Some Flowers Bloom Dead Don't tell anyone that I've died. Let it stay quiet, unheard, so no one will cry.
Keep quietus, our secret garden; deadhead my marigolds in silence; for I fear no evil glissading through the valley of death.
A pas de une in another world; my body still in our own.
Do not fret my love; beneath my skin, my marrow completes frenzied pirouettes and Behind you is my pitch iridescent picturesque silhouette.
Keep me your secret; let my loss hang on your lips, let my spirit take form and shift like clockwork machinations for my body shall undergo it's decaying transmutation--
I no longer belong here. I wonder if I'll ever belong anywhere?
Will I be gay amoung stars?
Perhaps, my heart will bloom on planet Mars; and maybe there, the war that pumps within my blood will disarm.
I cannot say.
Keep our secret, and bury me in blue. The death of me began with the loss of you. I will begin the unraveling of our decalcomania, and peel your imprints from my broken essence.
Don't tell anyone that I've died. Only then will I be alright. Say I never mattered,
and maybe, I'll survive.
Hedgehog's Dilemma and Other Dieties
Don’t get too close. You cannot hold me here In this closet; sealed tight with four walls. I will not kiss you or let you trail your fingers down my neck.
You cannot hold me;
Your love was not meant for me.
Love is a language that I am forming; It feels less foreign on my tongue; Your papillae begins to translate it for me. Times lost and broken, behind the doors we’ve hid behind.
Some days, I do not wish to speak. Or face the challenges of human intimacy.
The pinpricks of our hedgepig moments; leave bruises from biting my bronze tipped tongue,
Wishing my words could have some eloquence but instead we hurl words of consequence-for reasons we cannot avoid.
‘Neath the covers with our digits entwined
I say, I’m too warm for the blanket.
I hold in the shiver and you Pretend to not see me quiver
As the cold kisses my skin-tossed between two evils, Mutually assured destruction.
II. Foxes brush, devil's beard
You are Red Valerian.
The Spur Valerian often mistaken for true valerian which is a flower known for its non stop blooming ability and extreme drought-tolerance.
Its seeds were used in ancient embalming.
You blossom in every room you take root in And nightly you cost me my sleep.
Kiss-me-quick, tiny flower hermaphrodite, bloom us back to life.
Clytie followed Apollo into sky, chasing his rays as she ended in strife. Your aura is light enshrouded by mental clouds
I am always struggling to figure you out. Wanting to pollinate every one of your pondered clusters.
To find you I pollinated thousands of myself into a sunflower. And like Clytie, I sprouted towards your roil light.
Much like how Centranthus Ruber is mistaken for Valerian by botanists. I’ve never been good at astrology; Which is how I mistook you, at first, for Jupiter.
Funnily enough; it would not be the first time, I saw you by another name.
Saturn
is the most distant planet that can be seen with the naked eye. Millions of lightyears away, I can still make out your face.
They are adorned with thousands of icy halos, Infinitely circulating, oscillating around the Sun.
The planet Saturn and the day of the week, Saturday are both named after the incestuous God of generation, dissolution, plenty, and wealth.
Saturn the great god of agriculture, periodic renewal and liberation. Had relations with his sister; Opis And gorged himself with their children.
Perhaps you should feed me a stone, Or I shall swallow a planet to combat this Greed that lurks within me.
It assembles in secret, gathering in my throat Ripping my flesh to scratch at yours.
Give it to the Gods; To the cosmic beings that could free us from Splintering numbness cultivated by lying on this bed of needles.
Dig it under for Consus.
Let it burn beneath the earth.
Immolated vanity, decimate my egotism to Chthonic deities of plenty to sow within your abundance. Constrain me to your frosted nimbus, Jupiter. The way you enchained Chronos to distant stars. Turn back time to past our umbrage and bitterness. And bound me bleeding to your seedling galaxies to
Love me as you are.
Song of Solomon
I am iridescence; I am-the transient soap bubbles while washing the dishes, Arke's ailerons and butterfly wings. Passionate opalescence burning underneath skin tempering black fire.
I am--
Iris Carrying the Water of the River Styx to Olympus for the Gods to Swear By and seashells reflecting the sky.
He calls me, Black.
My colors, he presumes, are hiding behind the absence of light, behind words he thinks are not my own.
He calls me, Black.
And I answer;
I can be Black; adapt and change form in darkness, seven shades of spectral saturation startled spirit; stunning, striking-stunted.
Black dirt fostering rebirth from scorched earth pitch fire burning in my black throat from holding back these jagged obsidian thoughts.
I can be the shadowed twilight on a cloudless night with no stars left and no moonlight; the dark expanse as you fear to shut your eyes.
Yes; I can wear Black as my disguise.
But to presume Black, to be my only color would be unwise.
We are all mirrored mosaics of our beloveds; whether in spirit or in blood; refracting sunshine beneath our skin and it is love.
Garinagu labarum; sun thwacking down on ivory drum skins and kicked dirt from blackened dancing feet.
My mother truly dances at every party; my black does not join her within the punta circle and the drums rhythmic tattoo.
Instead, I call upon my ancestors, alone in my room endeavoring to mimic my mother's moves-hoping the heritage upon my hip does not resemble costume.
Mommy says, 'I can book punta classes for you.' And She's thinking of me; me; the girl who can't dance tradition, even when I try, who yearns to dance by her mother's side
Away from the clamouring complimentary collegiality; it is not difficult to recognize my heartbeat as three,
My mother, my brother and me.
Here; is where my iridescence gleams; you see; my black is not ever alone.
And its light belongs to We.
So this pensive mind; I say is no flaw. Without it I could not call me, we or me, at all.
Would you allow sentiments this sacred to be used so quickly and underestimated?
I am--
kaleidoscopic petroleum prismatic pragmatism; Chronic chromatic nihilism and over optimism.
Black Goniochromism; unshackled from an achromatic prison.
Behar Snow
The beating of my heart in the dark would pound against my ribcage as the flutter of dead roses shudder onto my dresser reminding me of my ex lover at 3:30 am.
What made me like this?
An insomniac who keeps bullets between her teeth, spills words of venom yet aching for someone to administer the antidote into the veins underneath. my skin whimpers for reprieve.
I’ll sing her quiet lullabies, though I know it won’t help her sleep,
I’ve been burning. I turned my fingertips into razorblades to expel you from beneath my skin, to somehow cast out the fragments that you left within me So, that I do not miss you.
I do not miss you. I carved out the pieces of me that had craved you And saved the one that once belonged to you.
If you rip me open, you’ll find the hidden nebulas of my heart pulsing cosmic blood, oscillating around the sun of my universe.
I did not think it was possible to love like this;
Sometimes loving you is like burning hearts into my skin, Through all seven layers of cauterized sin. Burned straight to the bone--
A scorch right through my soul.
Heart-set ablaze everytime you say name. Who am I to you?
Sometimes loving you, doesn't feel fair, or like love at all.
It is--
punching through
mirrors so the reflection won't look back.
Scissorsed knuckles and glass rammed arms.
I wonder, Is loving me just as hard? Do you wonder about me at all?
Sometimes, Loving you feels like alone; like empty car talks on the phone.
Always in reach but never home.
Loving you is hugging a ghost, and never wanting to let go.
Can you blame me?
For the marks on my skin.
Will you shame me?
For the person I've been.
Please just hold me. Please let me in.
I'm so sorry,
That I love like this.
I have not bought a doorknob. Or accepted that you will not do it for me And this is not the movie where the guy still got the girl though the more I think about it I was chasing the guy.
I have not bought a doorknob, my friends watch me through the hole where you were going to put it
It stares at me all night in the bed you helped me build the bed where you held me though you liked it more when I held you.
I have not bought a doorknob my friends offer to buy it for me but I refuse so I wont lose the hope that I don't have to do it alone my heart breaks at the sound of your silence
I have not bought a doorknob Because I am too scared to close my door To be trapped in the walls that you've built around me and suffocate in you.
I have not bought a doorknob because I still love you.
Familiar
This movement is too familiar; looking into your eyes. They are beautiful— Mama said; there is no beauty without a little pain.
But this, is more than pain; it’s regret— for the color of your skin.
Regret— this pigmented sin; with your nigga lips, whore voice and hips
This movement is too familiar and I; cannot meet your eyes.
body count.
"What's your body count, girl?" he asks, licking his lips; ready, for the answer to slide in like fingers in a young girls’ pants.
The question as always, stops my heart and sinks deeper than a mother's dread.
His hands are tight on my throat, keeping the answer buried within.
The number burned into my heart like sin. "How many people have you fucked?" the question is laced, like a drink, with cruel intentions and dark motives. There is no right answer. The true answer is “too many;” and none will scare him off.
My pants have fallen.
His shirt is still on. He fucks me dirty; with the lights turned off. "Does this feel good?" he asks, the dead girl in his arms.
Baby girl don't answer— just kiss him in response.
"Damn girl, you suck dick just like a porn star."
Say thank you, Baby girl— That's how you’ve learned to live this fucking long.
"Baby girl, what's your body count?"
He wants to know how many me have possessed me before.
I stare at my underwear there— on the floor. He finishes.
And walks out the door.
Tia's House
Tia’s house; was on the South side of Miami. Where gunshots and fireworks both sound the same. Pero, si tu quieres comida rica, her kitchen’s where you go. she’ll embrace you and say it like so:
“welcome, welcome,” and her round hands have grasped yours.
“todo mundo aqui son familia.”
“las cervezas son fria, mija,” they slide like giggles down your throat
“Who you are does not matter here; because this too can be your home.”
Y la musica se mueve through you como un espirito possessed.
Let go mama, let it loose. Send the kids upstairs— and you do you.
Venga, my friend, to tia’s house; here we can drink and play.
4,118
For The National Center of Truth and Reconciliation
On the edges of highways, countryside’s and meadows, the yarrow plant grows.
Hear— their whispers in the wind, under the clashes of gallant swords.
Hear— their frightful lullaby sung from shallow graves; left with no headstone.
Here— the yarrow plant grows.
the foreboding its bunches have told.
On the battlefield— near my home; are red petals on fresh snow.
imagine.
I text you "im in the shower" and wonder what you imagine; do you picture the suds that runs down my fingertips the slow path of soap sliding down the curves of my hips? Or, me down on my knees?
I wonder, sometimes; if you can imagine the things I could do in the shower.
Imagine, all dressed up; nowhere to go. Red lipstick; smeared across lips that have brushed up against so many of the same.
Blue eyeliner rimmed around her gaze.
Don’t you love it when I look at you like that?
Fingers and zippers; running down arched backs, dripping closer, skin to skin to sweat.
Tell me; would you like that?
I heard his voice in a video I cried for half an hour. Until my throat could no longer give me air.
As I laid and could not breathe; I could hear his voice repeat— sick words that have embedded themselves into my skin.
Every compliment, a double-edged sword; to make me question my worth. Every word a command I don't dare defy.
"Wear your natural hair more, I like to have something to pull on.”
His hand pressed against my throat in the kitchen; "I bet you like this shit, don't you?”
Fingers in my mouth; “Always standing there just asking for it."
I want to ask; but his voice is no longer his own. I t becomes mine too. I do.
His voice became poison; inflicted even after he leaves. And he leaves; without word; and no words, feel empty. So, I face myself in the mirror
to hear his voice; one more time.
He does not call me beautiful; the pain he gave is a stain; I try for hours in the mirror to scrub the shame away.
I heard his voice on a video; one that I tried to make for him.
So, I could hear his voice; Not speak—
But sing the song he’d sometimes sing for me on my best friend's guitar.
But in the video, he doesn't play.
He demands I film it better, then forces me to go away.
ear Zach,
It’s hard to say I miss you.
Everything I’ve ever felt about you feels far away now.
I’ve learned that people have so many thoughts and emotions within them that we could never even begin to express. There are so many ways to make someone happy, and I never knew what those were for you.
I never knew what you thought of me or what you did with your friends. I didn’t know the things that would make you angry or the things that made you cry.
I knew nothing about you.
But, when I hear your name, I still feel that wave of pain. I see your face, and I feel like I’m caught in-between grief and those moments of innocent joy.
I miss you, and I never even knew you. We were just dumb kids, kissing behind the concrete gates underneath the Florida stars.
I remember you fumbling to unbutton my pants and wearing your jacket at night.
I remember moments. But I don’t remember you.
I can’t think of the words you said or how you said them. I just remember when we were alive.
The day I will never forget is the one that you died.
I still feel the never-ending sense of dread. It follows me everywhere; this uneasiness that will enshroud me for the rest of my life. This feeling that you live with when you lose a friend through suicide. That day will haunt me for the rest of my life. That morning; I wore your jacket. I planned to call you that night.
I wish I had sent that “Hey!” or I had just called an hour before. I wish I could say, ‘I miss you’ and we’d hang out to a lullaby of cicadas after the streetlights come on, we’d sneak beer and do dumb shit all night
I wish I knew what you were going through.
I wish you could say, “I miss you too.”
You are; settled into my heart, like the stones on the riverbend we saw when we were young
You are constant— yet ever changing.
Jagged heart has weathered to smoothed stone.
Yet, life still has not made you cold. Though snow has fallen on your surface. made your rushing river run slow. Those winter nights I won’t forget, your lips have made it so.
Moments that sprung suddenly; made words left unsaid. Lingering, moment of hesitation; burrows a hole— the words burn in my throat.
So, our love departs.
I rest my hands upon your chest— wrap my lips to gift you breath. Pleading,
that you may conquer Death.
heart of stone
You smile your smile; sins are ready to blossom on the bud of your kisses that you offer so readily to everyone —you see;
I have loved you, ached for you, yearned for you.
While you’ve agonized over your history; smiled with your devilish lips— flashing your teeth with held secrets, and casting judgment with your gilded gaze.
I reach for you; begging to rid the secrets hiding on your tongue as you slither into my arms; it feels like we are worlds apart
I have you here all that I have wanted.
But, this man feels like glass., like stone.
A hardened version of the boy you once were; a wounded version of the boy you once were.
You do not feel real anymore— I cradle you in my arms; wanting to breathe life into you, but it is not my place.
My breath is my own. I cannot own you too.
This castle made of glass and stone will erode
So, I will let you go; to build and break and build again — I will do the same.
I will not beg to be part of your life again
I saw a man on the subway who looked just like you.
He was older— but he had your eyes. Since you left, every stranger seems more familiar. I am searching for you, in the lines of every passing smile.
Every moment lingers longer;
Waiting, for you.
I saw a man on the subway who looked just like you.
Would he hold me like you did?
Would his right-hand strike sharper? or will it hit just the same?
Could his love be softer?
Or, will his hands wrap around my neck; trapping the ‘I love you’s’ in my throat once again?
I will no longer look for men like you.
innocent.
You’ll kiss a little girl on the lips.
You’ll say, “It’s nothing.”
I bet you’ll say,
“It’s innocent”
I know you’re thinking of a greater sin.
How does it feel?
You are the monster in her skin
