tyrants

wild hyacinths

you make my tongue heavy with atrocities and i know now the way sin tastes like butter n loss. my skin is trembling with the flavor of it, scorching hillsides along your young habitat where the other wild n beautiful things spring from aching earth. i lick your lips for breakfast and i starve myself for kind words n kind eyes n then i grab the papers n catch the bus. rush through my nine to five though it feels like a decade; my throat grows hoarse from the way i repeat my shame. i make it my gospel n my peace n pride, then i think bout how youre born of the rocky shore with the raging sea slapping you hard round your cheeks. leave you spitting blood for weeks n so my meals taste like metal for a bit; the feel of the sun in the hollow of your throat n the curl of your lips.
sometimes i think about dying and then im coming alive. about unweaving the flesh from my bones n untangling your fingers from my soul. shrinking violets in all of my reflections & she looks like shes forgotten how to be like the sound of thunder rolling in the dirt, or maybe even the salty wind brushing against slick thighs and fluttering hair. forgotten how she was born of prometheus, the gods who freed the first man n made atlas tremble with the birth of something new.
and so i tried to offer her a name not unlike the gossamer fingers of the rain. the names we give to fading sunlight n the secrets we keep like saints; learning bout hard pain and sweet shocks. how i lay waste to soft aphrodite who has choked me with love seeded in my lungs. all your words are a breath on breaking tongues and threads of teeth burning names onto my skin; all losses and no gain.