Butterfly Wings

Her conversation created craters
around fine dining – she
is one glass too many,
I read her like wine before we sat down.
The light was getting too frisky
when she reached South for
my heart.

Her eyes crossed like a thieves fingers,
pure white bled through.
“I thought I knew you” she said
as I mopped up the puddle of hatred on the floor.

More often than not, I’d plant false
seeds of little baby heartlings
where the girls’ pretty fingers would reach,
but now I have turned.
My shape is funny. It fits like
butterfly wings.
Honest. Divine. Free.

Three Minutes In

Three minutes in – I am a dream.
Have you ever been met
by a mirror? Twisted like
eyebrows in confusion.
Steel eye compartments
ready for battle.

Nail my head to the floor,
my only choice is to look up
to neighbors…
to enemies.

The minutes slice off the clock
as we talk – I am imaginary.
She sees me with her husband,
white t-shirt sucked to my
chest, wet from digestion –
I am the dark apple.

My bags are packed, my body
on 90 miles per hour.
The hidden highway – I carve three minutes in-
distressed almond skinny
dipping in shame.
Have you seen me today?
Have you looked in the mirror?

This Life And Thereafter

For every one I have killed, I have killed the heart of two,
and taken the hand
of the most Sinister Man – his Red Blood has turned mine Blue;

and, no, I did not whisper under breath, or breath into his ear,
I simply looked through
a man, maybe two, who’s soul had smothered in fear.

I am satisfied! I am satisfied, as I swim throughout their ashes.
I feel their bones,
their dangerous undertones, then my Blue blood flickers and flashes.
Now, I know I am Queen of Sinister things;
this life, and, thereafter!

The Death Of Roses

He’s splashing in cyanide tonight,
elbow deep in death grease, peeling it off
long enough to shout his love at me.

My bed is empty like this,
I lay here, empty, like this,
sipping on his poisonous spit.

The clock hisses,
my eyes burn like his swollen skin,
sleeping beasts await me
and I sit here,
just empty, like this

while he bathes in acid
and cries out his love to me,
he stands long enough to dry a bullet
and point his shaky finger at me,

I take my time,
watching the roses he gave me
dry,
each petal smells toxic,
I can’t touch them they will crush.

The clock spits after midnight,
he washes off in rust
then rushes off to spread his love on me.
I am here, like this,
empty, waiting,

for his cyanide to save me.

Away With The Night

You who are with me,
who ache with me, please,
lay still, hold your breathing –
we are sinking
we sink,

beneath wings of bad mothers,
through sad voices of home
our dead limbs fall off,
our bones sleep on their own.

You who are with me,
who are silent at night,
who separate stars, who burn with out light

hold on
hold on
to the hands of these words
we are sinking
we sink

through this very dry Earth.
God isn’t softening,
we are starved by disease,
by darkness, by deepness
of the valley’s between us.

You who are with me,
who ache life away, lay still,
hold your breathing,
hold on to your life,
we are sinking
we sink

away with the night!

Looking For Bloggers To Review My Chapbook

I am currently seeking bloggers to write a review of my small collection of poetry, Some Things Ache In The Darkthat’s just been released through Writing Knights Press.

If you are interested, please email me at: maggiemaeijustsaythis@gmail.com with a link to your blog!

Thanks everyone ❤

XOXOXO

~MM

Wings Of Amity

Is my dead name happening?
September, my quickest friend.
Who waits for who?

Each night, your hands part my lips,
delivering the wise bees.
My throat tickles from his telling wings,
his impossible story
about how God will forget me.

His fierce wildness
will throw thunder, while I drift
on wings of amity
he will strike! My veins will crumble,
my body will become
an old abandoned city
for his merciful army.

The bees cry in agony,
a storm threatens them now
as I dream
of nothing past September.
I am sick with fate,
but rise to courtesy.
The bees and their sweet story
do not abandon.
My grateful knee to the Earth,
I whistle out the bees.
Their freedom, my peace.

 

She Would Know

I’m hungry.
My stomache tugs at
an old fetus, belly up,
a stutter in a hot month.

I think, I would paint her
like a spring egg,
or sculpt her like a chess game
where she could be queen

and cut off the eyelids of liars,
like I.

I would give her my hands to do with
all the weapons
and my tongue to speak with
all the words

she would know that she is not a pink
fluff laying on a pillow,
she is a sharp dagger,
a soft poison,

a prowess taking life by God’s
mighty light,
she would know

if she was not an old thought,
if she was not a small white stutter
stabbed out of the clutches
of my womb

she would know.

I Am Part Of The Night

It is always the moon whispering
with foul breath to me,
while stars drip like bad oil
paint, chips in a perfect, black sky.

The sun doesn’t say anything. It just sits
in its place, waiting for the day
it can finally rest.
I let the sun go, on its own,
but I try to join the night.
I try to wrap my body, like silk,  around
time that sleeps,
that nods with my conversation
and smiles
in agreement.

We speak a language together, of
the deep ocean’s waves of regret
that cry into the dry sand of nostalgia,
creating mud of desire,
longing for its peaceful aquatic home
below the drama of tides;
of every shadow that
slices through jealous silence,
lonely crickets,
hollow frogs,
desperate bats free of their caves;

I will never be involved with a burning star –
I am part of the night.
I am a dead reflection of light
watching the world sleep.

Tonight

I’m going to be in love tonight
under this hidden moon
in this welcome season
just tonight
as this house creaks like
seventy year old bones,
as murders grow in awful hands,
as no one sets foot on
this same carpet.

I’m going to kiss warm lips tonight
of a living man
who breathes cold opinion
and holds me in his eyes,
who clears distance from hollow
rooms,
who says nothing,
who lays unknowingly, tonight, beside me
with no one around to overhear us.

I am going to make love tonight
to a suspect of betrayal,
to my heart’s gravity,
to a memory that has been
soaking in the fall.

Listen. It is perfectly safe.
Look around.
No one is near. It has been years
since I fell asleep with
my skin underneath him, falling,
falling in to some
confession, and tonight
I will not hear a sliver of his voice
and he will not know
that tonight’s moon will
cover up his absence,
for me.