And how the snow

AND HOW THE SNOW


And how the snow did fall
As the ice upon her soul reverberated its never ending chime—
Heart so full of sorrow
May you find a graveyard for your demons
Mark each tombstone with the blood they have provoked
You, yourself, you have provoked the scarlet
And the sanguine in which you bathe will not wash away your sin;
I martyr my soul for my Sisters Misguided
By amber eyes, silk words, and searing touch
Church sanctioned suicide
Holy Queen of Heaven
The only thing you taught us to do was inwardly die
Your self denial becomes our own physical ruin
After the void cannot be filled with caresses.
You deny me the womyn I love
To give me the bastards who spread their seed like tumbleweed along the mountainside
I will name them in DARKNESS
For only two belong in moonlight
Shown in all my glory for what I would bestow.
Darkness owns the rest, as he often reminds me.
Darkness owns the rest of me
Womyn of the Night
I would rather be Womyn of the Moonlight
Where diamonds of desire adorn my existentiality
Here I am not tarnished
Here I am not taken
Here I am given for what I am
Goddess and Ruler of the Night
Ruler and Vanquisher rather than Victim
Enveloped in the moonlight in place of Their scent—
Different creatures, yet all one aroma.
One scent, one scream, one secret
If only trees could talk then so could walls
Talking walls for voiceless children
Talking trees to whisper, “do not go this way, I do not trust his eye.”
Hail Holy Queen, Eternal Virgin
What help is a virgin who cannot conceive our pain?
Perfect and blameless with masculinity close to your heart—
You say, “My burden was my Messiah; my burden was to watch Him die.”
Watch Him die with masculinity close to your heart.
My burden, my Messiah is a man
My burden, what the cover of darkness does not reveal
What science erodes in 24 hours
But decades will never erase
Heart so full of sorrow
May you find a graveyard for your demons
Mark each tombstone with the blood they have provoked
You
Yourself
You have provoked the scarlet
And the sanguine in which you bathe will not wash away your sin
My Misguided Sisters
I martyr my soul for amber eyes, silk words, and searing touch
Church sanctioned suicide.

across the darkness

Across the Darkness

Some people collect antique spoons they’ll never eat from or dolls too beautiful to play with. I collect moments that bleed into each other like a set of dollar store watercolor paints when a child adds too much water. I fell in love this way, you see—over a thousand intimacies strung as a set of pearls across eight Decembers. Intimacies are not always misplaced caresses or kisses in the rain. They can be the most detrimental of memories, and so was the time I tried to kill myself the spring that I was 22.
Across the darkness spun the scent of tar and oil as the woman standing at the gas station waiting on a drug deal began to scream because I was lying in the street waiting for a car to hit me. She was like background music set against dialogue. Only if I shut out everything else could I understand what she was saying; only if I shut out the hypersensitivity to the smell of the tar and the little pieces of glass that imbedded themselves into my wrists.
Like the series of moments in my consciousness, there is no clear cut transition between the moment I was pulled from the street and when I swallowed a bottle of 100 Excedrin Migraine tablets. I only smelled him as he fed me milk and I threw up all over his bedroom floor. The aroma of cinnamon and laundry detergent that wafted off his skin had always been my refuge. When I could no longer stand he lifted me as if I weighed nothing and carried me to the bathroom the way you carry a small child; like the color blue washing into red and becoming purple he washed the vomit from my hair. As orange was created I was soon wearing his exercise clothes because mine were soiled beyond wearing. With his body he held me down when the seizures began, frightened out of his wits and repeating something over and over about ambulances; but seizures and I are not strangers, and at some point I was able to tell him that ambulances weren’t necessary.Trim it down to size with a high priority device

Stronger than his arms, my soul drowned in the little specs of hazel spun like stars around his russet eyes. This is my soul’s collection: the curves of his face, eyes like constellations, the smell of his shampoo in my hair, the mahogany of his arms against mine of alabaster. I fell in love this way, you see. And the only color in which I can find myself, is hazel spun like stars around his russet eyes.

unthinking ritual

“I stared over the washbowl in unthinking ritual.” Sylvia Plath

Unthinking ritual

Unthinking ritual the razor blade
The muse of tangled verse along my arm
A tale of then and now and what if
What if I were a size 0
Would I be visible
Me with my invisible nature
A sestina to the death of my spirit when I was 12
Conjured memory so stale like cigarettes and tar
Haiku for every time I went walking
The abyss of downward spiral whispers
Watch the stairs love

mine the hour

“And now that the hour is mine and I’ve been writing the better part of the day, in a coma, not being able to breathe for crying.” Sylvia Plath

Mine the hour
A coma of tears
In which I have no memory
A black abyss of confusion
Of voices and faces and eyes aflame
To write the better part of a day
And yet have no writing to show for it
And I cannot breathe for crying