your arms
cloaked in their blood –
your blood.

You will die, and you will die weak,
knowing that you once had a Queen of fire,
a Queen with a hot jeweled heart.
You will die knowing
that if She ever bled for you,
it was in a molten current,
every drop more precious
than rubies
or garnets.

You will die with My name
in your trembling mouth.

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Introspect, Weaponized

In Sheep’s Clothing

My bed is covered in black and white pomegranates. They fall across the cloth carefully pointed away from one another, and they match the black and white butterflies of my curtains. My mother sewed me the cover, and she sewed me the curtains, and my father painted my room blue, and my sister coloured in some drawings to hang up on the walls. There is a clock with a cream-coloured rim, and black numbers on a white face. It ticks loudly, and sometimes it will not let me sleep.

It was hot summer, I was sweet sixteen, and First Real High School Boyfriend left purple bruises on my collarbone and my neck and my wrists when he kissed me. I did not mind because I was very soft, and his Love was very hard, and my wool was not wiry yet. When the sky hummed blue I dipped my legs in the bathtub and drew a razor over my bumps and bruises. I opened the windows and I put on a dress and I danced to French music. I thought of being in Paris, of wearing silk, of being in Love. Soft, soft, soft.

I opened the door to First Real High School Boyfriend, standing there Shy and Head Bent until he kissed me and I felt his teeth under his lips, his fingers on the amethyst-peridot-citrine jewels on my collarbone and my neck and my wrists. And I felt his hand like something cold and iron, and I thought Oh This Hurts.

He did not want to dance in Paris or anywhere at all, and he bruised me like my clock went fast to him, though it went slow to me. I Love You Let’s Go To Your Bedroom and pulled me there, me on my pomegranate bed, my tenderness smarting. He on me, fumbling and gasping, and me gasping too, my soft little fists clamped to my dress. I felt him big and iron like his hands, and Oh This Hurts So Much tore out of my mouth in a No like a gunshot.

But the bullet disappeared, and his hands were hard and mine were soft and He Did Not Take Off My Dress. And I felt the tear, and the pain, and he taught me then how very hollow I was, not much of a person at all but a tender little shell. And I felt myself ripping in two, my insides my outsides and I choked on my whimpers, and I stared at my clock with the cream-coloured rim. Two minutes past half-past four bull’s breath went hot against my neck and he slumped over, and I trembled as soft things do when they are torn.

There was blood, sticky on my dress and on the pomegranates. That day I spent an hour shaking on the balcony, smoking cheap Cuban cigarettes until my throat hurt almost as badly as my newly discovered hollow. I vomited once, neatly in the toilet, and I vomited twice, not so neatly on the tiles. I scrubbed at the red pomegranates until they were black and white. And I learned that sheep may tidy after wolves’ dinners.

My clock with the cream-coloured rim still ticks very loudly, and sometimes I do not sleep. Sometimes I wake up at half-past four and think of red pomegranates, of a secret emptiness, of Romeo y Julieta cigarettes, of a bullet that missed its target.

But I was soft then, and Love was hard.

Now I am hard, and Love is soft, and the wool I wear is wiry, and when it scratches my skin, I howl.

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Capturing Myth, Introspect, Weaponized

Nothing To Be Gained Here

in a dream
the Venus of Milo’s arms reach up
and out to me,
through the dampened dirt,
buried in an unmarked grave. Likely that her legs tremble,
lips quivering like an arrow point-deep, feeling
splinters of cold; lips cut on others,
Pygmalion
and all the rest.

[they kiss their Nausicaäs and go back to Penelopes.]

a shiver
on a faceless woman,
her back scarred and secret and her yearning
heavy and suffocating
under a lifetime of placidity.
golden Aphrodite, shameless Aphrodite,
laughter-loving Aphrodite
drowns in saltwater.

so she snarls
(and may she frighten)
so she breaks
(and may she cut)
so she leaves,
and may she go,
and find a cave to sleep in
where the echoes of her breathing
cover her in whispers,
blanket her in sighs.

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Introspect, Retrospect, Weaponized

To Daughter

softness hurts, kiddo.
reality bites with yellow teeth,
leaves you stranded on an empty train
caked with pigeon shit.
(we only ever call them doves
when they’re clean, white, and painted.)

I,
one tiny letter versus the world.
one is stronger than five or eight,
one is stronger than all the thousands
I’ve summoned up like armies –
burning under a magnifying glass
and some sparse sunlight.

and that’s the problem,
being so hungry it hurts,
eating yourself sick on your favourite book, song, mouth.
you’re too young to sound so old.
you’re too old to sound so young.
bun-ga-low
and cellar door.

there is instruction,
there is failure,
there is punishment,
and there is reward, after toils to rival anonymous.
oh, kiddo, there is reward,
after you’ve given your lungs and ripped out your veins
to eat anonymous heart
and force yourself into anonymous cortex –

when you’re bloated with anonymous,
you will remember softness
and feel it crystallize
in the pit of your stomach,
feel it stick to your intestines.

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Retrospect, Weaponized

En Bas

Les anomalies et anachronismes,
la grille de rouages ​​mécaniques; tous tes souvenirs.
Mon amant,
je pourrais te donner tous les grains de sables dans le désert et
dépérir ici,
pendant que je meurs de faim,
dans une sorte de vide stupeur.
Mes fils sont tous emmêlés et confondus
et ma peau s’était faite vive
avec votre charrue. Je pense que j’ai salé la terre
avec ma sueur –
garçon,
moi,
je n’étais pas fait
pour cette chaleur torride.

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Retrospect, Weaponized

i.
it’s not a big deal or anything but
the softnesses of dead kisses reek like corpses to me
in the morning-sickness of my love; I know
it’s better if you swear and god, God,
I do – swear by the roughness of asphalt,
because those kisses stink like death.

ii.
there’s a beat (
oh-hm) after you, I can see
in the dark to your tears

iii.
it’s not
a big deal and it’s something I can push around
like a mental exercise – think of you swamped
in dead kisses and wow, wonder if there’s an expiration date on everything
and
if maybe it’s that easy
to let go of dead kisses. maybe I can stop hoarding them
like wine bottles dating nights I wouldn’t really remember otherwise –
just flashes and cutouts of lips like moths,
skin like a fever.

iv.
hollow girls. stuffed girls,
dead with kisses, drained of them, in nights like these
where you can’t really
tell the difference between
yes/no
stop/go
maybe/maybe.
maybe,

v.
it’s not a big deal or anything – but –
you’re huge
inside my skull
and ribs
and maybe I’m scarring –
but – I’d sell you my wits (not much left anyway) I would
sell you my guts and give you enough blood and bile
to leave me, dizzy,
on-the-rocks.

Aside
Weaponized

Pillow Talk

You.

no time for razor words,
just silly girls with doe eyes –
doe eyes and baby voices –
(wouldn’t you love to
coddle/swaddle/bundle them
oh, my love,
I know you would.)

dulcis est
victoria mea.

proud with passion and the
sharpness of my tongue,
scoffing/scathing/seething
with your blindnesses and blunders.

Not
your fault?

Sick
of you.

Sick of you,
and your fixation of false
fantasies of fatherhood
(it’s not all diapers and candy)
victoria, victoria –
you,
psychologist’s wet dream
come true

sick of you and charred by you,
left behind disbarred by you
sick of you

I hope to Venus Verticordia
that you feel empty and hollow;
that I left destruction in your veins
and tarred your blood with 
the clarity of a moment that lasted
a second

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Weaponized

O.K. Fine

hey,
listen,
can you hear me?
yeah, i’m OK

[i’m sorry if the ostraka
that you left in my bedsheets
got stuck in my skin and scrape you
when you feel me,
fingers stained with lemon juice. 

if you can feel the acid
(sorry)
leaking out of my words,
it’s only because i am contaminated
with the nuclear wasteland you left
in my mouth, on my tongue.

i must feel so rough to touch,
starved so thin for love,
ribs expanding thorns that prick
from under my skin –
sorry – 
they are just protecting my bloated mass]

hi
how are you?
how have you been,
yeah,
i’m fine

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Weaponized

A Thousand Little Deaths

ingenuity, insincerity, inability

where is the out for all the ins?
where is the weakness of the body
in its thousand little deaths,
in the flesh,
the imprint, or memory
of the fantasy of you
and the confusion of the pieces
left behind by battles;

a thousand little deaths marked all along my spine,
with vertebrae tombs.
a thousand little deaths,
and the brevity of you,
as I melt to inside-out,
and my translucency is stretched
as I am torn apart

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