Sylvia -
daddy was complex,
aloof and off to praise
a rotten war.
Mother lived
under a bell jar
and and never turned
around to see
the color of
your eyes.
Marriage was not
the tonic
you hoped it would be -
no salvation
in taking care
of dust and laundry;
and children did not come
with wings,
only rope.
So you compensated -
two glasses of milk
and your head stuffed inside the oven,
baking
like an offering
until the heavy thump
came on the floor
and you were confiscated.
boys with bird names cant actually fly. by DearPoetry, literature
Literature
boys with bird names cant actually fly.
i fill my lungs with blackberries
& nicotine because it is the only way
I can stomach the taste.
a phoenix told me once
that he could teach me
how to burn properly,
as if scolding
had preferences
[ like the intercostal
spaces of a ribcaged
embrace. ]
he fell in love
with my words
first,
before he knew
the height of my
cheekbones
or the annoying
sound of my laugh.
he said he could count
all my scars on one hand-
even the ones that wake me
at 3 am with an itch i swear
begs me to rip them open
again.
& i told him he could keep
his pretty words and fiery fingers
creatively away from me.
i am tired of smelling of hell
& as
when i first met you,
terror chilled down
the heat
of my
louisiana
spine.
i shivered
& my heart
began to build
walls over walls
over walls-
beating:
fuck this,
i won’t let them
hurt you, again.
i have a tendency
to get knocked
off my feet
& not know
how to get back up.
i’m still crawling around,
searching for your heart
beats under my bed
& between my tangled
sheets.
i am pathetic.
but,
you were all crooked,
misshapen insecurities
& nights of forgetting
to take your zoloft.
i didn’t think I would miss that.
i didn’t think I would miss you.
you fell like a meteor
for him, hours after
you demolished me.
& i ca
Other boys tell me
I’d look best
disheveled,
firmly pressed
against
their skin.
& they know
I am girl-
from the curve of my hips,
to this jutting collarbone,
lonely of love bites
& bruises.
But, your hands shape
falsities out of my limbs
with a tongue speaking of me
in riddles;
Isabella,
Christine.
Why do I allow your body
to find rest against these bones
when you don’t even recognize
the taste of my moon skin
between your teeth?