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Literature
i haven't forgotten
tell me, boy
who is your god.
do not say it
is the limbs
that spread you
between knowing
and comfort;
do not tell me it is
hands wrapping a head
board, nor a mouth
tugging your name
for salvation.
i want to know who it is
that makes you lucent,
bent beneath the dark,
weeping,
because there is no divinity
like the one that makes
you bleed
Literature
Bones mend, but tell no lies.
You have cataloged your scars
like your body is a library-
to be read through &
learned from.
You think of
all the little boys
whose greedy fingers
graced
your pages.
You are angry-
none
cared for you
properly:
folding
creasing
& breaking
your spine.
They left you
on a shelf
to gather dust.
& why
should you ever
forget that?
Literature
what we're not supposed to talk about
I could make a story out of
this. The blackout epiphanies
blinding me like a total eclipse
of any sense of rationality I ever
stole out from my parents' blind spots
when they turned the other way. The
boy I fell half in love with and
my therapist's unassuming questions
about why he was different, the way I
was never beautiful to him but he
still looked me in my bokeh eyes,
betraying and quiet, so that was enough.
My vain addiction to anything
permanently damaging and
more or less glamorous. The dreams
I can’t swallow no matter what shade
of delusion they come in, about
the imminent death of stars named
after deader lovers, and place
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okay so that movie killed me.
For DA-Poetics Free Verse Contest
cut out: (in conclusion, you hypnotized
insomnia just for me)
© 2013 - 2024 nosedivve
