two flames | poem

Woke up with your teeth
lodged in my shoulder and wondered if my aura
sticks to the roof of your mouth - azure wax spilling
down lips and organs, between
joints and nerves. My mind is a charred wick,
crumbling.
Woke up with flakes of ash
on my sleeve, exhausted from thinking
deeper than I can breathe. My body is wax, hardening
to your shape. But
when the flame falls, smoke spurts
like blood
and I crack.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Sleepy Ramblings Regarding Strange Habits of Mine

I had this realization recently that I've been walking through life on my tiptoes. Literally and figuratively. I thought it was only something I did when I was little, something that disappeared when I got older. But that didn't seem to be the case. Along with using an incredibly passive voice quite frequently ( ha ha ), I continued tip-toeing around the house and it completely escaped my notice until my mom pointed it out to me. Then it began bothering me. I began noticing other strange habits of mine... For instance: biting my lips till they're rather raw, bouncing my feet while sitting, chewing my nails in my sleep ( though that usually only happens when I'm super stressed )... There's probably more. And they annoy me to no avail. I made a plan recently ( or perhaps a feeble attempt ) to stop some/all of these ridiculous habits. Especially the tip toe thing. I'm going to start walking heel-toe again. And then I thought: you know what? I nee
Read more

Domenica | a poem

  Venice is paradise in summer: Lovers lay in gondolas under a lemon sun, sprawling on top of embroidered pillows and celestial dreams. Stress undresses itself on the boardwalk, leaving nothing but relaxed Venetians, who know better than to mask nature’s path. Domenica Rosa, you were there once, weren’t you? As a child, perhaps, exploring the damp stones with your violet eyes and young bones. And were you delighted? Or perhaps, like me, you kept your soul at home, safe and sound from wet ground and deep inside a catacomb carved by kitchen knives. Even so, Domenica, dear grandmother goddess of stars, stripes and pizzelles, listen to me. Hear my voice and embrace me again, for I must learn how to be as you once were: A mother weathered well for loving, a lover lost but never abandoned, a woman like Auntie Mame, with a tasteful tongue for storytelling, wrapped in nostalgia.
Read more

Desiderium

Desiderium - noun - an ardent longing, as for something lost. You know that feeling? That epic black hole in the pit of your stomach that's weighing you down, making you feel small and helpless and perhaps even abandoned? I know that feeling, in small doses like painfully bitter medicine, but I do.  It's not as sharp and clear as one would think it to be... It's more large and round and heavy and smooth, like a large stone one carries in their palm with a cooling sensation of hope. The longing, the yearning, pure desideria... It appears to be a part of life, that feeling. It comes and goes, with unimaginable amounts of other emotions and sensations that prickle the skin and knot the stomach.  What I feel right now isn't exactly the wild, oddly unknown desiderium, but the fear of it. What I feel is the fear of a child clinging so tightly to their innocence and precious thoughts and magical worlds, and the idea of losing all of it just seems so terrible. 
Read more