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Dryadit smells like evergreens dying
needles crackling, breaking off
to coat your calloused toes in myrrh
the mistletoe wreathed around you
little do they know how you may invite,
but never beg, stand above
worship the whorls in your skin
the sap on your lips
the lichen sprouting from your
Mort (and pavor)lines between my
like the silver
in my mother's hair.
will I be
when I sprinkle a coverlet
do I think of this now
months after the first funeral of the first person
I ever really knew
who ever died?
blood running thinner, here,
not until you immortalize me will I be a good
dig my toes in
drawl out your first last words.
don't let me find you.
don't let me need to ever find you.
our bones still break too easily.
What Should NotSubterranean urge ringing my pelvic bone,
rub my temples until it ceases, exhaustion
sets in to stay under my retinas, over my tongue
what should not be is not, but still I wish
in fleeting moments unfit for the judgments of day
I do ache to feel your heart beat again
and maybe cup the innocence
until it dries up
in our thoughts.
Junebugsmoons change, with the budding of the hemlock
you never flinch as the dew coalesces on your neck,
in the quiet of the night, you bed cicadas and crickets
silenced by your gasps of trembling form
ridden with the fever of midsummer
you told me the sun was an effigy
painted of stars wandering lightyears away
I shook my head of your whispers, and welcomed the night
the days were not made for hallowed lips such as yours
bloody with denial as they are
now that I soak my glasses in vinegar
and tarnish your name with lye
there is no place for brazen comets
you should never have swallowed Junebugs
all the air is smouldering.
VisitationRed speckles dot her breast
she breathes out, mist leaking from her mouth
there are 22 21 20 seconds left until the end
she wants to grasp every one of them
before she lets go.
I came to you by night, in hours
best left to sleeping
we never minded, the night was our friend
it was Morpheus we despised, seeding our dreams
with shadows and messengers
metaphors I'd rather forget.
Now I must relent my nocturne visits
they bring too much harm with them
watercolor bruises on your wrists
the rings darkening beneath my eyes
I doubt I'll even be a morning person
but no one can hear you scream at 2 in the morning.
She stumbles, and wilts
under her own maybes
the turntables reset
and she waits for the dust to settle.
Hunting SeasonThese days we sew up our mouths
with fishing wire (the better to bait a question),
and comb our hair with barnacles.
i asked her what the time was,
she replied with a glance over her shoulder at someone
who was never there, it doesn't matter, she'll still regret
all the words she never could muster
beyond "i'm sorry"
those ones are always in abundance.
In the morning I will listen
to the bullets shouting in the valley
I wonder if he screamed as his crown hit the forest floor.
never did anyone ask me if i was fine,
so don't look at me with doe eyes now
we're past the point of caring or bothering
stay away when i walk alone, never leave me
it's too late
there's only enough time to say goodbye.
You won't remember me
but I will.
feather-brained, she plucks the mites from her head, crawling over her focus making her twitch and rub her temples, she's the seat of knowledge but she's on the brink of coming undone
the bottle falls from his hand, pills rattling inside to make snakes fear them, worm inside his mind fog over his truth go away make them stop don't take him with them
exhume the pond, uncover slumbering frogs and fish bones you didn't wish for, clamber back up then shoreline to lie open to the elements, as they search your body for that spark that you doused years ago, you're but bathwater now
turning the wheel, seashells grind to pieces, he brushes them off the counter to pour into seawater, swirling in the middle of the continent, he allows himself to succumb to the tide
his face is cracked like a used pocket watch, someone else's time of day written on his face, or so he thinks as he drives another one home another one he won't regret but will reprimand, he's so tired of being Prince Charming to every girl who buys him a drink
nails flash as she dramatizes with her hands, bewitching eyes leaping out to seize the day and choke the life out of it, such is the way of spontaneity, at least when it becomes a compulsion she must follow until he limbs fail her
lighting matches in the files room, he grins to imagine books exploding in burts of flame paper erupting into the air cabinets blackening with the tinder within roasting, it is such a pleasure to burn
you can hear her teeth click when they ask if she likes rabbits, she does, in fact, she adores tea and knights, speaking backwards and games of chess, she runs around her backyard with Vorpal Blades of hawthorn origin, but she doesn't ever want to
he stopped crying an hour ago, whimpering like a babe, until now he leans over the sink and watches his wineglass empty into the pipes no that is not wine he only drank once seven years ago now he is a different kind of drunkard, please let someone find him before he loses himself
high-browed with similar expectations, her mouth is guarded by the frowns she doles out like sweets, only these leave the recipients with bowed heads and rabbit-eyes she carries to the wolves
rub your cheeks, feel the rolls of your stomach, press in until bile comes out emptying yourself of impurities imperfection leave more of them on your palm it's what's inside that counts
fumbles with the car keys, weary as she is you can't expect much more, there's a marked atlas on her dashboard by the broken seat-belt light, she's been driving since the redwoods bled and she won't stop until she makes it to his front door and tells him words are not useless
I AmI am single,
but I am loved.
I am not a genius,
but I am intelligent.
I am not breathtaking,
but I have beauty.
I am not a saint,
but I am kind.
To the world,
I am not perfect.
But for someone,
Two Years LaterShe asked him gently, “Do you love me?”
In his long silence, she found closure,
And left her love under a willow tree.
lung canceri will die with your name on my lips
because there is nothing else i'll need to say.
you are my coffin, my funeral pyre.
as my bones disintegrate, popping and snapping,
you will greedily swallow my ashes
until nothing is left of me but secondhand smoke.
i've danced with you, love, across hospital tile,
the scent of antiseptic cloying as valentine's chocolate.
you dipped me into unconsciousness,
and i willingly closed my eyes.
the intrusion of your scalpel teeth no longer scares me.
you, my rigor mortis soul mate, always take me under.
your tent of frostbitten shelter pulls me down, an anchor,
while i gag on pills too abstract to save me.
forgive me, lungs, of my cigarette abuse,
but i've found happiness in a reaper's cloak.
i find comfort in these carcinogens.
i've made my nest in a swaying tree,
my body destroyed by the nauseous rocking.
they smile at me with pity in their eyes,
scribbling nonsense on those jaw-like clipboards.
their crisp, stark white world still has faith in me,
you've been dead for a year, my deari met you on december 21st,
the longest night of the year.
you had solstice eyes: cold, dark, alluring.
i knew you were not meant to last,
powerful as a gale but fragile as
the tulip stems you snapped,
a sickening cycle of you,
an overwhelming tidal wave.
they say two wrongs will never make a right,
but i made so many bad choices that
i wound up back where I began.
it was too easy to love you,
but getting you to love me back was impossible.
i clawed at your chest until I struck blood,
until my nails split into shards.
you were born a phantom,
and i, your corpse.
holding onto you felt like drowning in quicksand;
i fought but always sank into your arms.
i breathed in dirt, breathed in dust, and
found my organs choked with you,
smothered by your existence.
you sucked out my breath
every time i kissed you.
i died every day with your hand
knotted in my hair.
You left on june 21st,
the longest day of the year.
i bit down sorrow and deconstructed
the labyrinth within me,
the one you hadn't th
I give upSometimes
I try so hard to change for people
Do what they want,
Listen to their critiques,
Try to be a good friend..
But you know?
Everyone makes mistakes,
is not perfect,
is tired and stressed and slips,
It is never good enough,
no matter what I do,
nobody ever sees what I changed,
everybody always only sees my faults.
I get criticised for what I did wrong,
but never acknowledged for what I changed,
I give up.
I don't have the energy anymore,
to always justify myself,
to always go up and be the one,
that is bad,
to always be the one,
Sometimes I think I'm better off without anyone...
Eye of the StormI believed I could make the wind blow,
and force the moon to shine at night,
create rainbows just by thinking,
and hold tea parties for fairies in July,
I was the queen of my own graceful lands.
Yet, I grew old and realized,
I am the kind of girl who'd trip and fall,
often for stepping on her own feet.
My crown of diamond and gold
now a rusted piece of bronze,
I lost my throne to treason, my kingdom to hate,
I became the eye of a hurricane,
loaded with mishaps I need to atone.
I felt the soft touches of angels,
and lost my own wings to demons who could crush stone.
Felt the scorching tears run so often,
I knew I must have hit bottom low.
I had nothing holy, no one to call dear,
but here I am, the starting point of my own storm.
I felt fear, clung to shadows,
encased my heart within marble walls,
and threw the keys that can unlock my soul.
So many chances I've lost with no love to seek,
and so many people I turned my back to.
I let the darkness gnaw through my bones.
All Her Little ThingsStop hating her for the littlest things.
The things she can't prevent,
The things she can't save herself from..
Stop demanding her to do things,
Things she can't accomplish,
Things she can't imagine being done...
Stop lying to her,
Telling her you love her,
Want her, need her...
When all you've ever done is make her want to
Stop hating her for the littlest things.
The things she can't prevent,
The things she can't save herself from...
When those little things you've done
Take her down...
The little things won't matter anymore.
A stranger walked up to me today...A man walked up to me and asked me for a cigarette… I told him I didn't smoke anymore, and he asked me why? ––I answered "because the person I used to smoke with, isn't around anymore", and he replied…"that's why I smoke."
A woman walked up to me and asked me for drugs, I replied "I have several in store…his eyes, his smile, his hands"…she whispered, "that's not a drug"…and I laughed as I said.. "if only you knew."
A child walked up to me today and asked me to play a game, I told them I was too tired to play games, i'd been playing for years, they replied…"then you must be a pro!", to which I said "yes…a pro at losing."
An old woman stared at me today, and I asked her…"is something wrong?" she answered "I was about to ask you the same question."
© Rocio Belinda Mendez
GravelYou always laugh
Like the world owes you nothing
But joy and sun-pickled roses.
You always smile
As though the adventure were just over the next rise.
You always talk
like nothing matters except living and loving living.
But now I know the truth
Behind the closed doors in your mind.
Seeming tall and strong before me
Crackling at my touch.
The first day you laughed at me
Bitter words resting on your tongue.
The first day you smiled at me
The strain clenching your features.
The first day you turned your back on me
I knew how much it hurt
To be alone in a crowded room.
To wait for an adventure that would never come.
To stumble and stammer when you know the answer.
I wanted to help you.
But you didn't want my help.
Not a shoulder to cry on
A punching-bag to lay upon all you woes, all your pent-up
Not a friend.
I tried to pick you up when you hit the pavement,
But you laughed it off
And made a joke at my expense.
I am lucky.
I love and at least believe I am loved.
AerosolIt has been a day and a half since the crash, and I have found a cabin. In some ways, this is a relief. I don’t know if I could face another night on the mountain without shelter. Outside, a fire does no good: the heat simply travels upwards. However, this place also raises some difficult questions. I estimate that I’ve put eight miles between myself and the crash site. I don’t know if this will be enough. It Saving...
occurs to me that I don’t really know anything.
The survival manual recommends staying with the plane. It explains that this affords the best chance of rescue. It explains that the wreckage offers warmth and shade. It explains that seventy percent of pilots who stay are located within three days, while seventy percent of those who leave are
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