persephoneisqueer

I believe if Anna Karenina existed with us today, she would be the rich cherry-red woman we dream of becoming and more.

a conversation about quiet rage by me

Our father who art in heaven, devourer me like an eagle chips away at dead meat because even animals know that gluttony can kill you before love. God, I have regurgitated him in so many forms and proses that I do not know how not to resemble a burning hayfield/ I feel like I am seeing ribbons and cherries instead of his baffling and bluffing/ this is our end/ this is our tinkling.

I have been the very thing I mocked.

I have become a runner.

I am oozing even when I am alive.

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do you know how difficult it is to watch someone you love turn ugly like a blister? It is petrifying, and even more when your breath on my collarbone starts to feel like a hot knife cutting through thermacol. sizzling, contracting our love is dying. I don’t want to die hating a name that has melted my core, my rage like a cookie. So babe, hold my hand, pull me close, caresses my nape and sing me a lullaby of our death, help me confront our ending, help me move on.

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Fuck self-loathing, I have become the kind of woman who smiles at her audacity in the mirror. The kind that could rearrange your entire bloodline, be thankful I am choosing to write poetry. The kind that is wanted by every man in the room but wants you to come around. I think my poetry has become like a leakage from an octopus, so obscene that even if I confess my fears and feel threatened, I can squirt black ink, leaving no traces around.

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You were as inconsistent as spit bubbles formed by my tongue, like a volcano sputtering instead of erupting – a failed explanation in a classroom, you are all things diminishing.

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Do you know how much lineage is overspilling in a haircomb? The thing about my art is that it is, like strands tucked under the legs of furniture. Hiding, flittering. I cannot explain my disease because I do not want to be vulnerable. In the same way, i cannot explain my art because I want to be great.

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I don't want to be beautiful, I want to haunting, alluring, the kind of melody that makes you want to slit your wrists and smile. I want to be the kind of swaying that makes you want to be godly, womanly in a club with tequila spills and bathroom dips.

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