“Name your torture,”
one of them said
I wanted an orchard
but I swallowed the vodka
he handed me,
I don’t believe in simplicity
or explaining the meaning behind things
it’s why I write poetry
I say with a hint of clarity.
He touches my locket,
I recoil in panic.
I choose the silence,
complicity over ascension every time.
I had a mission to destroy my darkness,
but darkness has a way of consuming
all it follows.
started to explore and name every puncture:
early childhood rape,
early childhood confessions,
early childhood neglect,
early childhood sibling who later hung himself with
vodka ropes. I swirl my glass,
listen to the chunks of ice beat me up
there are only two sentences I’m after:
birth and fatality.
I show him my stinging tail
so he understands his options.
I asked him to stay awhile
while I calmed my own poltergeist
and he just wanted to hold hands
and watch me cry without connivance,
without delusion alluding in silence
that I don’t need the completion,
I need the space to see the illusions I created are
in dire need of straightening before my ire turns to
turns to suffocation,
turns to blatant fear and
complacent nooses I wear boastfully
as if the greatest power comes from murdering
my madness looms sometimes;
a distant thunder that never sparks, but
erupts into devastation lightning strikes
right behind me so you always know
how to find me.
I only hear voices when they’re booming
so God usually delivers things in a way I hate
to get me to breathe again,
remove the necklace,
cut my own intestines from the ceiling
where I hang out most days.
God demands I stay,
but I say:
“Well, if you’re not going to kill me or fuck me,
what are you even doing here