“I scheme a lot,
I know,
I plot and plan:
that’s how a queen in prison
spends her time.
But there is more to me than that.”
–A Lion In Winter

I want it back
as good
as you get it.
I’m a princess.
You are the stark silhouette
of a man on fire
stalking the world’s line
in an effort to destroy everything
that is naturally gold
or unnaturally divine.

I’m practicing brevity.
You are a friendly snake in my moss:
wraithlike and weaving,
bringing me whole orchards,
watching me devour the cores.
You’re no better.
You waft wide away when you ignite:
spectral smoke that shifts into idle,
wild fingers
choking the equator’s throat
to have a good time.

I emasculate.
You invite.
Remind you,
I have no true armor or fists
to fight this,
I am no knight.
I’m a spell;
a woman of deific heritage
who felt like a pot boiling
and needed to cool off,
remembered to kneel and wash my face,
drink the bubbling creek of my
cool, blue heart:
a cathedral door
standing slightly ajar.

I’m carnivorous but sick of the mess
so I become a melting ice cap
that will soon rise to run
and ruin everything she rushes.
You are impossible to hold on to
but I chase to soothe
like ice water on the last day of June
when school is long out and the high noon beams
are shining on every slide on the block
and the toes are branded pink,
and I want you to swallow me in one sip,
gag      spit me out in the dirt
and lick me back up slowly
from this burning Earth.
I’m entitled to this.
The day the world runs red with horizon
and I emerge,
my hubris residing in my tongue
demanding you guess my name,
cold and expecting it.
Hear my chest creak in
anticipation, the stained glass shakes;
this great glacial organ that should give life,
but found in ire she is blindingly white,
binding, arctic and unmoved so
she just envelops everything she can
to preserve and study
and surmise she was right about it
too.

I’m hugging you tightly.
Your mouth is one giant O:
sapphire and stiff and  trying to scream
and your two lips will never meet again,
will never meet me.
In this place you will stay stationary
without a breath to blow
or a vein to bleed
or a vocal cord to tell me to stop
or leave and your confusion warms
these blizzard fits.
You want to tell me some final thing.
What left do you have
that I couldn’t conjecture myself?
I’ve heard it.

The words eternally yours
are most often cried throughout
hell.

“horizon”

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