poetry

rage and love, wings and claws

you’ve always been able to hear words to see them, picture them behind closed eyelids but i can taste the syllables and feel the letters, their thorns and petals                           trace my hands over them like they were the notches in your spine

you could look at me and say “coffee” and it would taste like burnt Folgers and mountain air                                                                                                                                                 and salt running down my cheeks

it would feel like running my fingers over the rocks on the edge of the river i was raised in                                                                                                                                                              it would feel like getting splinters on the bottom of my feet from sitting on nostalgic wooden porches

you say “coffee” like a cacophony of broken memories and i can feel the vibrations in my bones

i can run my thumb over the people i’ve learned, the people i’ve been. their stories bend open like they were a book and i was prying apart the spine.

you can say “grief” and mine will be unparalleled to yours. they’ll have the same meaning, same consonants, same iambic pentameter                                                                   but yours tastes like honey and mine is whiskey that burns the back of our throats

it tastes like i cut myself on the crown of thorns over my head, on my fingers, on my wrists
(blood drips over a sacrilegious cupid’s bow, my knuckles are stained red)
it tastes like forgive me, forgive me, forgive me
it tastes like the smell of gunpowder wrapped around a cerebral lobe. the cracks in my ribs were born from recoil and haphazardly decided soulmates. (there are crystals forming where my heart used to be)
it feels like bruised kneecaps from falling

to

the

floor when you watch a heartbeat for the last time

now, it feels like tires screeching on 2 am pavement and the sting of a tattoo needle,       (if you look close enough, you can see blood and ink collide in the water, a war that’s been raging for years)
it feels like a muscle reflex, a flick of a finger, anger blooming where love used to be

it feels like a point between awake and asleep; smoke curled up around tired eyelids and electricity humming inside veins                                                                                                 now i’m an electric lover; the lightening and then the thunder

when you say “home” i can taste the saltwater and the rain                                                        i can feel pavement under my body, a beacon to the lonely and the restless; home is a fluid place with the consistency of syrup

Standard
poetry

But you, Oh God

You cannot raise a child with spell-books tucked under her arms or superstition carved into her skull and expect her to not wear her pride on her skin. You cannot show her the wilderness inside her and not want her to grow wings. You watched her, with dirt under her fingernails, blood coating her knuckles, as she found magic; you stoked the love inside her until it burnt her to nothing. Now she is here, a cacophony of the people who rebuilt her, a dragon among the men. She has been to the cathedral and learned the words in Latin. She engraved them on her heart and when they rejected her, she found a different god. She wears a crown of thorns and destroys herself so that her flesh can match her blood. You made her, you made her, she made herself the ravens scream at night. You gave her a name that meant “light bringer, light carrier” and forgot that mythology has bestowed those creatures of death the same burden. You gave her compassion and a need for solitude; you raised a wolf in place of a girl. When she laid her soul bare on her skin, you wept for the innocence lost and she wept because it was finally unerringly visible. She is part of the cycle, the thread that runs through the circle of time. The day she was born was a day that signified the end, the beginning, and all the other pieces thrown haphazardly in the dark. Shards of the people before landed on ribs in a way that turned her into a weapon. You tried to contain her in one universe and found that she cannot be restricted to a single space.

She grew up learning tarot cards as an extension of herself. The moon and the carnivores are her companions. She hurdled over her fear of the dark, embracing it in scarred arms. She became a book witch, a bone witch, a water witch. She changed her hair, her blood, her voice. There’s a rage inside her that you wouldn’t believe, a love inside her like you couldn’t imagine. She learned that she felt everything all at once and that it was her ultimate undoing. She understood that it would destroy her, so she tried to destroy herself, instead. She loved so outstandingly hard, with such violent fervor, that she ripped holes in her chest that had to be sewn back together with ice and fire. The people she loved tried to take her wings and forgot she had claws. There’s a restlessness inside her that sings for home home home but she chose to be an ambassador of change – she has no home except herself. Her soul is a haunted house broken, broken, rebuilt. 

Grief and rage carry themselves like matches inside her veins. She turns to words, tries to create poetry, when nothing is left – when everything has been burnt away. She is a piece of stained glass, a religious experience gone wrong.

And when they told her that she would never be able to love someone until she loved herself,

she replied “Bullshit. I have never loved myself. But him, Oh God, I loved him so much I forgot what hating myself felt like”

 

raven tattootarot fingersz 1tarot fingersz 2

 

Standard
personal, poetry

Three Years Later 


Tomorrow will be 3 years since I lost you. Holy. Fucking. Shit. I don’t remember everything about you, and G O D how I wish I could remember everything, but I do remember how you wore your emotions like a second skin. I never had to guess what you were feeling, but maybe we were so close that we felt the same things. In the last three years, I have heard more “she was just your grandma”s or “some people have lost parents, don’t be so selfish”s than I can count. “Just” does not begin to describe what you were to me and I miss you like fucking hell. I miss you when I’m wedding planning, I miss you when I touch my shoulder, I miss you when I sit with Papa, I miss you when I hold Jay’s hand. I wear my anger so close to me now. I miss you every time I fall apart and pick my pieces back up again.  I know I’m supposed to forgive the universe or whoever-the-fuck took you, but I can’t and I won’t. I feel like I was one person, then you left, and I became someone else entirely. Honestly, I didn’t even know it was this late in February and maybe it explains why the last couple of weeks have felt like a sucker punch to the ribs. Grief has never left my side. He clings to me like a stray dog and instead of shooing him away, I let him guide me home. Somedays, I feel like you took up the space of the whole world – you were the sun and we were the planets orbiting around you. You ripped a hole in the galaxy when you left and I have not stopped bleeding stars since. You left in a puff of smoke and mint, collapsing the ecosystem in your wake. I don’t blame you (maybe a little, but those are moments when I am lacking much of myself) for taking my gravitational pull. Today was a solar eclipse in Pisces and I think that’s fitting for how I feel. You are, after all, the solar eclipse and I, the Pisces. I lack words for how badly I wish this astrological alignment would ease the pressure on my heart. You taught me about the stars and their placements in my soul. Do you remember rolling your eyes at Capricorns and scoffing at Geminis? Your death was an explosion and instead of absorbing the shock, I combusted, too.

 I miss your acceptance of me, I miss our friendship. I miss how you were the glue to all my pieces. I remember how you hated Johnny Cash and cussed about him in the car. You hated tattoos and rock music and yet you loved me. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. 

God damn, me. 

Standard
poetry

a poem for introverts

img_2078

 

you may think that an introvert is fragile by nature; that one more word spoken at a high volume may be our breaking point (yes, that’s true – but its less like a twig snapping and more like waves crashing upon the shore)

our voices are small but our hearts are heavy. we are the vessels of forgotten lyrics and poetry left behind. we are the kings and queens of wit and sarcasm – a clever remark hiding under a thick sweater or a book pressed against a breastbone.

come to us with meaningless conversation and we will reply with a question that you wont be able to answer. we have a thousand eclectic hobbies and don’t have time to talk unless you want to help us better ourselves.

introversion is akin to knowing the storm inside us like a worn away t-shirt. its the lifestyle that encompasses settling for nothing less than kindred spirits and our most beloved stories.

its falling in love with people that live in a different world, your best friends are characters from a favorite childhood book. your fondest memories are of cracking fires and solitude.

you can find us in the bare tree limbs that hold up families of crows in the winter months; you can  find us in epitaphs and on the bottoms of coffee-stained mugs

we are frequent hosts of one-man dance parties and masquerade balls held in silence. we are the 3 am writers, the moments between sunset and darkness.

subtly is an art and we have mastered it. an introvert is a snow flurry, the moments before the first breath of autumn, an opened window in the middle of spring.

an introvert is the book shelf in a coffee shop, the corner of an antique store that is rarely visited but dearly loved. you underestimate the power that runs under our skin; we have electricity in our fingertips and rivers in our bones.

an introvert will love you so hard that it leaves bruises in your soul. an introvert is the means to an end, the princess who doesn’t need saving and the knight who doesn’t need an order from the king.

 

Standard
poetry, Uncategorized

date a girl who loves the cold

Here is a short essay – poem I wrote spontaneously during my forensic anthropology class (i know, I KNOW). If you haven’t read the poem that this is modeled after go read it now. Here is the link so you have no excuse to not read it. It’s glorious and I want it as a tattoo.

Mine is much shorter, but I hope its enjoyable – nonetheless.

Without further hesitation, here is – date a girl who loves the cold 

“Date a girl who loves the cold

Her whole life is spent waiting in anticipation for endings

A girl who loves the cold understands that the finality of things is not permanent and that patience is ultimately the most important card to play

Like sitting in the window sill during a snowstorm, she can endure long lengths of fragile silences and cold shoulders

 

Date a girl who loves the cold

She will have a perfect remedy for a variety of ailments; she will tell you to drink peppermint tea to soothe a broken heart

To a girl that loves the cold, a warm bath with lavender is the cure-all and you will end up surrounded in bubbles on long days, good days, awful days, cold days, warm days

She has spent her life soaking her bones in sadness and learning to live alongside herself and only herself

 

Date a girl who loves the cold

You will be introduced to oddities and strange collections; she will have crystals in the corner of her home and bones she has collected on walks in the snow

She will cry over the characters from her books and you will realize that if you don’t read her favorites, it will be like ignoring a piece of her soul

She will have thrift store coffee cups and seashells from December afternoons spent away from home

 

Date a girl who loves the cold

When the first Autumn wind blows through the bedroom window, she will come alive

She will take you on trips to pumpkin patches, forests, and cemeteries with stars in her eyes; you will visit the ocean in November instead of July

Halloween and Christmas will be sacred in her home and you will learn to love the duality of ghost stories and stockings

 

Date a girl who loves the cold because she will understand the darkest parts of you and love them anyway

She will encourage you to enjoy the overlooked aspects of life, to stop and see the significance of a snowflake

She will be a storm of shattered glass and broken chords, a moment of truth and blistering honesty in a world that lies under the falsehood of instant gratification; she will uproot the person you thought you were, she will make you show the colors under your skin

Date a girl a who loves the cold, she will show you several different women within a year and you will wonder why a queen is without her crown”

 

Stay tuned for my next post, if you want me to write about anything specific – let me know in the comments. 

Happy full moon in Gemini,

The Book Witch

Standard