Poetic Stories

I lie on the curves

of my skull

in defiance

of the cyclones within.

I will eventually wither,

pushed against the storm's sigh

but I hope

my last breath

fills me with starlight

instead of the salt

that dances in the cuts

on my brain

when the days seen longer

than childhood.

I swear the lights

in the sky

are starting to hum

and if I harmonize

I think

family catharsis

these lesions 

bleed thicker

than water

there is intimacy

implicit

in this

inflicted crimson

truth has little 

jurisdiction

what authority 

can draw distinction

betwixt discipline 

and victim?

this 

stiff upper lip

(split and dripping

inherited red)

testifies:

i wouldn't trade caressing your limbic system for all the copper pipes buried peacefully in the walls of communal mobile homes

my mirror has learned

discernment

developed

the blurred mercy

of an Instagram filter

every angle

is suddenly flattering

I cannot distinguish

dysmorphia

from psychotic optimism

or perhaps

it is just

magnanimous glass

then again--

were aesthetics

ever more than

"fear" she said " it knackers me,

it chokes me , i'm in pain

noone finds words to console me

I'm standing in the rain"

"fear" she said " is a horizon,

monotone and grey

an endless tunnel without light

whether night or day

"fear" she said "the air is thick

with demons which appear

in thoughts and dreams so very weird

that they'd be censored here

when we were girls we were taught that if you just loved the beast enough, looked past the dripping fangs, the claws curled around a heart you were certain was good beneath it all - if you held a little more faith, stayed soft enough, malleable enough, resilient enough - that the spell he was under would be broken and you would live long enough to see the beast become the man you were promised; your reward for loving so blindly and wildly - and so i drank my poison like a good little miss every last d r o p we're feigning fables now, but not really. it's a tale as old as time. so we sit in our gilded cages and carriages of copper and wait. wait while the beast clips our wings, and the bars that once kept us safe, the bars we mistook for devotion, now hold us captive. until the clock strikes midnight and the carriage remembers it was always a pumpkin, while you're standing in a pool of your own blood, cutting your feet on the same glass slippers you were once all too willing to wear.

and you cannot be surprised when the fairy tale buries you in a shallow grave.

because he showed you who he was from the beginning.

the teeth were not a curse.

the claws were not a hex.

stop the clock

its response will always

be warning

(tick, tock,

rictus and rot,

oblivion is four

minutes closer)

dispose of that

memento mori

before the omens

when you are

physically afraid,

when fight, flight, or fawn

gets triggered,

your body pulls in the blood

from limbs to core

- preparing muscles,

- protecting organs,

optimizing your odds

of survival

.

when you are

mentally scared,

when fight or flight or fawn

gets triggered,

your body goes from

building mode

to maintenance mode,

- no new projects

- no new commitments

only tending what already is

with the hopes

of minimizing

what could be

lost

.

~ @pocketfullofpoesies , different manifestations of the same thing

the mind blurs into static

Alt text/Image description under the cut

She left, you lie

And now it comes -

earthquakes and hurricanes

typhoons and heavy rains

and droughts and desert-like pains

all in one bleeding bag of Earth

You lie, she left, and didn't die

but she left anyway, as good as dead

We ate her mountains and riverbeds

Water unshared and people bled

both drowned and thirst

this suffering never ends

the pendulum bends

but didn't break ... yet

She isn't dead but it feels as if she's dying

We suffer and still we aren't trying

Acting as if tomorrow still comes

The clock is ticking, thrums the war drums

It's you and I

Not you against I

You lie, they lie, she'll never die

but we can, and we are slowly, and we will

If we don't bring her back

If we don't speak her will

If all our thoughts and acts still ill

We will.

Soft drizzle.

Flowers breathing steam,

sweet petrichor tease.

Green scent of stems, leaves.

Stronger storms rumble nearer,

I’m so tired of waking up like this

It feels like my body is made of electricity with an overloaded circuit

I swear my veins are buzzing.

My skin and bones could vibrate themselves into a pile of dust.

Oxygen starved, gasping for air like my chest is collapsing

Hands trembling. Heart racing. Stomach churning.

And my first fucking thought,

is you.

Calling you.

Begging you to make this go away.

Fix it. Please.

The thought of your voice, simultaneously escalating

and deescalating my sense of urgency.

I want to silent, whole-body-shaking sob

when I think of you.

But, also I just want you to hold me.

Oh god

how badly I want you to fucking hold me.

Squeeze me tightly, ground me please.

I’m afraid I might just float away.

My body searches for you in the night,

I wake up looking for you.

My brain tricks me while I sleep,

I wake up hearing your voice in bed beside me.

Only to find, a dark, empty room.

That’s when the panic sets in.

Someone whom I look up to,

With revery and respect,

Told me that I'm talented,

And perform with effect,

But more than that he said it plain,

As if there was no doubt,

That I was made to play a part,

seemed ordinary, but not,

there seemed to be an

unspoken bond.

Between them, but

not to us, their owners,

until we heard one bark

at the other.

As if saying, "Come home,

come back to us, we

are your home, not

them."

Pack of Family.

a killer's teeth, smelling of