Air is cooling,
sun is setting,
leaves are falling,
days are getting
ever shorter
red and yellow
carpet forest
Welcome, Autumn
Tag: poetry
How casually you walked into my life,
Bearing your history, your burdens, your ill-will.
Bearing a rage the world could not call lovely.
Bearing a secret self as delicate as crystal.
You walked in like you owned the place, and then
Who was I to say you had to leave?
Sometimes I need to see a life that’s uglier than mine,
get lost in someone else’s problems, lose a little time,
see heroes fighting destiny, and dreams that don’t come true,
and think “if they can handle that, then I’ll get through this, too.“
Hail, Bacchus, to whom pleasure is divine!
He would not have us suffer on our knees,
nor drink of blood that masquerades as wine,
but worship him with raucous revelries.
Beauty matters not to him, nor fame,
nor wealth, except what pleasures wealth can buy.
He has no use for prayers steeped in shame,
pleas for forgiveness only make him sigh.
The shrieks of laughter at a tale well-told,
the heavy, dreamless sleep of o’erindulgence,
the breathless moans of passion uncontrolled,
bare bodies joined in sensual divulgence:
These are that which Bacchus understands,
and of each ardent devotee demands.
God is a woman
Tired but strong
Toiling away
All eternity long
To fix the mistakes
Of a creator that left
Made us all in his image
And stuck her with the mess.
She may not be perfect
But she’s doing her best.
Summer is ending, cool wind in my hair, the magic of dying things thick in the air.
I slowly relearned how to
Love myself fiercely
Unapologetically
In defiance of every
Small-town, small-mind,
No-heart demon
Who said I deserved
To live in shame
And self-loathing.
My love is sharp blades,
A scarred old soldier.
I love myself
Like armor,
Like war paint,
Like a battle cry.
I love myself
Like armies poised
At the ready.
But I can’t help but wonder
What it would feel like
To love myself with the soft
Self-assurance of someone
Who never forgot how
Who was never told not to
Who never had to fight
A war for her own soul.
When I am five I put on every string of pearls my grandma owns at once
And pose for the camera, smiling ear to ear, completely unselfconscious.
No one tells me it’s wrong to wear this, or pose like that. No one critiques the attractiveness of my smile.
When I am six I make myself sick sobbing because I don’t want to be forced into another itchy, puffy dress.
It’s a recurring theme on Sunday mornings.
When I am seven my grandma tsks at my yearbook photo, wondering
“Why can’t you smile and look sweet like the other little girls?”
My hair is half up, my shirt is bright blue. My smile is lopsided, sardonic
Like I’m already in on the darkly funny joke of yearbook photos.
When I am eight, I’m not allowed to go shirtless in the summer anymore.
I’m forced, miserably, into a t-shirt, sweat sticking the cotton to my back almost instantly.
It’s 90 degrees out and humid as hell, and I don’t understand why suddenly my body is something that has to be covered up.
When I am nine I ask for a tank top, and am asked in return
“Do you really feel comfortable showing that much of your skin?”
When I am eleven, my grandma says it’s time for a training bra.
My body is becoming a temptation to men, she says.
I start slouching and walking with my arms over my chest, wondering why this is happening to me.
When I am twelve I want to wear makeup to school.
My grandma refuses, says little girls don’t need it.
It starts to feel like the older I get, the less it matters what makes me feel comfortable, or pretty.
Later that same year, I want to wear a miniskirt and a sweater to a dance.
She rips the skirt to pieces in front of me. It was too tight and too short, she says.
It will not be the last time that happens.
I want a black dress for Easter. I’m told it’s not appropriate.
I want to dye my hair red. I’m told I’ll look like a harlot.
I want to try blonde instead, I’m told it’s too light for my skin tone.
I want to cut my hair off short. I don’t have the face for it.
I go to school in the morning with no makeup on, the tube of black lipstick waiting in my purse.
One of the teachers rats me out to my grandmother. I color my nails in with sharpies, because I’m not allowed to buy black nail polish.
I itch in my own skin. I never feel comfortable.
At some point, she notices that I’m never in photos.
Do you come here often? He asks with a cheesy, exaggerated Eyebrow waggle, intended to seem Ironic no doubt, to say “I don’t take myself too seriously.”
It’s easy to see why: Who could? Heart-shaped face, rusty hair. Hard eyes a muddy, glassy green. Sharp nose, out of place in this florid face. Wide mouth, always open, obscene.
The kind of mouth you can’t help but imagine Pressed to all those parts unknown. Unknown and untouched, make a Pioneer of the laughing man with the Swindler’s eyes.
Do not trust benevolent gods
Who enter, smiling, offering gifts
Without revealing first the price.
Benevolent gods: there’s no such thing.
Only a trick, only a trap,
Woven to make you take the bait.
Make you sign and seal your fate.
The gods have been hungry of late.
If it seems auspicious
Be suspicious.
Wrote A Pome (Tumblr Backup) 