Nonsense of Self

I don't know you
but you call to me from the past.

You call to me through the voices of others,
who met you, who knew you, who told you to die.

Your face was once mine and your heart is another,
You are the sister I ate but never became stronger.

And once you were born I crawl back in my egg,
and dissolve inside the membrane, as I trampled your brain.

I don't know you
but you call to me from the past.

Perhaps, if you'd stayed
you'd be someone better, stronger.

Someone proud of yourself and willing to live longer.

But at their behest we consumed one another,
and now, what remains, is the lesser. The somber.

I might remember you,
when I call to you from the future.

When I squeeze my neck and allow my veins to rupture.

And I see your memories in my head,
yet your feelings I cannot comprehend.

Were you brave alone or were we?
Were we bound to die from the start?

And you love me as much as I hate you,
and she loves you and through me she remembers you.

When you chose to die you made me replace you,
but I should never have been, from the start.

You are dead and I am alive,
but I wish I could kill you and bring you back to life.

Just A Little More

Just a little more.

The further I climb

the closer I am to the floor.

Since my previous previous life

I've been looking to meet you.

I've tried endlessly to find you,

but you are always where I cannot reach you.

As the timepieces tick on she asked me:

"Don't you feel like you are wasting your time?"

I always do,

but no matter what

I cannot figure out how to stop.

Since my previous previous life,

I've run my fastest to catch you-

Until the mirror can hatch, true,

I will never be able to touch you.

The longer I walk

the closer I am to arriving at the start.

To being away from you.

I cannot hold what I've seen in the kaleidoscope,

I'll run in the same circle,

as you move around and around,

I hope one day we will collide.

We are rotating

forever

means just a little more.

The Snake

I want to shed my skin,
and sing under a murky light.

To bear out a shameless sin,
to scream with all my might.

I want to scream,
in a language I do not understand.

For I have no mind for words,
just the desire to stand.

But I have no power,
inside myself.

I have grown bland and meek,
left my will high up upon the shelf.

No fire, no drive, no dream.
Merely daydreaming, wishing.

For things I have yet to do,
for courage I may never find.

For a ledge to leap on to
a next, excited life.

Candy, I am

I am not food to be eaten.

I am not fun to be had.

I am not toy to be played with.

I am not rose to bloom, or fruit to be plucked ripe.

I am no exhibition, no marvel.

I am no time to be wasted.

and no prize to be deserved or champion to be deserving.

Am I perfume to be sweet,

or lemon causing grimace?

I am no chain to bind,

no prisoner to be bound.

Go yourself, 

as well, let me go.

Do not speak your words on my voice,

write yourself on my paper. 

No experiment to be classified,

Am I?

What,

I am.

We Bore Rats

We, born rats,

ran together between the gutters.

We bore rats

from the crannies between our guts.

Children born from a rabbit head

share not the blood of our brethren.

The others formed from feathers

know not joy or the sewer smell.

And ignored we spawn, still biting,

cognizant of the charred stars.

For the day we choose to drown the wards,

see our names written, signed upon their walls.

Their castles.

As we inherit all they've marred.

End of Night

I call for you

in the end of night.

When the oceans blur and animals cry.

Singing seaside songs you cannot avoid,

for they cradle and feed

the call of the void.

And I step to you; 1, 2, 3

swish, swirl, and swivel

towards that which you can't un-see.

For a ship-wreck embrace, I set free
three shutters of lightning
 into the sea.

Resurgent, reviving, the creatures below
crawl from the ocean,
your body in tow.

I call for you

nearing night's end.

When we sunk down deep, here, let's pretend.

Twin Scissors, Sister Blades

Mommy bore not one,

but two young baby blades.

Born were the scissor sisters,

After childbirth's cutting pains.

Right and soft and fierce,

Left and sharp and fast.

Sharp pairs of silver eyes,

and even sharper silver tongues.

Singing to the moonlight,

voices unsheathing, shrill the song.

They sang of the sea and swordfish,

and the taste of men's heart and bone.

Daddy raised not one,

but two young and dear cut-throats.

Rather than bonding scissors,

he forged each for their own.

From within the smithery,

a clanking clinking sound.

And out the fire-ate twin scissors,

paired blades drew he right out.

The Space Between My Vertebrae

My heart peeks through the crevices between my bones.

In this space between my vertebrae I've found where it belongs.

Who does the midnight bell toll for, I know it is not for me.

And I watch her ring from my window, to and fro and fro to thee.

And I kiss her in my mind,

fed up with the incessant cestrum night.

And I wonder if she would call for me,

If I climbed up the bell tower and wrung it free.

And as it calls it shakes my bones,

palpitating upon the glass church domes.

Glass Shoes

Your glass shoes reflect the light,

and they won't hold your body all through the night.

A nighttime's not ending any time soon,

they click and clack and call for the moon.

As you dance the shards push back your skin,

searching for the bones that hold you within.

You swish and glide and dive so steep,

but I still won't let you go to sleep.

The Snail

The vagrant dreams of going home.

He wants a place to call his own.

"A place where I can stay, where I belong."

You can always come back here,

but you know you can't stay forever.

They always told you you'd have to leave,

But you never knew what those words would sever.

"It is not easy to accept these transient times,

where I don't own anything inside my life."

A vagrant of privilege suddenly realizes,

that nothing was ever his, lies of gifts and prizes.

The vagrant's shell is a lease,

and he owns no agency over his insides.

Once you settle in your home, at last,

arrives the moment in which you're due to part.

From all I've been given I own nothing,

nothing except maybe the skin on my back.

Something.