—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence." T.S. Eliot, "The Wasteland"
Water dribbles off my nose
and down the drain
I cradle in my hands a bar
of memories, melting away
it smells nothing like it’s namesake;
a subtle combination of protein,
funk, patchouli, damp cocoa,
and thievery
locked in the soap room
on a day when the sky was too blue
a memory only I want the key to;
we take a big bite and pretend
it’s chocolate milk.
Dancing on a pier
In the carnival lights
A body of mine I don’t know
Among the neons
Summer by the sea
People I can call company
Even the moon is a ghost
In this fantasy
One fine day…
We’ll find the green light
Across the imagined harbor
Rolling back through time.
TW//self harm
when i see the red
seeping from my veins
it’s an offering, a sad
vestige of my desire to
no longer exist
when the feelings i hold are
too strong to explain to
anyone
paranoia sets in
like a monsoon rain
if the world sees my pricked
and sliced skin
will they look away?
will they lock me up?
will they make me pay
for my own suffering?
yet still the voices
say to cut, cut, cut, cut and be
punished, freed, still, yet in need
because that is what
i must do
one day when i am better
my mask will become me
with the demons strained out
through a cheesecloth
into the sink,
and they won’t speak
they’ll shut the fuck up
at last
…
if there’s an alternative ending
i wish i would go instead
the dead speak of nothing
they do no wrong,
no blame is taken by them
for they have already
faded away.
Down by the creek
Rainbow toes in the
clear water
You drove a four-wheeler
Like the devil himself,
Said you’d take me
to the waterfront
But then I went home.
Standing in your sunny
Overgrown front yard
All the little bugs
Sparkle in the light
Ripped jeans and white T
Heavy metal banjos
Quick, snap the picture
We’re already too old.
Have not written a poem in a very long time which I felt publishable.
I come in at dawn, the sun
slowly rising over
the mountains, and you
are the soft and quiet, sleeping
weight on the fabric of
the universe, which pulls me
against your warmth,
and for this hour,
this hour I rest against
your gravity
when my eyes flutter open
and sky is bright
blue, the smell of coffee
from the kitchen and
the empty space
between me and the world
is your absence,
one day I’ll be back if you
stop waiting for me.
I wish it would rain
just once, wash away
the gray mist from the west,
it’s strangling, like your love
burying into my lungs
a parasite
of modern culture
disconnected from death,
consequences, or
harsh words
your mouths become
crowded, empty late nights
roaring into my conscience,
I need an early morning
for we are an overstimulated
conclusion of many
broken screens
just stop cursing at me
and bring on the
rain, wash away
the pollution in my heart.
“you’re always ‘melancholy’,”
disgust
“do you know how many
times
that word
crosses your lips?”
frustration
“I’m human too,”
exasperation
“…and it brings me down…”
distance
give me distance
give me the safest, smallest,
warmest, darkest place
to process
my uselessness
my burdening
attention-seeking
ugliness
and your rejection
of me.
hold my
empty
chalk-white
salt water
grayness
in your
solid
deep blue
rich brown
sweat glistening
existence,
nothing but
sadness
to give
nothing but
absorbency
to offer
the opposite of
transparency
in my mouth.
I crawl inside
the corners
the cracks
the caves
of myself
I crawl inside
swiftly
in silence
alone
No one sees
me go, hears
me go, even if
I were to chant
my identity
an anthem
of my disappearance
no one
would know.
The Hyacinth Girl 