✧ sun(succumb); feb. 2021
you, scabbed with the breath of dawn, eyes still as empty rooms & the sun rising inside them. & here is where you first find fissures crawling from the soft folds of your body, light leaking out like sweat down to the parquet. dust motes laying claim to every sticky inch, & at first you do not tell me how the back of your throat burns sour, old spit or chemical, how you await a new haze for every morning sun. & how cold air smacks you sharp across the face each evening, world stung back into focus, & you scrabble hands over yourself, smoothing flesh, eyes frantic in searching--you do not tell me this, either.
& so you are holy to me, still. & i want to be like you. give you my body & beg, slide your knife from neck to navel; suck my heart in through your teeth, refill my ribs with light. never mind that i'm only gurgling blood when i feel molten, hot iron, a distant sun. when finally i can touch you without singeing. never mind regret, when i know soon, the fates will swoop down from their shining reach of sky. & because we are only burning like we were always supposed to, when they look down upon this carnage, they will smile.
✧ dawn lamentations; feb. 2017
you are scabbed with the breath of dawn, and perhaps this sounds far more appealing than its actuality. you sit in the first room of your house at 6 am on a tuesday and here is where you first discover that your bones fissure at the junctions of your body when light spills from them like egg yolks down to the parquet. at first you do not tell me this is only because your mouth tastes sour and of rancid milk, that your stomach aches and you cannot live only off bits of your own skin. you never tell me of the foreign (a euphemism for unwanted) tongue between your thighs.
despite your secrecy (a sin???), you are still somewhat of a half-formed deliverance besides me. your lips cradle the hot goldenrod sunshine like the swollen breast of the moon cradles the darkness. i tell you this, and you show me it's not a crescent of eclipses and florets but rather melted butter. you are holy to me, still, with your cherub thighs swathed in a dirtied checkered tablecloth, and i try to be like you. i cannot. my bones do not yet know how to twist and bend. promise you'll teach me how?
you carve open my chest with a bread knife, for your tongue is not as sharp as you desire it to be. a voluntary murder: i pleaded for you to slice through me clean so my blood would burst hot ochre from my lungs like a further away sun. my heart pulses as sanguine & heavy in your cupped palms as the ruddy angels that pause in their searing trajectory to stoop their heads through the slats in our shutters. i presume that when they look down upon this carnage, they will smile.
✧ notes pt. 2
my first (and honestly, to this day, only) surreal piece! my first prose poem! this one will always b close to my heart--in arles (wattpad book this was first published in) was the first real experimental body of work i wrote at the wee age of 12. i was in a really interesting place writing it and all of mon cheri--trying to string words together and make them sound cool but also genuinely trying to express myself on paper. it wasn't entirely empty purple prose, per se; the emotion was there, but i only knew how to communicate it via a very vague and pretentious vessel. and also i threw in like, random ad-libs of shit i thought made me sound poetic.
also i left this breakdown for after the fact cus, idk, part of the beauty of poetry is the way you relate to it the first time--before it's been explained to you--an impulse of understanding. or attempt at understanding. anyway. this work has meant very, very different things to me each time i've rewritten it, which is the beauty of surrealism, i think! but now for some guidance since this piece might make no fucking sense: idk if all of u have ever gotten high or drunk before, but you've all probably had damn eventful or fervent nights. in both, when the rush is fading and the sun is coming up ... there's a bit of desperation there, a bit of oh my god, my mouth just tastes awful now, or i'm tired and weak and heavy, and i want to go back, take me back. there's an impulse to drag your tired body through the whole scorch of feeling again. even if you know you should sleep and rest. or stay sober. and unfortunately. sometimes this pattern occurs over and over until it's on a larger scale. and i wanted to talk about moments that are very singular and small and individual and tiny and self contained--like a photon!--but also ykno, big overarching self destructive patterns and spirals. and i had a friend who was vvv addicted to drugs which was...uhhhh certainly an inspiration
