crystal of ecstasy,
coated in sweetness—
rock of Molly,
I taste your Venus—
then every thread
within my mind,
at once lights up
a starry night—
god—
going down,
it gets me high.
Tag: writing
-
Have you ever shut off
for years,
then had a reckoning where all that was forgotten
erupts
to the surface?
Have you ever shut off,
only to be set off
by a few words, maybe offhanded,
but cracking the ice on which you walked? and you fall, fall, fall,
into the cold, into the deep?
I hadn’t known these depths still existed. I’d gone so cold that the lake froze over. I forgot I walked on ice. I forgot a little bit of warmth would be peril. I forgot I could melt.
Remember: you can go cold for a time, but the Sun returns.
There’s no such thing
as an endless winter.
Be prepared for those waters,
that ice will melt.
-
there is no greater hunger
than the hunger for love.
and how do i know?
when i became convinced
that thinness
meant beauty
and beauty
meant love,
how quickly
did i shut my mouth,
hoping
my heart would fill.
it was as if
i could only pick one:
a full heart
or a full stomach.
…
we’d sooner starve for food than for love.
-
Writing,
It is the ultimate act of surrender. Every letter is a brick removed from the barricade around my heart. The Sun pours in more and more with the exposition of my very soul. Nobody tells you this fact about hiding yourself: the Sun cannot reach you from behind those walls.
Yes, the more I let myself be known, the more Sunlight poured in to my soul.
-
writing:
it’s putting your heart beat
on paper.
writing:
it’s exhibition.
the reader’s eyes
rove
over what’s private.
you reader,
you voyeur—
vicariously freed,
and I’m shamelessly me.
my heart: a lock.
my pen? the key.
-
drowning
in an ocean of want
desire
is a maelstrom—
it grabs my ankle.
down, down, down we go,
down, down, down to the bottom.
i found you there
in the abyss
those murky spots of shame
at the ocean’s floor.
here,
our scarlet letters
catch no light.
and here,
our wrongs
turn right.
here. in the shadows.
you alone were my Sun in the pit.
-
sometimes poetry is freedom
sometimes it is barbed wire.
sometimes it is liberation
sometimes it is ruin.
sometimes it is truth,
often falsehood.
sometimes it is truth
wrapped in falsehood,
sometimes falsehood
wrapped in truth.
who is to say which?
sometimes
it’s like taking what’s ugly
and making it clean.
sometimes
it’s like taking what’s gorgeous
and making it weep.
sometimes
i lay myself
naked
on paper.
sometimes,
i hide myself
in glamour.
every poem I’ve ever written
that wasn’t about desire
is false.
that’s all i know.
-
Mountains tremble
at her name.
planets shudder.
the stars
wink out
for fear of being seen.
she holds
a thousand Suns
in the palm of her hand.
she is the void
behind the void,
she is the darkness
carrying
the darkness.
who
comes for the reaper
when it’s his time?
it is her.
it’s she
who awaits
when death himself
dies.
-
don’t you know
my cradle was a coffin,
my beginning
the end?
and don’t you know
my sunrise
was a sunset,
that i was baptized
in the Styx?
don’t you know
the stars winked out
when my heart
began its beating?
and don’t you know
how many bled
to feed the babe
naked, nursing?
a bottle filled
with ruby red—
how many left
drained, bleeding?
so, i ask you:
can a vampire
learn to love?
can i kiss your neck
without sinking
my teeth?
and if you lay your head
on my chest
but hear not a heartbeat,
tell me:
will you run?
please, tell me:
can a vampire love?
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 