Tag: anxiety

 

Seventeen is a good round number
to desecrate the soil. My
pavement is littered with carcasses.
Their wet bodies’ slow crawl
out of a shed shell, left as
a testament of a long patient sleep
for a lover. I hear everything
in the night. Those wings are still
silent but soon they’ll shake
the spring sweat from the trees.
Something inside me still
aches to die, to feel the slow rot
of aching dull pain. I will wake
covered in their legs, cicada
wings crawling over my lips to lie
in wait for a love, for a mate.

 

This cicada shit is out of control. I might vomit.

Five-Fifteen

How silly of me to think I would be the one to hurt him, that I would turn a heel upon the left aorta of his heart. No, how silly of me. I am watching me bleed out.

 

Things feel very.. unsettled. I know I haven’t posted in weeks, I apologize. I became rather preoccupied with finishing out the remainder of the semester–halfway through a Masters of Education program with a 3.95GPA and I won’t be returning. I’m still designing the move to Baltimore. It makes me so nervous.
I’m mostly roped up in mitigating my involvement with the aforementioned man. I thought I was a basketcase but he really challenges me. It’s nice to have a man that occasionally craves involving me in his life, but he’s so inconsistent. Irrational. I can’t let myself believe desperation is sincerity. His emotions are all muddled but intense. He gets immersed in them and pushes me away when I try to help. He wants help but he won’t accept it. Nutty.
SO, I enjoy his company when he allows it and when it’s convenient for me. The sex is still solid.

 

—————————————————————-

 

I’m mitigating my involvement
with his lips but signing blind
contracts with his hips. Love
is an itch at the back of his
throat and I’m tonguing it
like a wound, keeping it raw.
Too sore to touch. The heat
of his breath on my chest
when I’m thick with sleep burns
holes in my lungs. I’m short
of breath and short on luck
when I’m ankle deep in the slow
crawl of dreams bathed in the legs
of cicadas floundering like I do,
squirming away from love.

 

Cotton Mouth

 

This is only temporary. He ought to know it
but the way he holds me when he thinks I’m sleeping
–I just can’t.
My tongue crawls into the corner of my cotton mouth
jaw, grows mothballs, and I just smile
and kiss him back.

 

Obituary

 

I read my obituary in a dream
last night, sleeping on the carpet
to rid myself of his breath.
I must have carved too deep
into my own skin,
I told myself. Oops.
Haven’t had that problem in
half a lifetime. Something must’ve
sparked it back alive.
I wasn’t an angel. I wasn’t
ethereal. I was heavy and dead
and still real. Just empty.
I read my obituary and it said
nothing of me. I was nothing
but a byline, not even a headline.
No one survived me. and I didn’t
survive.

 

Three Months

In just over three
months I will wash my skin
of this city–this small
town with the farms still tucked
away behind the hills, country
splayed out fat and happy
with the creeping edge
of metropolis ripping out weeds
and burning tree leaves. In three
months I will sleep
with cement sidewalks
and the hum of the harbor.
Scrub my skin of this life.
Lay it out in words.

 

Day Fifteen

 

Tell me why you trace
the skin of my cheek
with your finger when I sleep,
kiss my cheeks, my
forehead, my slightly
parted lips…

but I never see you.

 

 

Flower Mouth

 

My mouth is full
of flowers when I start
to talk to you. I spit
orchids and lap up
roses, but phlox grow
wild down my spine
and spider out like
weeds, like parasitic
thoughts feeding
off my skin.

They always tell me
my skin is so soft, fed
I think
by the hot house of hate
brewing in my blood. but
It comes out like nectar,
sweet like honeysuckle
to the tongue, licked
lightly with intense
pressure.

I no longer know
how to love,
to read emotion
like hot pressed words
on paper. It’s not
black and white.
It’s red and dripping,
like blood from bitten lips.

 

[ grad school is consuming my soul. but it’s always over. ]