Cinnamon Tea

You say your lips are bleeding and you can’t tell why.

But there you go, you keep

Licking my heart up from the blade side.

You say you’re burning up, with feverish cheeks.

When your lips bear the stain of liquor,

And your tears crawl down my drain like rancid cinnamon tea.

You say your skin runs cold as the linens fall, unfold... 

But somehow you suppurate warmth, insistent, onto the mattress. 

And you cling to the knife, affection virulent, rife, uninvited.

Violent.

Then you blossom on my skin,

reddened, purple, crystalline. 

The songs won't play without glitching.

 I realized tonight:

That it is not wrong of me to be afraid,

That is it not wrong of me to be affected.

To think about you

To still think of you. 

To breathe heavy, to speak of my memories and feel

as shivers and shakes slowly crawl from within my bones.

I shall not be embarrassed, I mustn't.

Because it was not a simple heartbreak

for me to heal from quickly and forget,

it was horror, it was pain, your screams pulsating in my brain.

The desire to vomit out my heart and my guts,

to say goodbye to any piece of me that could feel,

is nothing of which I shall draw any shame.

And I needn't accept the blame.

I realized the guilt you paint on me is not my business.

You who cannot see the role you play in your own misery.

If I was so evil, why am I so afraid?

I realized the sting is not love but lightning.

The quick heart beat and the electric static, making my hair stand up on end.

I am not embarrassed to feel afraid even though I am stronger.

And the reason you hang around my mind is not any love but unfinished business,

the me in your arms is but a ghost of past days. Of you and I, all that remains

is the splintered bones and skin I've shed.

Love from Loxosceles

Your slender fingers weave the web

As the ring-tone rings I lie in bed.

Hostile whispers from the telephone,

When the key clicks the door, say:

Honey, I’m home.

A poem I do not remember,

A room that I cannot forget.

When I burn the papers they spill, under the bed

letters I have no memory of writing

whisper my name, songs laud and dread.

As they sing me to sleep, caress me,

their small grips force my head.

A heavy hand spins threads entwining, holding 

me down, I'm Gulliver.

When your call disrupts the telephone

Open your throat from the depths and roar

Your belligerent pleas of affection.

On your knees weeping the contradiction

of a lover feeding on prey's affliction.

 

A martyr preaching polluted prayers,

whose words of love are built like fetters.

Kiss my husk and bring it tender,

ever closer to the ember.

Somewhere you linger in seclusion.

Arachnid, languid, lilliputian.

From death-like stupor our lips turn blue.

Split apart your ribs and coo:

Darling, I Love You.

Midnight Dread

I feel an impending sense of doom.

Thin bottled pills won’t cull the gloom?

I wonder why I sprout this fright,

Blooming as the clock signals for night.

Beneath my skin I tremble, weak,

Yet my eyes won't seem to weep.

I know when I feel the call of dark

it's time to wait for the morning lark. 

Why does the clock strike at my heart,

the hands at ten and two tear me apart.

The hands at eleven and twelve pull me closer

to the edge of despair which I won't muster.

I feel an impending sense of doom

when it's time to quiet beneath the moon.

I rip at my face with determination

for blood and scabs whisper me absolution.

The Prince of Slumber

Tonight I call to you with music,

I want to see you in my dreams.

I want to tell you all the new things

I’ve learnt from plucking out your stings.

Tonight I summon you in hushed whispers,

Puzzle-piece you from memories,

To let you know how much I hate you

I want to see you in my dreams.

I have no memory of your voice now

But I still clearly hear your words.

I want to spit the truth back at you,

I want my tongue to cut like swords.

Tonight I’ll force you into my dreamscape,

I’ll wrestle you into my sleep.

So I can spill on you forgiveness.

So I can pull apart your seams.

I shall uproot that meek box garden

Where I was bound lifetimes ago.

I see the bars and taste the water

Of that grey room in summer's core.

Oh angel! how low you've fallen,

A bad dream calling from the depths.

I shall rename him Prince of Slumber.

Tonight I'll see you in my dreams.

The Gift of Sleep

Dear mother, father, 

I've grown tired

This world won't let me disappear.

When I was young I thought 

that I’d be dead by seventeen

But I kept following orders and now

Somehow I’m still here

It becomes increasingly difficult to follow orders

Because they want to convince themselves

That they’re good people, that “do what makes you happy” 

is the right thing to say, when even they don’t follow it themselves

You won’t just let me disappear

So tell me what you want from me! 

You want me to stick around, then give me orders

I’m sick of pretending I want to be here

There’s so much I love, people and things

That make me happy, but it’s not enough.

It’s not enough to justify another ten or fifty years

I don’t want it

They won’t just let me disappear

When I was young I thought that I’d be dead by seventeen

Now I’m twenty and I hope I’ll at least be dead by fifty

Please just let me disappear

How dare you call me selfish

When it was you who put me here

I don’t want to pay for someone to convince me

Please, fuck, just let me disappear.

You had no plan, why put me here?

If you love me, please, 

just let me disappear.

Orpheus et Hors d'Oeuvre

Entre séjours et hors d'oeuvre:

I wait for you to notice the direction.

I have grown attached to our routine,

I know you well and you well know me.

Lay your attention upon known fiend.

Entre séjours et plats principaux:

You peek at me between the chatter,

and I just hope I'll catch your eyes.

You then pretend you haven't noticed,

how the silver platter reflects your glance.

Entre séjours et le dessert:

Our tension holds the same polarity.

I am Orpheus, and you, my vice.

But you're no Eurydice, dear Cinderella.

I'll follow you into orchards dark.

Entre séjours et dire adieu:

Mischief awakes as the swan slumbers,

our card is lovers in this forgotten land.

I've walked this way a thousand times over.

A danse macabre or a pas de deux?

Ici il n'y a pas des dieux.