Findings

I wrote this poem when I was in college, and I thought I’d share it with you, since y’all have been so nice.

Fairy-tales

Wrap me in ivy because I want to suffer

a grave that looks like an Italian painting.

Give me red shoes because I want

to cut off my feet and I want the poison

on the teeth of combs so I can die

every day and don’t not grant

me every wish  because I know you

don’t know “No.”

I want the tears of sick virgins

for baths and I want everything you say

to end in “you.”

My bloodiest of chambers scares

me more than it needs you.

I gave you my voice to scream.

This is when writing was kinetic… and obviously got really scary. Now I find it humorous! I don’t feel like this anymore; I struggle to remember a time when I did. I remember wanting to do something very dark. But it’s not really. It’s very surface level darkenss, not a whole lot of depth. Or maybe that’s just me rejecting it? Ever do that, when you find something you made and are so embarrassed by it/by who you were you must destroy it, as if  its presence will somehow magically take you back or revert you to this perceived lesser version of who you are? I can feel the snakes and I’m writhing in my skin to get back to sentences. I’m in the process of moving and for someone who has gone out of their way to get rid of almost everything they own, I find I still own way too much stuff. Anybody want it? I promised myself I’d sneak this little bit to you.

I want the best for your day, I swear.

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2 thoughts on “Findings

  1. Maybe a poetic response is actually appropriate, or maybe it’s just self-serving. Either way, voila:

    Something Useful

    This habit of crushing skulls to poison you:

    It is a feast of fried breakfast proffered you.

    (Anyone who is anyone in the eyes of History has destroyed Jerusalem at least once.)

    A priestess of carnage is deep inside you—

    I don’t know any virgins to kill for you,

    (I don’t know any virgins).

    Desecrated dress of bile made for you,

    Red; please, don’t hobble like a satyr, for you

    (For someone as vivacious and tightly wound as you)

    We need black shoes: for black masses, you,

    As in seasons of the witch, opulent you

    Sit, legs crossed: constellation burning you

    Into my memory, what I have left. You

    Are something so outside, so beyond— how you

    Prey for eyes and clever tricks that will make you

    (And when it is all just horrible there is the water of life

    [And, shit, how I wish I was more self-aware for you])

    Still sharper and more cunning, hidden fox you

    Make sweet noises licking blood up, clever fox you.

    (Anyone who is anyone has destroyed Jerusalem. At least once.)

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