you mustn’t ever love
something without claws,
you mustn’t ever love
what cannot bite.
a hand that feeds
should be ready
to bleed.
there’s no such thing
as love
that draws no blood.
only shut mouths
do not bite —
only in silence
are edges smoothed.
honesty: it is serrated.
love too.
there is no other way.
so simple.
your kiss is a needle:
my mind is a bubble,
inflated. inflated.
inflated
with nonsense, fodder.
pop:
silence.
bliss.
stole the air right out of me.
you branded the inside of my heart
can’t shake the feeling
that anyone I let in
sees you there.
your initials scarred,
emblazoned
on my chest.
you softened my heart,
then shaped the clay
with your hands.
into the crucible:
our flame scorched me into ceramic.
then,
you dropped me.
still am i here,
bloodied knees,
picking up the scattered pieces
of myself.
i wear you:
lesions on the brain,
burns on the heart,
scars on my knees.
i wear you.
lips like razors
tease my neck:
my head tilts back.
from the moment
my eyes first met yours,
i knew i’d bleed for you.
your eyes
pierced me plenty,
stripped bare
in your gaze.
but you hide
behind the drawn curtains
of your soul’s windows.
unreadable.
unreachable.
how unfair.
the promiscuous psyche:
laid bare
for anyone who’d look.
there’s a certain freedom
in saying “to hell with modesty,
to hell
with emotional chastity.”
i don’t think life is exhausting,
i think lying is.
these two things have become
ink splotches,
their vines bleeding into one another,
their tendrils tangled.
our prudish hearts—
their binding.
you alone
hold the shears
you alone
will cut that ribbon.
your ribs,
cell bars—
are we not all born
with caged hearts?
freedom:
a decision.
the crab crawls
from its shell.
exposed.
but there is no sweeter taste
than the kiss of saltwater
on your back.
your pain grows wings,
it evaporates with the water
into the blazing sun:
angels to the heavens.
you’re made clean.
you don’t
write poetry:
you go and soak yourself in the elements,
and then let them write through you.
you don’t
write poetry:
you go and soak yourself up
in as much love and hatred
in as much medicine and poison
as possible
and then bleed them onto paper.
you don’t write poetry,
you don’t move souls,
you don’t inspire,
you don’t make
anyone
feel.
you first
are moved;
you first
are inspired;
you first
feel
with all that you are;
and then,
you lay yourself
bare
on paper.
you don’t write poetry.
I’m sick of being sick
tired of being tired
anguished by anguish
burdened by burdens
fed up with this emptiness.
i pray to god
for something real,
yet i don a mask.
how many candles
have i blown
how many pennies
have i thrown
wishing for love
in a heart
that’s closed?
i plead,
i beg,
to eat,
be fed
…
but i purse
my lips.
don’t
do that
don’t
look at me like that.
don’t
make me hope.
nothing
more cruel.
i won’t
let you in,
though the warmth
in that gaze
threatens to melt
the ice on my heart.
things
that i love,
they tend
to hurt me.
i fail
to see the barbs
till I’m
in their arms.
..
i saw
the garden
from afar:
lush. green. alive.
you
welcomed me in.
as soon as i stepped foot,
green
became black.
all
that was alive
wilted.
what was gold, in my hand,
became ash.
stay away
i signed my life away
when i met
your gaze
one blink:
never the same.
i have a special affinity
with dead things.
they understand me,
i understand them.
there was a time
when i
was alive.
i dislike
thinking about it.
remembering:
it’s like
the past’s warmth
seeps through the now’s
cracks,
like god’s knife
cut a gash
through the dark.
it bleeds light.
it burns my eyes.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 