Category: writing

Need

Let me drain you of whispers
and replace them with silence,
my black flower, my midnight one.
Press your lips to the ground
and taste my imminent arrival.

When we meet, time will become
like a mother you once loved.
Let God hide in his skies and the
devil laugh in his restless, hot earth.
Cling to me and let all else die.

Inhuman

Inhuman

How is that humanly possible?
she asks me as I contort myself
in all manner of ways to fit her
expectations and make sure she’s
well-pleased with my performance.

I think about reminding her that
I’m not human and never have been,
and that was what first drew her to
me, but too many reminders make
her cry and long for someone else.

Terminal

There is no cure for this,
no anesthetic to mask
the pain of living without you,
cut off from the only source of
warmth in this black, cold world,
the stars having spent their last
burst of energy to illuminate
the broken landscape and give
me foolish and doomed hope.

My Dark Love

My Dark Love

She had a penchant for dark thoughts
and darker deeds, which I found rather
heartbreaking…nonetheless, I burned
for her like no other, my skin shedding
anxiously whenever she declined my visits.
Eventually, she let me taste her fingers,
and her breath glowed in the moonlight
as we smiled, melting into the warm ground

Since Dying

Not sure about this one….

Since dying, I have hosted
several parties, and everyone
who is anyone comes and stays

until the sun struggles to rise
and my grief blossoms like a flower.
They can’t take that— I don’t

blame them as they whisper their
thanks and soft goodbyes, drifting
away, like galaxies in an expanding

universe, never to return as I shut
the doors and write thank-you cards
I read once before throwing away.

Visit

“You should never visit me,”
she says as the room turns upside down
and her cat blossoms into flowers.

I suspect she might be right if this
is the way of things—my hands suddenly
on fire, my hair rising in sympathy

with the moaning wind—but I’ve come now,
and I want her to hold her bright face
before it melts down and fades away again.

Demon Season

Demon Season

The craters of your eyes doom me,
and I wander between worlds,
sunrise in my bones, sunset in my blood.

There is no grace in your reign, no fine regalia,
just shadow knitted between bleached bones.
With shuddering breath, I recite backward psalms
and pretend to understand the nature of nature.

In my questionable tomb, I decide whether it’s
day or night, whether you radiate warmth
or continue the cycle of cold-layering the sky.

Above ground, the crows know it’s demon season.
I watch them gather in trees and prepare themselves,
their eyes fine-tuned to catch the glitter of red
and the copper scent of fear I always leave behind.

Change

So it went that there was
a golden time that I emerged
from my shell and made nice
with all the flowers, and the sky
darkened because it didn’t like
my sudden change of heart
and wanted me to remain cruel
and full of hate…

…but I had outgrown that,
shed that skin, and was ready
for new experiences that
weren’t so twisted and full
of shards of black glass.

The sky threatened rain,
and I held up my cup.
The sun began to bleed,
and I offered a bandage.

Below, on the green earth,
I turned and turned in my
hot dreams, and my waking
life began to resemble
a memory of something
better than I ever was.

Is it real? I asked the birds,
who flew on and ignored me.

I visited the water, my ancient enemy,
and asked, Have I really changed?
Of course not, the water murmured.
You’re the same as you always were.
Look at your growing list of victims.

I turned the other way, convinced
the water was lying (it always had before).
I made my way through my dwindling years,
buoyed by the thought that I had been
reformed, reimagined, and the dead
were not dead but merely pretending,
playing a joke that I didn’t understand
but would get on a not-to-distant day.

Where I Found You

Where I Found You

I found you in the river,
which is strange because
I normally avoid rivers
and oceans and ponds.

Give me earth, mountains,
terrain, dirt, grass, and trees.
Water everywhere be damned–
our lives are miserable enough.

You were floating face down
and I thought you were dead,
but you stirred, your hair
dripping blood as you rose

from what should have been
a watery grave, and I took you
to my house, where I taught you
about everything terrestrial.

Trying to Sleep in Dying Town

Trying to Sleep in Dying Town

Do you have spare change for the death toll?
asks the man, dressed in drab, offering
a smiles of knives, making me rethink
my decision to bed down in Dying Town.

Shaking, I fumbled through my coin purse—
a rare item, passed down by my avuncular
grandfather, that lion of perdition, that boaster
of threats made good in a whip-tide of battered
promises and green sails infused with his tidal breath—

and produced some blood-tinged money,
smudged with countless fingerprints, warm
from ghost transactions and pocket love,
coming to me through a brain chain of events.

Here, I said and flipped a quarter and nickel
to the man who caught both with a wrist snap,
the air around his hands charged and smoky,
reminding us both that his time was short,
bringing to mind my own looping heartbeat.