The medusa in me
Should tonight it break
the gorgon in the mirror
would wait, bored and numb
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@dio-and-lang
The medusa in me
Should tonight it break
the gorgon in the mirror
would wait, bored and numb

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Untitled Haiku
You demand of me
things I couldn't even dream
of asking of you
My Type.
1.
I like the way he doesn't flinch at how sickly sweet my name drips off the tongue. He swallows it whole, with rounded mouth breathing shallow vowels into my ear. The way he says it with more familiarity than I ever could.
2.
The way he drives, drumming on his steering wheel as he sings along, refusing to mince words or cut corners on a rap section, leaning forward to press a made up harmony. Excusing his car, a disaster of beach bags and sand. A hurricane, not unlike him.
3.
How he manages to pull off suave awkwardness. As if he thought of it first, but his body couldn't follow through with his plans. The way his mouth makes checks to me that his heart couldn't dream of covering.
4.
His personality exposes something- or someone deeply bedded within him, only visible to those who look. Yet I don't have the audacity to ask, perhaps i'm not the poet cut out to romanticize it all.
5.
The way he reaches forward when he kisses me. Making me crave that touch before he does, wrapping my mind around how his hand feels on my waist before his lips meet mine. Until my mind wanders to how his sandpaper stubble would feel on the curve of my shoulder as he kisses my neck, making me fold like a paper crane in his hand.
Local dead end artist
I want the weeds growing between concrete cracks
to seep into my skin as I watch him work
Local dead end artist
stuck in another rest stop town,
rather, illegal artist
with a craving to feel some danger
working in an extra wide spray paint can
only because ultra wide calligraphy tool
sounds too pretentious.
Blink and you might miss it,
the way his heart pounds
against the iron framework incasing it,
the way the cities mapped on his hands
get lost under spray paint
the way he makes everyone around him fall for it
Perhaps he goes home and considers his own hubris
the perfect image of Dionysus' youth as he scrubs stained skin
almost too blithe to be discovered
If I'm to go...
I wish to drown in my bathtub
Become the portrait of Ophelias drowing
Let the dye in my hair turn the water black
Let artificial rivers flow from copper pipes
until my bathroom is flooded
I wish to drown in my bathtub
Feel my lungs ache and burn
Until my body shuts down
Let them find me hours later,
cold, yet resting.

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Spring awakening// first draft
Basking within golden sunlight
I feel one with Apollo as the grass
weaves its way around my legs
I feel the sweet touch once promised
I feel the chilled breeze of Persephone's absence
Her heart calls to hades too strongly
to part through the days
Causing dead winter leaves to dance beside me
as the blossoms sprout on the trees above my head
Red unlike any other painted by the gods themselves
As I rest in the soil
spring is awakening
and it calls me back to a time where my love told me from behind his golden crown
that I am a sun god
as I consider it,
the bluebirds begin chirpping
Lost images from my notebook
1
Put your money where
your mouth is
then swallow every cent
2
Mangos ripen only to fall off the branch
onto the dusty floor.
Left to rot
3
A cluster of stars
takes residency in my chest,
bubbling like champagne
the type of romance Chekhov would envy
4
Red.
Stronger than life
and love
and death
conflated.
5
Your lips never change.
Decades from now
they'll taste just as sickly sweet.
6
Icarus your love for me
is bound to cause
your bitter demise
A Quick Glimpse into a Forgotten Past
Ice clinks against the edges of my glass, only matched by the soft hiss of the dying fizz of coke. I unscrew the bottle of rum and I am reminded of childhood, seemingly a different life. A young girl sits at a lunchtable, surrounded by friends as the elementary school lunchroom roars with voices, with hundreds of laughs, with hundreds of childhoods coexisting in one fixed moment in time. She raises her tiny hand and plunges it into a box of Legos, picking up dozens of pieces to add to her creation. She builds a tiny rocket of mismatched and misplaced legos. At the end of lunch she stores it behind a storage cart for safekeeping. For the briefest of seconds, I escape myself and am as blithe and ever happy as she was. Only to be brought back by the smell of rum.
Tales of the Uncaged Finch
If he wants me to be the honey that sweetens his drinks
I will
Only to sweeten it until he chokes on the cloyingly saccharine tea.
If he gives me the ideals of Ayn Rand
Ill give him the love of Lucille Clifton
If he points to the past of women in kitchens caring for children
I'll show him endless photos of aunts and mothers
sitting around cozy livingrooms drinking café
I'll write his hate and fold it into flowers
and leave them on his desk when I leave
for I am no ones finch to train
I am the Words of Poets Stitched onto the Hearts of Young Writers
As red as blood from a fresh wound
the piercing love of words
Stronger than life, and death, and love conflated
The semantic codes Lewis Carroll never explained
in his journeys to Wonderland
The desperate craving for home
within bookshelves
within novels
within words
Perpetually intense in love and war
Pierre Bezukholv and Anna Karenina
have never met one like me
An artist
a writer
but firstly, human

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And So She Stands Like She Owns the place
1
The winter evening settles
between the slates of the window
Painfully dry middles to golden years
Golden days
Golden lips
The world is black and golden.
her muscles will contract.
their bones will crack.
like the dew of flesh.
2
I am the soul of the evermoving storm
Passed on from mother to daughter ever since the burning of witches
Mother was the raging winds.
I am the soft snow.
I am the blaring bass.
I am the stabbed seam of faux leather jackets
The swastikas and sex symbols
on the back of walls you were never meant to see
Because a god wouldn't whisper in a crowded forum
and I wont whisper now that the bass is blaring
3
Breathe in the burning air.
Golden and black
comfort feels like cotton and fulfilment.
satisfaction.
Burning firewood
will always faintly remind you of home
infinitely gentle.
infinitely suffering.
(In the style of by Prelude by T.S Elliot)
Glass Kingdom
Your kingdom is made of painted glass.
You tell the others it is gold,
yet it always manages to crack and shatter
when you need it most.
The truth of the kingdom is that
there is a revolution brewing within it.
Under the foundationless soil,
unbeknownst to the eye,
there is hate and evil within your sweet kingdom
Sin drips from the palace walls
as you execute
each
and
every
member of your own council.
You shame those who seek asylum elsewhere,
and mock the other kingdoms for their stone palaces.
tell them they are nothing compared to your golden walls
yet know nothing of their safety.
You've convinced others for long enough.
So, don't cry over your wounds
when a stone is cast back,
and your glass palaces cave in
The Teenagers Who Aren't in the Movies
The dye in our hair illuminates
the black lit mini golf course.
Arcades glowing with neon and laughter.
These are the days handcrafted for us.
Far too loud conversations
only matched by the shrieking laughter they cause.
All out laser tag wars within old arcades.
We aren't too old
because we'll never be "too old"
Drug rug hoodies and NASA tee shirts
paired with asymetrical and hastily cut hair.
Lewis Carroll wouldve loved us
Absolutely mad.
and I wouldn't want it any other way
Melancholia/Bronze Age
How shall the seraphs in heaven
save the souls of the restless
when they themselves lack a savior
in these times of war?
The lord has abandoned his creations,
left to rot for their sins.
As hell hounds rest on angels feet,
they chant tearful prayers for our fate.
In the distance, bells toil their mourning song
repeating:
God is dead
God is dead
God is dead
Return to blue//[Battered and blue ]
Why is it that we couldn't speak?
that you went silent for the last few months
Were you screaming underwater and i just couldn't hear?
Or was it really the dissociociation that you mumbled
in short breaths in crowded rooms
Even though your voice would ring through the walls once i left
Through the countless nights i picked you up
walked you home through the black nights in unfamiliar towns
calmed you down and wiped away your tears
Did i simply not hear your lungs filling under the waves
Why is it that i can only talk to you while hiding behind the guise of a narrator?
When did we come to sending messengers?
When did we come to this?
Was there a hidden meaning that i missed?
Was “taking a break” a contract i never signed?
Even when doing all i could
You still slipped through my fingers

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[Return to blue]//battered and blue
Always so peaceful and happy
That’s who we were destined to be
Ah yes, we live in a state of deja vu
we should return to blue
We’ve spent too many nights tucked in between the rolling waves
to remember what loneliness feels like
The way the sand caresses your skin
and the water exposes every inch of you.
Perhaps sometimes
instead of staying dry on the sand
Maybe it'd be best to dive in
and slip under the cool waves