☆ poetry ☆

I will put my poetry here eventually lol

vent poemz here

okay. it's been three months here u go

9.29.23

Entrance

When you die, there is no exam.
No words to memorize,
No spell to recite;
This is all a grand illusion, woven together by man,
By sinners; By ugly, lying fools.
There is no cave to wander,
No tunnel passage;
Nothing grand, no admission key.
The gate to Heaven is only for a select few,
Yet you and I are not among them, for we are sinners:
Our dirty souls are not worthy of the presence of the Lord.
No; we shall stay here, rotting, in the vault of our misdeeds.
Forever.
When you die, you are alone.

9.30.23

Holy (or, rather, to be the opposite of)

You, my love, are a tarnish on me,
My soul will never be pure.
You have brought me into sin;
The title of Divine One,
Angel of the Deliverer,
Is no longer mine to carry.
So I shall vow it once more,
In the name of the prophet:
Nothing more shall make me fall.
Bless me in his name,
For he is my religion.
The book he holds in his two hands,
I shall memorize every word.
If I act accordingly,
Shall my spirit ascend?
Back into the holy place,
At the side of my deliverer?

Whisper

A murmur, that is all
The only sound in this quiet residence.
White, wispy words carried by the wind,
To the longing, straining ears
Of vicious men
One rumor is all it takes before they
Rip into me
Grasping,
Pulling,
Tearing like nothing else.
A single kiss, one breath exchanged
Conceal the ghost of days past;
Lock her eerie form away
In the depths of my mind
Confidence depleted,
This is on your conscience.

10.8.23

Lipstick Stains

My cup has pink on the rim;
Yours has dark red.
Cafe date, that's what I want:
Medium lates with cinnamon on top,
whatever milk preference (or none at all),
Whipped cold foam and sharp, sweet syrup.
You're all I think about lately,
I love it when you talk to me
Keep me up for hours at a time, I won't be mad
You have my utmost attention and admiration

10.10.23

Lowercase Letters

my quiet, shy lowercase letters in sharp contrast to your
loud, unforgiving uppercase letters.
yelling all the things you think at me through the screen
while i tell you,
"it's okay. i know i deserve it, i'm sorry for being so inadequate.
if i do what you want will it make it better? will you still want me?"

your harsh, abrasive uppercase letters in sharp contrast to my
small, accepting lowercase letters.
telling you how much i love you, how i need you, how you can't leave me now
"i'm so useless. i need you. i'm sorry, please, please don't leave me.
stay, i can be good for you, you can do whatever you want."

our uniform, official sentence case letters.
in sharp contrast to our messy, harmful dynamic.
"tell me you love me, say it. say you love me, or i swear to god-"

up and down the letters go. like they should.

please love me
please love me
please.

love, me.

10.12.23

Angel's Tears

At night, I listen to them.
The cries of the angels,
Fallen from Heaven to dwell on Earth
Condemned by Satan and God alike;
I hear them, loud in my ears,
Calling out for me to save them.

But how can I?
How can I possibly save them,
When I'm busy trying to save myself?
To save my own soul from eternal damnation like theirs.
How can I save them,
When I'm trying to save humanity from their own sin?
I listen to the woes of the broken, the betrayed.

I lie awake at night, listening to the angels screaming in my ears,
Making me bleed, making me scream.
"Someone save us,"
Someone save me!

At night, I listen to them.
I talk to them, but it's always the same:
"Beloved of the Lord, the one kissed by Mother Mary,
You are not doing what He sent you to do,
You are not saving them!"

I know,
I know I'm not doing what He told me to do!
I'm sorry.

10.13.23

untitled

I'm sorry.

That's all I can say, really.
I'm sorry for being so useless, so selfish.

I am the dog that came to your doorstep carrying a dead bird;
I am the killer.
You are the bird who's neck I snapped;
You are the victim

I will tear you apart and rip you to shreds as your blood drips from my teeth.
I will tell you awful things and hurt you so deeply,
You'd think a physical wound would hurt less.

I will whisper lies in your ear that they told me.
I will make you believe you're the problem.
I will deceive you in all ways,
For not one word to come out of my mouth has been veritable.

And all I can say is "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry" is a stupid excuse.
A weak one.
But that's all I am --
A clusterfuck of 'I'm sorry's and constant betrayal.

I am a stupid, weak excuse of a human.
I don't have the guts to admit I'm wrong,
Nor the ability to make you feel better.
I listen to them and do what they say,
For fear of my own life.

I can only hurt you, and for that I say,

I'm sorry.

God Doesn't Ask

God never asked me if I wanted this.
He never asked if I was willing to be this-
His servant, His messenger.
Your deliverer.

God never asked me if I wanted to suffer for you.
He never asked if I was strong enough to be this-
Your angel, your saint.
His Beloved.

God never asked me if I wanted to be here.
He never asked.

I don't think He cares.

I never told God I wasn't ready.
I never told God I couldn't, can't, do this.
I never told God no, because He doesn't ask.

I never told him I was ready to leave Heaven.

Small Pond

You are my small pond-
Ducks and lily pads on your surface,
Snails and love lilies on your embankment.

You are my small pond-
Little fish find residency in you,
Butterflies flutter around you,
And lizards find relief in your cool demeanor.

You are my small pond,
And I love you.

10.16.23

oceans

i am the ocean.

i am blue, and i smile at you, offering hugs for anyone.
i know every swimming animal, down to the babies.

it's cold in the ocean, deep down under.
i'm trapped under the water.

i'm drowning and i know you won't save me.
i wouldn't try either.

i am the ocean.

i was your lover in a past life.
i am your lover now.
i can be your lover in another life, too.

your smile is warm.
i'm sinking in it.

i know you don't have to save me.
i don't have to either.

i am the ocean.

i don't make sense, i'm contradictory and messy.
you are perfect, you are harmonic and whole.
i'm your antithesis. i think you love me for it.

i am the ocean. 

i am your oceans.

head-house

here i am.
i am quiet, soft, moldable. i can be whatever you want.
my mind is quiet, too. empty.

i will talk to myself sometimes, but i'm not really talking to myself
i talk to the sounds. i talk to the colors.
i talk to the boys and i talk to the girls.
i talk to the lowercase lover.

the clouds know my name, because i talk to them too.
i tell them about the girls, and the sounds and colors.
i tell them my dreams, wishes.
what's my name again?

watercolour.
i am light, simple. made for kids.
pink, yellow, orange. blue, red, green.
pretty colours. i can be pretty colours.

inside me there is a house.
its big, two stories, and it's dark red.

we all live there, in the house in my head.
upstairs there are four rooms on the left, four on the right.
downstairs is the tv set, video games on the carpet.
soft couch, dim-lit kitchen and a table for dinner.

in the basement there are rooms, too.
i don't go in the basement.
only the bad people go in the basement.

the files are in the attic, just behind the painting of the girl.
memories, each one safe in its paper folder. jeff puts them in their place.
he locks them up so i cant get to them.
he says its for the best.

its always sunny outside my head-house.
me and amber and toby go out to play in the grass while ben watches,
we pick flowers for our dinner table.
mark makes food and keys plays piano.

my little head-house family.
i love my family

10.17.23

memento mori

i am the angel sent from heaven for you.
i am the heretic who dismisses it all as lies.
i am the girl god left to die.

tell me.
what part of you is real?
can you feel it?
can you explain it?

or will you be ripped apart by it,
by the revelation that you might be the only existing thing.

tell me.
can you feel your blood in your veins like i can?
can you feel it?

do you know the weight of it?
each ounce inside you, flowing, like rivers of red.
do you know the weight of it?
do you?

tell me.
can you feel your teeth being ripped out of your head?
one by one.

can you feel the suctioning air beneath you,
threatening to rip the flesh from your very bones?
can you feel it?

i am the innocent sacrificed by the sinful.
i am the one who experiences the divine delusion.

i am the one to tell you, memento mori.

10.25.23

untitled

a girl is soft.
a girl is naive.
a girl is trusting.

many things were told to me when i was younger.
too many things.

i don't think i was able to handle it,
the adult topics.

a boy is tough.
a boy is inquisitive.
a boy is skeptical.

nothing was told to me of boys.
too little things.

they only said to stay away from them,
the mean little things.

i am complacent.

i was childish.
i was carefree.

i am a girl, and a girl is me.

10.31.23

fawning

i constantly find myself drawn to you.
all i want is you, you, you:
your touch,
your eyes on me,
your voice in my ears.

i know you're bad for me.
you're such a bad person,
you hurt me;
your hands on me,
your vitriol in my head.

i'm fawning.
fawning.

i hate you, but for some reason,
if only for tonight,
i love you. i'd let you do anything.

because i'm yours, yours, all yours.
everything i am is yours:
my body, my mind, my soul
yours to break and remake.
i'd bleed myself dry for you if you asked.

but, god, do i hate you

i'm fawning.
fawning, losing control.

i'm fawning again.

untitled

it's raining here.

not literally.
in my head.
it's raining in my eyes, too.

it's raining in my bed.
on my clothes, in my mouth.

it's only raining on my side of town.

it's sunny where you are.

not literally.
in your head.
it's sunny on your skin, too.

it's sunny in your eyes.
on your cheeks, in your hair.

it's sunny everywhere else, but it's raining here

losing face

i'm lost.

i don't know how long i've been lost for.
days, months, years.

maybe i've been lost forever.

i wouldn't know.
they keep the time from me, the days.
time is only what you say it is to me.

and they try to kill me while they do it.
stick needles in me and perform a biopsy of my brain.

and they brainwash me.
whisper sickness into my body and make me believe it.
it's easy to do that, i think.

and they take my memories,
and secrets,
and promises,
and trust.

and they take the light, and the breath, and the blood, and the life.

i can't find myself.

i'm trying, but,
it's hard to find yourself when nobody else is looking.

it's easier to lose yourself.

it's easier to get swept up under sorrow,
to drown in tears and ecstasy and suffering.

it's easier to believe they're right,
and it's easier to think i'm wrong.

it's easier to not know who i am.
it's easier.

it's easier.

i'm lost.

god

how am i supposed to love a god
who doesn't show me He exists?
who cannot love me?

i'm on my knees every night, every morning,
sweaty hands intertwined tightly.
praying, begging, for His forgiveness,

begging Him to make me pure,
begging Him to forgive my sins.
i'm sorry for being terrible.
i'm sorry for tarnishing your holy name.

my blood is dirty.
it runs red against my white church dress.
a gold chain with a delicate cross round my neck,
and bangs screening my face from worshipers in the pews around me.

the harsh carpeting makes my knees hurt,
and i'm acutely aware of the youth pastor, and i'm observant of his wife.
and i watch the projection of his face, and i listen to his voice.
and as i flip through my bible, to "Isaiah, chapter 6-",
i can't help but choke up.

i go to church every Saturday, sometimes more.
spend all day there, save for 3 hours in the afternoon,
the crucifix in the sanctuary makes me cry all the same.

i'll never be good enough for a god.
never enough.
not even for one who'll show me they exist.

i'll always be dirty, always be sinful.
it's human nature.
but i am not human. i am something else entirely.
so why can't i be better?

the seraph sings,
"Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory."
the seraph that spends day and night worshipping Him,
yet not pure enough to show his face in the presence of the Lord.

i am not pure enough to be in the presence of the Lord.

it makes me sick. sick, sick, sick-
i am sick to think about.
i am sick to talk to.

my name is like cyanide on your tongue:
i am the inhibitor, and faith in Him is the enzyme.

i am sick. i am sinful. i cannot be redeemed.
my blood is dirty and my dress is unclean too, and the cross i wear is a lie.
a false testament of faith.
i am no better than a dog. no better than the blind fool who rejects Him.

once again- i am a liar, and i am sick for it.
no god could ever love me. i am not good enough.

11.1.23

all i am

arms and legs and eyes and hands
and tears and muscle and fats
and bone and stem cells and marrow and plasma

secrets and lies and unspoken confessions
and prayers and guilt and trauma
and broken hearts and disgusting human impulse

animalistic urges and horrible thoughts
the things i've done and said and allowed
if you knew you'd be appalled

choking on sick and tears
and broken faith and vitriol and cyanide
and atrocities and epitaphs

making me better and worthy and pure
and holy and blank and forced to conform
and reforming me in the name of orthodoxy

say im everything and beauty itself
and helpful and kind and veritable
and i have nothing to worry about but how i look

simultaneously shoving my head under dirt
and sticky-stars and blankets and pillows
and pretending my body is still alive and ruining me

stealing and taking
and your greedy hands grab at whatever you can reach
and leaving the rest to decay

in the end, all i am
is blood and guts on your table

11.3.23

reminder

i stay up at night,
tossing and turning.
reminding myself i'm not that special,
and if i complain i'll only get the same 'i'm so sorry's

i live in a city and my dad makes six figures.
i have no reason to be upset.

i remind myself my 'troubles' would be luxury to someone else

i remind myself that nobody actually cares about my problems

i remind myself that i'm not the only one in the world who worries,
and therefore i shouldn't complain about inconsequential things
like what colour my ribbons are, or what i get for my birthday.

unreliable narrative

if my inner monologue was a book,
i'd surely be what english teachers call
an 'unreliable narrator'

convincing myself i'm not weird, or delusional, or eccentric
or all of the above
i'm really not.

but who else thinks about themself in this way, unless they truly are mad?
who seems unable to sleep at all,
who forces themself to think everyone else is odd.

really, i am self-centred. i am selfish and i am disrespectful.
i am a complete mess.

disorganized and frenetic, and rather creepy if you think about it.
jumping from this topic to the next,
disjointed sentences and shaky words.

obsessive and impulsive, and possessive as well.
the narrative is unreliable even to myself.

woe is me, i'm such a fucking tragedy

11.3.23

all of me (all for you)

i wanted to give you all of me.
no; you wanted to take all of me,
all for you.

i let you.
allowed you to cut bits of me off,
cook my flesh and eat it in front of me.
it was horribly disgusting;
i threw up when i got home.

i don't know when it got bad.
i convinced myself i wanted it-
maybe i did. i can't remember.
but your craving grew,
until small portions of my arms and legs
were no longer enough to satiate you.

we moved on to fingers,
then hands,
then an arm.
i cried while you cut me up, saying it was all for me.
that you know what's best.
that you're the only one who could love me now, like this.

i can't go home now,
stuck in your bedroom
like a freakshow-worthy pet

i'll cry about it and you'll wipe away the tears
while my bloody extremities are on a plate,
ready to be prepared

the sight of the blood makes me sick, sick, sick
but the sight of it makes you hot, hot, hot

misery

knives and blood and entrails plague my dreams
your fantasies make me ill

you stab, and cut, and slice,
and i scratch, and scream, and plead

but no amount of promises can get me out of this now
nothing i can say will change your mind

i hate it, i hate you

i hate misery

11.6.23

untitled

sometimes, i long to cry.
i usually hate it:
that feeling of utter uselessness.
i hate it.
but, now, i want it. i'd prefer it.

i know a lot.
i know that my therapist spilled her guts.
they made her, and i know that.
tortured her until she confessed.

i'd assume she didn't but i know she did.
i shouldn't have told her anything.

i hate the government.
i know they want to get me-
they want to kill me,
to stick needles in my head and arms and face,
and take blood from me,
take my memories from me.

once they get what they want i'll be of no use.
just another one they killed. another body.
that's it.

i don't want to be just a body.
i don't want to die.
i don't want them to get me.

i can't handle it, i can't.
i don't want to die.

i wish i could cry, now.

11.13.23

soft

oh, to be a girl
who's only concern
is how to dress
for the photoshoot

i want to be soft,
pure as snow
and sweet as sugar
love in my veins

i want to be loved, adored
white dresses,
black shoes
frilly socks and vinyl records

and i want silk sheets,
goose down pillows,
a four-poster bed
and light pink carpets

windows with sills,
big enough to perch upon,
delicate curtains
and fairy lights above my head

i want to be an angel,
documented and photographed
in the most loving ways,
far beyond the rest

what everyone adulates,
what little girls look up to,
what boys search for in partners,
what mothers want, too

oh, to be a girl
who can lay in the sun all day
pink sunglasses, bubble gum,
hair in pretty twintails

i want to be delicate,
held like a porcelain doll,
whom everyone is afraid to break,
that everyone idolizes

11.18.23

you.

i am tired, constantly
my eyes droop in class
and i can't sleep at night

but i think of you
all the time
i want to hold you,
whisper pretty things to you

every loud thought in my head
is silenced by you
all my anxiety and sadness
you take it all away

i want you to kiss me softly,
and say that you love me

i love you