#may garner

poetry written by may garner ig: crimson.hands — if you like these please show support to the author.

I cannot seem to find my way from underneath you, but you always find your way around me.

I am the sand and you are the tide, and you always silence me.

I cannot be the wound you dig open every time you’re bored.

Where daylight lets you see that I am real, so you’d rather see me dress down in shadows.

The garden I have tried to grow between the world and I is hopeless.

Evil lives here, right inside this heart of mine.

When I say I hurt, I bleed those words with a drip tasting at my tongue.

You open me up like I have always been yours to touch.

You want the crease of my lips, the valley along my chest, but you forgot the heart that was beating underneath.

I scream for hours on every ounce of hate I hold for you, bit it’s never enough to keep it from fading.

A kiss of the lips, a pull at the wrists, you love me until the world turns back, forget me the second the night fades.

How have you become my lover, when all you have ever been is a liar?

You are a taste I won’t find elsewhere, a type of hell that doesn’t live anywhere else.

You are everything I want, but nothing I need, more pain than pleasure in your veins.

Some days, the ache is so heavy and I cannot feel my fingertips.

My fingers are at your pulse, but your heart is not beating for me.

If alone means my heart will not longer ache, then I will stay put in my own arms.

You are the fire I continue to throw myself in over and over again.

I am calling for you, but you have already burned away.

Mother whispers my sorrow sounds like hers. Not in volume, but in shape. The way it curls at the edges like paper left in rain, the way it answers to the same name. Grief is a family heirloom wrapped in velvet, handed down like jewelry; too valuable to discard, too cursed to wear. Each generation tries to soften the echo, but it returns with new hunger, a deeper ache. I swear I hear grandmother’s…

Grandmother said grief rearranges the bones, but mine simply tremble when it rains. I hear them whisper names like they’re reading from a broken ledger. There’s a vein in my wrist that pulses in Morse— sometimes I think it’s trying to send him home. I keep a jar of marbles in the cupboard, each one a soul I didn’t save. When I shake them, they grate against glass like teeth learning a new…

There’s a hum beneath the floorboards, low and constant, like regret rehearsing its lines. Mother whispers it’s the furnace. I know better. Every winter, the air thickens with ghosts of burnt dust. Pipes rattle like baby teeth in a jar. Somewhere below the crawlspace, something breathes—slow, measured, patient. I press my ear to the vent. It sounds like water learning to drown itself. I want to…