I’m alright.

Don‘t spend your nights

crying for what I was—

who I have become.

See me as I am,

Know the light you ignited,

The burning blue hot fire in my core—

It hasn’t gone out.

I am only myself,

A little lost in this life I chose.

(I’m sorry you know; a soul so young should never be so poisoned—

But here I stand, a little cyanide in my veins, arsenic in my stomach.)

I wish I was a bird,

oh, to be so

untethered and free—

I wish I could live;

Every little life,

Know every little thing, like you.

Oh, Mother;

How I wish I could make you know;

I’m alright.

#poetry

I pray to Norma Jean and Vickie Lynn.

They knew what it means to be a girl.

Dye your hair white blonde,

Put on some eyeliner and

Pretty red lips—

Fix your nose,

Don’t get fat—

You’ve got a tear in your hose.

Dead blondes;

With immortal beauty.

What is the color of you?

Is it the hot azure of dusty late June?

I have known it in the clear amber brown of hard liquor.

I have seen it in the sick purple blue of a bruise.

Is it the pink new of a sunrise,

Come to early—or too late?

The grey of a cat, 

Seen in the mornings.

The whites of your eyes when you look away.

Sometimes I ache so much,

My legs could shatter into pieces

My bones like so many roots,

Try to crack through-

To pull me deep into the soil and clay,

To meet her, the

Ever hungry, eternal Mother below.

Where She would cull

What She has grown with such

Precision and indifference.

I am alive, it seems.

A little life, 16 hours to carry on,

Each day.

What do I do?

Pluck a stray brow hair in

The bathroom mirror,

Toss a jacket onto the chair,

A million mundane activities, that disappear like air.

Lives begin and end again,

Again.

Sometimes I can feel the universe--

Quivering and rippling through me in great, thunderous waves. 

I am terrified.

I am elated. 

I feel every thing.

Every butterfly wing.

Every bee sting.

Every hot night spent waiting.

I am tired.

Kneeling in the grass,

Hair bath water wet.

I hear the rain but;

It has not come to me yet.

Ripped apart birthday cake.

Screaming,

At the top of my lungs

Because hurt like this--

Is blissful.

I can feel a little scream climb into my throat--

A little leap of adrenaline, 

When the abyss stares back at me.

But I am silent. 

I bow my head, and smile at passers by.

With the tides I move,

Pulled in by your strange gravity.

A moon that

Hangs in the sky seeming—

Despite all your luminance,

All your celestial seas,

So cold.

Bring yourself close to me—

Like it was in the beginning—

And I’ll dance wildly.

My waves lapping on the shores

Faster and faster,

To the rhythm of some animal

Skin drum,

This dance, I knew it eons ago.

It beats with the breath of

The entire universe.

Slowly.

I am not the tide. I am the ocean.

Vast and savage, drowning hell.

The chaos of creation boils

From my black depths,

Your gaze will not reach me there.

I am innocent, unknown,

Black as the Mariana, where

my gravity kills.

Your white cold stare, I can feel it.

Pale and pure as moonbeams.

The way your lust transforms your face,

And you watch me with eyes like

Faint blue planets, vacant.

From your great vacuum, suspended.

I must seem a strange and

Disturbing thing.

Touch me—

I am for show;

My body is not mine.

Touch me—

And I will be beautiful;

As if I was made for you.

Touch me—

And the lines that separate

I from you are blurred.

Touch me—

I might look more beautiful,

Blurred and pale from your rough hands.

Touch me—

And I am faded,

The charcoal that makes my

Supernal curvature is smeared.

Touch me—

And I am an apparition of myself;

Barely there at all,

Save for the place where your hand meets the paper. 

Touch me—

And look what you have done.

I am non existent.

You have made me part of you,

I am only the charcoal on your fingers. 

Touch me—

I am for show;

My body has never been mine. 

Touch me, so I can disappear.

I am afraid.

Of what will become of Me,

Of everything.

A collection of experience,

Of history.

Intangible as gossamer 

And sunlight.

Eternity doesn’t suit me.

Every thing has its end—

Like it’s beginning, uncertain 

And precarious.

A new foal, an old horse.

A generation lost, a new one emerges.

I am afraid of the

Abyss that could await,

A bleak stare into the unknowable.

A universe, of fire and of dust, 

Seemingly indifferent to us.

I ask the Earth, the Universe,

Why She made Me so.

And She does not reply,

I’ve never liked the unknown.

But how would the Universe

Know herself, with all Her 

Power and Her Creativity,

If not for a bystander?

And so, 

out of the fire and the emptiness,

We came,

Perhaps to Witness.

Always watching,

Never to know.

#poetry #unknown

Though the world was red with wars, 

Though the trees were black with soot and grime,

Though too many things were wrong,

She smiled.

Light burst forth in the form of a moon that took up the blue-black sky.

Her lips kept going, to the back of her head and further, until it broke in two, hanging by a hinge like a jewelry box.

She was split in two uneven parts.

From the abyss that was her mind,

Came a single rose.

It opened to the full moon like the roses that are not of dreams, that sit dully in gardens.

But it was many-colored, and it was beautiful.

From the abyss that was her body, 

came her soul.

It pulled itself out by hands that were gossamer.

But it was many-colored, and it was beautiful.

It rose out of the old shell, as if by winds unfelt by flesh.

It was not an It, but a She.

And She who was the innermost part of Her, plucked the rose that was her mind.

She kissed it with her perfect lips that were not lips,

And it burst.

The old body crumpled, discarded and worthless on the lush grass that had sprouted 'neath the feet of this new being.

She kissed it as well, and it became a birch tree.

Thus, the She that was the inner most part of Her stood on her perfect toes that were not toes, and declared that all should smile this same smile, and free their perfectness from theirselves.

#poetry #prose

I might be dying,

Slowly, like a daffodil.

I am wilting and

crumbling onto 

myself, shrinking in to a

cold dormancy.

I am unsure if

I will out last the frigid

Winter of my youth. 

#poetry