Reality is beautiful. There’s dishes from the night in the sink, an ashtray on the kitchen counter, all evidences of two people who finally lived, instead of existing, after a long, long time, scattered all over the house. Your shirt comes down my knees, almost. I wear that to make breakfast, despite my own closet spilling clothes onto bedroom floor. Because your shirt is real. You stretch and follow me shirtless into the kitchen, even though your clothes are freshly washed and folded in your closet. Because skin, skin is real. We make breakfast, touching in one small way or another. We laugh. The cereal gets soggy. We really don’t care. Reality is beautiful.
I don’t mind the Devil
He lies, he spits venom
Drinks too much
Sometimes he sets my home on fire
But he’s honest, doing everything in his power to
Lead me astray
Still, we’re okay, the Devil and I
With him, I know where I stand
It’s a process, but
It’s these crooked halos I don’t understand
All the good people around me, whose rot I can smell
a page of reality away
What kind of God’s golden children are they
The purity doesn’t fit, their wings are all wrong
I read the Devil was an angel
It makes sense why he left
Even I can see that he didn’t belong
The Devil and I
Better the Devil we know… (very well).
What do you see?
Did you choose your paths
Was there method to madness,
Put the blindfold on
Or did you, because
You didn’t like mirrors
Eyeballs macerated and torn
All semblance of foresight ripped, gone
Senses leavened, realizations withdrawn
Did you make this, blind woman?
Is this of your hand?
Did you choose not to see
Where you stand?
Gouged sockets aren’t pretty but
Your delusions are uglier
And no, you bleeding fool,
Reality isn’t fair either
Ravines and crevices and cracks
Do not a face adorn
Go away, blind woman
Go, and put some make up on.
I found the image on tumblr. Really, what lies we tell…
I. Am. Not.
With those words, could I cease to be?
Would that taut thread we walk, between today and tomorrow
Tatter into nonentity?
Do the separate organs of body too rebel?
Do my muscles know when I tell
Stories, or do they just guide the words, unconcerned
Have I inked only paper? Or has my flesh
My tendons, my cartilage also
My stories learnt
Are my nuclei content to divide and multiply
While I lay here, staring at the ceiling in the dark
Do the cells in me that are reborn know what it is to die
Half new, half hastily repaired parts
My arm twitches, lying across my forehead
My chest heaves with unspeakable things
Can my alveoli taste the sour tang of fear too?
Or oblivious, they function imperturbably
They do not choke on inspiration, as I am wont to do
I. Am. Not.
Not after tonight
Oh, my body will still exist
My skin will wrinkle, my joints will creak
But this hollow left inside, I’d gambled for this
And I lost
My axons will revel
In their tallying synapses
What never has been can leave
But I’ll always know how much
Pink, velvet soft, blushing, misbegotten
Dirt stained, so many flowers lay
The sidewalks were carpeted, the
Alleys were filled
Rosy teardrops strewn
all over the world
For whom have these flowers blossomed?
To be thrown away,
what have they sinned?
Why did they grow, so painstakingly slow
To be this chagrined?
Were they for us? Did we forget
To witness their beauty, before age and neglect
Or am I seeing this the wrong way
– could it be
We owe it only to ourselves
Not for the world to see
It doesn’t matter who
turns away blindly
We all grow, so painstakingly slow
Alive, and warm, and dirt stained
And I bloom
Only for me?
‘Allo peeps. I’ve been away wayyy too long. Got some stuff sorted out, got some more sorting out to do- but I’m back! There’s a Cookie dispenser in ye corner, and a stack of poems over ye, and free hugs right here! ❤