PREFACE Summer//Winter 2016
Lovesick Fever Dream, I woke wanting you bare and on fire; Raw Like a nerve, Like a cracked tooth. The two of us!
This is not about you or me this is about the two of us, My fixations, being blood, honey, and absolution, And my most ritual habits. Death, Decadence, and Myrrh All wrapped in a metaphor Most lyrical and indirect.
Hereâ€™s my tell-all, forward, where I refuse to be quaint:
I want to make him pretty—make him a mess I want to be sweet; my hand to his thigh, an ice pick to his quivering thigh I think: Kiss it better I want him to look at me like a dark mirror: Eyes too bright, mouths smeared red, ( Maybelline Lipstain #345 or maybe something from Boots, Something cheap And I just want your blood in my mouth) and blushing when I stare, And I want headaches from the heat I want it to linger I want to be sore and—
I’m bored with this.
I tried to write about you But you are more than flowery words— Something I once said to the love of my life No, not you Not that I don’t love you Not that I love you But The way you pull flowers from my throat Feels a lot like pulling teeth And I don’t know what to do I taste lavender and bile And this pruning, prodding, picking apart, This purging It hurts But isn’t this how we grow?
Let’s play pretend for a bit Let’s play Sunday school games I’ll be Salomé and beg for you, Jokanaan, on a silver platter This is a game where you don’t look at me You call me Sodom, tell me to atone with ash And I say Suffer me thy hideous body Suffer me thy horrible hair Then No, It is thy mouth I desire Thy pomegranate mouth, severed by ivory blade I beseech thee Look at me I beg you to look at me You mustn’t
Something terrible may happen.
(And what of thine eyes? Dark sky, pale pupil moon; Those eyes are the eyes of death. You look at me with those cold, blind eyes And what of that venomous tongue? That burning serpent spits no more Bites no more But I do I bite that mouth I pour evil through cold lips, Kiss it red and purple and darker than wine I let your pretty little head rest on my mantle I let it rot.)
red faced/ ready to ravage/ heat/ tearing/ teeth everything slick and radiant— and something left for the late night NEWS; or maybe something softer, soft eyes, Lidded low, like the setting sun, quiet mornings when my mother isn’t home, and that empty space where everything goes dark and we don’t speak, don’t breathe; like we’ve forgotten how. all we know is: eyes blown wide/ glowing/ hazed, unclean hands and purification and frenzy and—
Itâ€™s always the same;
requests, your look of something like apathy. You humor me with bold depictions of the midnight sky. I tell you about how I want to cut you open, put my tongue in the bloody wound. It ends there.
Only it doesn’t. It hardly ever does. I bite back that bitter taste of everything I can’t say out loud; And I mean everything— Everything flushed, blushing, charged; worn hands on everything sacred, bruised mouth, bloodshot eyes. Like— Okay so I really don’t like cherries or the split-crackle-pop of an aching jaw, but You’re wonderful. And sometimes you get me starry eyed and rosy, And sometimes I just wanna— I’m trying to be nice, I’ll start over. You’re great. I won’t say it again… I might.
SCAPHISM; That’s what I want to do to you. Hollow you out, fill your lungs with honey, watch you fester.
Remember that I’m only doing what you asked. Write all the things I want from you: (Break open— crawl inside—Eat) Not the pale pink chiffon/ old florescent lights/ peach gloss on my cheek/ shoulder/ feelings I don’t wanna think about soft feelings; I want bitter taste of cherries and toothache. I’ll deal with it when you do and you won’t*.
*@myself: Bitch you thought
I’ve been thinking about gardens and that patch of morning glory where my childhood home once stood and how I seemed not to care when it all went up in flames And how everything I touch withers and I know it probably doesn’t make sense but— I’m trying to say that you don’t make sense and not to get weird but I think it’s
Like a mouth
Full of marigolds
and a kiss
Like AMBROSIA Like the liquid sunset spilling out of me And how I let it pour Until the sky goes violet and I’m dancing on hallowed ground; Until I’m pulling peonies from my teeth; Until I’m planting your teeth in my flower bed, And watching them spring like daffodils.
Here’s an image: Us // Overcast sky No stars // Under streetlight Halo pooling in the back of your head, Cradled in my lap We’re laid out like the Pieta But I don’t cry for you I just watch I think How pretty How ugly How horribly, terribly beautiful How enamored I am How giddy I am How pitiful Would I pity you?
Don’t worry This only happens in a dream.
Now imagine me as the moon; all draped in gauzy white, like something Dead like something Divine hazy with the smoke of a burning temple.
Now imagine you, a burning temple, my altar in ruin.
Now, maybe I lied. Maybe I do cry for you. Maybe I weep and I wail for your lovely white skull glowing against asphalt in pieces; Your apotheosis, cherry bright and bitter, spilling over. Maybe I like you whole, human, hurt. Maybe I just like you.
Thumb to tongue
Over chins // Over fingers // Over thighs
Over Over Over
Ask me how to see in Technicolor:
Light // Pull // Let go
This is how you banish the Night
Not into a pale sunrise
But into total
can be found here.
Dear Deer Prey animal You’ll be Actaeon with raging hounds at your hide. I love this story too; I want you in all of my stories. I’ll be the divine shadow of a new moon, You look at me // You don’t look at me You suffer, You endure. It’s inevitable, but I pray for you; I let you pick your Hell.
It’s just like the last: You can be my brother, bullheaded boy, I’ll be the girl not yet a god. Remember Ariadne’s thread? I’ll wear it around your throat TIGHTEN Construct my own baptism. Imagine the after party! We’ll wear garlands of flowers and play Terrible, Childish games, Blackout, Wake sticky with pulp And pockets of buttercups, stolen from someone’s garden.
This is something unlike the rest. This is a new game I only allude to, And never out loud, And never in the light of day. I won’t say, but, you break open (That’s a Metaphor) and I, being me, look inside for rose gold columns, honey, and myrrh. I don’t find it. I live inside your spine for 42 days; Nothing grows. Or maybe you’re a land waiting to be cultivated. I can’t imagine you are but Maybe. Who cares. What do I know all I do is— Want, Don’t want, Want, Speak in riddles, Rewrite.
This is something unlike the rest. This is a new game I only allude to, And never out loud, And never in the light of day. I won’t say, but, you break me open (That’s a metaphor.) and I tell myself to breathe, hold still, there is no paradise here only Red, and I’m only half right. I find bushels of roses growing in my spine; Not torn but flourished. And I don’t know maybe it’s just me But I can tell myself that I know what I want— what I don’t want.
Anyway I’m done with this. Peace. ✌
INT. A ROOM, DIMLY LIT (BEHIND THE BLINDS THE SKY IS VACANT. NO MOON, NO STARS, NO GOD CAN BE FOUND HERE)
INTERCUT BOY GIRL, NOT GIRL KNIFE BOY hands GIRL KNIFE. GIRL takes it. GIRL makes BOY bleed. BOY makes GIRL beg. Begging, Bleeding, Biting
ohmygodohmygodohmygod shutupshutupshutupâ€” Wait Am i your god now?