Author: mandyymayy

I'm a thirty year old female raised in Virginia, living in Baltimore. MFA in poetry. Communications.

to wait (poem)

how silly of me to read your skin
pressing, your pressing as subcutaneous.

deep is relative. i know. and my reason
dizzies drunk on nonsense

on fancy on romance. on nonsense.
&i knew better than my excited

utterance, braided in borrowed sheets
in childhood bedrooms and now

i wait. like spoiling food, waiting
for teeth to sink and my nectar

to spill over lips, to be lapped up
to be savored, to be loved.

you&I

You don’t have time
for me
&i respect that
i respect
Your time
i am time
rubberbanded
i am
rubberband ball
i am knee knot
&skin blemish
i am Your rash
i am rash
You know that
by now
that my flannel
sheets
that my piece
              mealed
sleep
that i am piecemeal
is my arm
outstretched?
elbow lock
&i can almost
touch You
from here
almost
touch
test
          is this a test?

 

Poison in the pressing of skin

oh opium bud–my lips are fat with your poison
fat with your skin pressing

the pressing of skin is a precious thing
and so are your soiling words hushed
against my neck

against my neck     I use my breasts to brace
for work
for efficiency
they hold more than milk

you leak nightshade all over my sheets
all over my skin     the muscle
of your hands     the bend of my muscle
under your hands     fingers like oleander
petals pressing

and I am sleep love drunk
rolled in flannel
the fire escape moon silhouettes
on my thighs     on my thighs
on this skin     love like luck
could be a myth     and me

 

this is my poisonous flower poem. I’ve memorized it for recitation.

poison in the form of skin

 

oh sweet pea my lips
are fat with your poison
fat with your skin
pressed     the pressing
of skin is a precious
thing and so are your
soiled words hushed
against my neck   against
my neck   I use my breasts
to brace   for efficiency
they hold more than milk
you leak nightshade
all over my sheets   all
over my skin   the muscle
of your hands    the bend
of my muscle under your
hands    fingertips like
oleander petals and I
am sleep love drunk
rolled in flannel
the fire escape moon
silhouette on my thighs
on my thighs   on this
skin love like luck
could be a myth   and me
a drowning siren

smoke

my mouth smolders
fat slow pillows
of milky smoke
rising from my
swollen gums—
the stretch
of jaundice
over my chicklet
teeth, the wait
of it all—
char is coming
and yet
but wait
the romantic sin
stick pushed taught
with tea leaves
(yes tea leaves)
my mouth is full
of awake and anger—
the angst of chapped
lips resenting,
purged of adultery
and ache

smoothes

most the time I can’t sleep
and I stare at ceilings
and analyze their anatomies
the anatomies of ceilings
their shade of beige
their dimples
their pockets of vents
and the hum
of their emittance
nothing about love
can fix that
nothing about love
can really fix
anything
but does it soothe?
oh the calm
that smoothes
over my skin
while I sleep
finally sleep
and the resolve
I wake up to
cradled
in my collarbone

a lie

how catholic are you? how un
decided am I? am I?
does the holy ghost live in
basements? does.. is it a
he  a she  an it? does it
rattle the panels to startle?
does it matter what I think?
cause I make blasphemy an art
of syntax, I make that shit
inventive and unless
confined by the mandates
of corporate, I don’t even
mind    is that a lie?

 

I’m a bit behind on NaPoWriMo, but I’m working on it. 🙂

capacity

mirrors are so overrated               like doors
shutting               what if doors shutting
sounded like the shuddering of earthquakes?
     the shake and shiver of this earth
this earth is underrated               all that
space    space is rated for weight
capacity        capacity for what
mirrors vomit back to us     to me
vertigo is real and serving dessert
   in the painted back of the mirror
     the other side              what of
the other side?     am I safe because
                my apartment door is shut
and no mirrors?                my hands know
my body better than my eyes
     I know the sidling dip of hipbone
                the settling of all this skin
when I sleep      am I all dove or
pigeon?     all dove,
                          all pigeon.
yes.

Skin

when I think of peach milk skies at twilight
how snow caked rooftop peaks melt into
matte grey cloud blankets
when I think of how delicate how precious
dove ribs must be
how feathers thread together feel
I know what loss of flight feels
I know sewn skin
ripped skin
how blood bubbles quiet beads
precision
skin
feels

I’m Not Afraid of Heights–poem

 

I don’t trust
myself on those
on-ramps,
all stilted
and looming.
I’m always eyes
on the edge,
counting pores
in concrete.
How cold
is that water
is that air
kissing this
skin with burn
and brackish.
Dizzying, always
thinking about
driving off.
Would those
pores hold?
or snap
from their
hollowed gut.