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NaPoWriMo: Day 7Watch out.
She’s a devil,
Glad for her spine,
& her teeth,
even God hands fear her.
For she has arched her back
for a flower-woman
with sin dripping
from her fingers
-who taught her
how to laugh
like the stars.
A Deal with the DemonShe lay beneath the sun's searing flare
Her blood dripping
Into the silver river
Running down her cheeks
And through her hair
"Goodbye," she told the world
Once, this girl was a wealthy princess
Once she was too precious and priceless
Once, she wore the most beautiful dresses
She danced in balls of golden floors
They say the princess made a horrible deal
A deal with the demon of the gold and steel
They say the demon would give her a wheel
Of gold and diamonds if she let him "heal"
Her poor tired soul
The princess agreed for the wheel was tempting
In a matter of seconds her soul was empty
And the demon took over and was now attempting
To rule the whole kingdom and run it his way
The kingdom was corrupted, turned upside-down
And the king was murdered right beneath his crown
And the farmer was homeless and the doctor a clown
And the people rebelling, destroying each town
So they hunted the princess then left her to drown
Now the demon believed that his princess was useless
So he left her
Spotlessone day you'll fly a little too close to the sun
and you'll remember the boy who told you
gas station trinkets were worth more than
the heart you wore on your sleeve.
disillusionment will take you home, and
it will not leave your bed in the morning.
(you will remember he called you loose, too.)
you are the one who believes in smoke
smiles and candid cadavers. no ones'
nose grows, so everyone must be
undeniably true (except
you lie to yourself, too)
a few lifetimes ago you fell in love
with your own reflection, but as you
stripped away layers of common mis-
conceptions, you realized you are not
virtuous and radiant and hung out
only to shine, your paleness is
not purity- only blanched bones.
gravity never liked you and
the secrets you tucked away
beneath your sternum, you're
you are a moth flitting selfishly,
you only wear your tattered wings.
Eau de InsomniaYour smell lingers on my pillow,
so I do not sleep.
I choke on the oxygen
we no longer share.
It's laced with thoughts of you;
misty tendrils that take hold
and spread like ivy
along the walls of my veins.
how can I close my eyes when
I see you, imprinted
on the insides of their lids?
As if your face was the sun,
and I stared for too long,
welcoming the blindness
that never came.
Snow White SyndromeI seem to have forgotten the sound of my own heartbeat
Splitting apart my limbs I've found the source of my insanity
Coiled around veins and arteries
Star dust and a lazy man’s drug
Has put me to sleep under fictitious pretenses
Of forbidden apples and two faced prince charming’s
Empty Nestand as your sepia-saturated voice fades into the night
you will remember all those dreams you woke from,
weeping, for the conversations you'd never
have and the people you'd never get back
you will remember the flock of birds that used to
reside in your chest, pounding against your
ribcage, crying to be free (and you will try
to remember the day their wings went silent)
as you hear the leaves hum and the sky pulse,
you will try to fall into cadence with the steady
music of nature, but instead begin to believe you're just
you will tell yourself, in your needly, narcissistic
way: you are a falling star, a withering celestial
being- you never quite fit in
and it will mean that the words you had engraved in
your ceiling (the last thing you see before you sleep)
about how one day, you'd mean something, you'd be
something, you would finally morph into a person
beautiful and magical and worthwhile
came to be another poorly told story,
and as your whispers die in an unwelcomin
conjurethere's something enchanting about
the 1 AM light,
the way the chill draws a soul
out of every breath,
the heavy air
laden with witchcraft.
there's a kind of magic
in the snow's white fingers,
abstract and pristine,
the soft steady charm
of their slight caresses,
their sleight of hand.
there's something about a night like this
that has you convinced
the world is holding its breath,
and when it releases it, the cold
will pull strange voodoo
out of its mouth, too.
"Rest in peace"
Or at least,
what we all think it means.
How may I rest, six feet under;
in a tomb?
Alone and cold, in soiled womb?
They said, after death,
"You have nothing to worry."
"Reside in purgatory"
Why bury me in damp grave?
So far away from heavens gates?
I feel the warmth, know it well.
Another half inch, I'd burn in hell.
But in this shell, lifeless; sedated.
Ironic you wanted me cremated.
Is this wrong? Or is this right?
jokes on me I guess that's life.
At least for some,
"Reveal in Paradise"
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