the damned

Down, down, down
By the river I cast
my shadow, my glance, my face

Wave, after wave, after wave
After every gallant peaceful wave
I see more smoke and pebbles
above my grave

But it doesn’t matter truthfully
what the heavens demand nor
what hell for me awaits

So long as I know
and I know only what we all know
that we are the damned
and damnation is only ours
to take.

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With all honesty, I am far more than the cushion of sanctuary you think me to be. I offer no comfort, no warmth. No illusion or sense of belonging. 

I am not a home for you to rest your worries on. I am not the remedy to your depravity. 

I am not your woman. I will never be. I refuse to love and be loved by weak men who want to possess all of me. 

You will always be hungry and I am not the kind who strives to satisfy. So find yourself another lady. One who was never wild.

Trim

First you erupt into flames in the middle of the room -spontaneously fluttering into a thousand flickering tongues of white hot anger- while everyone else around you goes on with their endless chatter of taxes and money and children and . . .

Second, you collapse into a heap of ash. Your blackened bones intact amidst the grey dust of your skin, the ghost of your hair and your smile vanishing without a trace. Unavoidably gone. You’d love to stay alive. Keep the blushy red of your cheeks lighting up the day of the ones you love most but perhaps..

Third, you think maybe the whole reason you are alive was never about pursuing your dreams. You recognize the hollow of your mouth, the promise less kiss of nothing more and more of nothingness. Collecting the rubble of your abandonment amidst the swirling mass of rotten regrets piling one on top of each other. Realizing, it was never for you but always for them and so maybe..

Fourth, you feel the buds of your daydreams land on your toes -all whithered and brown and crisp and old. Roots digging deeper and deeper into the hardened ground searching for more to hold and anything to contain. It’s okay. You’ll be fine. Terror is the way to live again. However, there is..

Fifth,you feel them stitch your eyelids smaller. Cutting the edge of your tongue, to protect the beating little berry that resides on paper cage of your chest. Thorns sprouting on your skin, poison oozing from your lashes. It’s okay. You’ll be fine. New flowers, new flowers. You should have more flowers, they said..

Sixth, your arms crack and tingle. They burn and they ache. But it is good, they said. It means you’re growing. In no time you’d be gigantic enough to be taken seriously. Perhaps the woodcutter would kiss your waist lovingly but..

Seventh, you blossom underneath the noon day sun. Flowers. Flowers. Flowers and fruits. You should drop them- all of them. Help the woodcutter prune you into one of them..

 

Her Excuse

“I knew I was different from them. Or maybe there was something wrong with me. Or maybe I was the only who admitted openly how fucked up everything really was. I don’t know, really. I had no idea.

Either way, I just copied them -how they react, how they do things. That way I would feel less alone. I thought I’d learn by trying to be like them. Know what I found? Nobody knows exactly what they’re doing. Can you imagine that? So I ran away. They disgust me, all of them. And since I was a cheap imitation. I was disgusted with myself too.”

Be wary of me

Be wary of me
Bare to me your soul and I’ll damn you for your sincerity
I am a far more better liar than I say myself to be.

Be wary of me
There are shadows underneath my limbs and cracks in between my fingerprints.
There are secrets I’ll refuse to tell in between icecream and story spills.

I’m unhealthy as they expect me to be.
I can’t promise you anything except hurting you.
For as much as I hurt me.

Be wary of me
I have a prison scratched deep in my lips and thorns stitched tight in my skin.
My love carries no beauty than than the tortured mind within.

Be wary of me
(as I am of you)

It’s funny isn’t it?

It’s funny isn’t it?

Or maybe the joke is only for me
that I suppose
the lids that had damned me continuously
will flutter to a close in a heartbeat
(or so perhaps someday
hopefully  when I’m safely tucked
to sleep) never to open, but only
to shadows pin-pricked in
champagne bliss.

Someday perhaps
parting flesh and dimples and moles
and droopy lashes and tacky lines and ghost
Fair pale turning ash, turning cold
turning stone and I’d have to dance
the rest of my gray-scale life
six feet above your cement grove.

Someday perhaps
My saints, my demons, my creaking bones.