Passion Flower

poetry, depression, enlightenment, abuse, being used

because when your gaping petals expand
just to taste the blood of Christ
every velvet ant will find his way
to your core

because when you are born on the mouth of July
you are a sedative blue tongue
and they will come to extract
you from your veins

because your short life is meant to feed
caterpillars, it is impossible
to assume that you would be
collected in the fall
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He Came

poetry, abuse, verbal abuse, physical abuse, depression

he sleeps twisted inside of me
hands tight on my bruised lungs
if I had a voice
with him
it would slice my own tongue
and when he moves to awake
his easy turn on my hand
burns through everything I know

one slow thrust into my dignity
and I split in two
and I don’t know
which one is me

a cloud of black magic

poetry, mediation, enlightenment, spiritual awakening, self-transformation, awakening

this is where I sleep
each night
carpet crawling toward glass

my reflection sleeps fast
I
just
listen

broken words shift faster
than anxious eyes
my universe
is gone

and of course it’s beautiful

meditation-277889_1920

In here, out there nobody sees. Pomegranate seeds shred through my teeth and we accept it. He smiles and of course it’s beautiful.
A blood moon grows 10,000 times what it was, in here. Out there, nobody knows.
I count, up to seven minutes in Heaven and wonder, in here.
Out there, nobody waits.
Everybody talks.
Everybody spits venom in the eyes of people they love.

I love him for the birds, he just doesn’t belong in here. 
This desert is mine.
I sleep on cactus beds and wait….with time.
The sun is mine. I’ll keep it in a locket for those days that get dark, in here. Out there, nobody notices.

I smile. He smiles, and of course it’s beautiful.

12:53

12:28 a.m. 

One hope sleeps across the city. Dangerous ground calling me. I stay back, masked in the shadows. 

I gather moons to shed light on Him. Pathos gathers inside enough to swallow. He never asks. I cannot speak anyway.

“Collect my spirit in seven different sections,” to myself, I think. The moon never moves out of rhythm, yet here we are, water, ebbing against nature.

12:37 a.m. 

I’m still here. Same place, same time. I carry jazz in my hands, wishing for danger to come back. Make me afraid. 

He moves like molasses. He speaks in tongue and I pray for resurrection. The Earth has stopped moving. Air does not exist. I know nothing. 

The elements cannot change him. He stands acrylic. Centered for discerning eyes and, oh, the places. 

Life comes to Life. 

12:42 a.m. 

The city is restless. I hear Him breathe for eternity. Azurite sparkling in deserted winter. Ice breaks the noise. We slip into existence without heart, without home, without a chance at spring. 

Cherry blossoms will come for those eyes to greet them. And He may be there, running His fingers through love, waiting for a chance to paint His canvas wild, 

while I rely on mercury to settle deep into my eyes. It’s too cold to cry. 

If We Could

still-life-with-pomegranate
talk about orchard red petals on wood tables
plate upon each other
soft eggs whispering to candle wax and I am

just buried in wallpaper
trapped in a past life
guessing on about oil in still life canvas

on a second thought my eyes shift
to roll back
and he slithers up toward my lips

because if he could he wouldn’t exist
yet here we begin
just two pieces of black ice
melting pastels into sunset

and if we could get it back together
from memory – where it is what it was –
we would pluck tiny pellets from
pomegranates in winter
for juicing

individually

without each other