delos ~ a poetry collection

the devil you know v.s. the devil you don't
trust the devil you know
and find anger hidden in the super glued cracks of their composure.
trust the devil you don't
and find the truth spattered across their many masks like paint.
i don't know
which devil
i am.

dead in my head
break my brain with little lies
and tell me what it's like to scream.
feed me cake and riddle pies
and let me spill to you my dreams.
cover me in sunset marker,
make your thoughts a little darker,
lead your dreams right to the slaughter,
turn yourself into a martyr.

it's easy to kill yourself in your head.

of apples and dreams and swords on the stage
and what of the dreams, dear one?
the dreams in which you called me by names
so foreign yet so full of feeling.
the dreams in which you sang and i played
and it seems no words or weapons could harm us.
the dreams in which you whispered in my ear and i
staggered across the stage you built,
screaming to myself that all would be well
even as i clutched my chest to halt the pain
that trickled through my fingertips like a nasty trick.
the dreams in which your fingertips became swords
and your tongue became blades,
and this stage felt more cutting and raw than before.
the dreams in which your touch made me bleed
in ways i did not wish to comprehend.
these dreams became nightmares.
poisoned and rotting,
these apples fall far from the tree.

angel
i cut my words from the paper the moment i make them.
it becomes some sort of challenge or game
to cut and paste more times than i can count.
i fear i may be like that angel
depicted in that beautiful painting,
plucking feathers from her wings and
using her own blood
in order to write.

friend groups
this
accumulation 
of people
makes me think of
isolation. 
because that what it feels like 
despite the tables being full.
everyone is miles away
from understanding each other
and everyone’s minds are whirring
with insecurities and the words of others. 
people talk to other people
and no one has any business of saying more
about something they don’t know. 
we separate, we divide, we reconnect, we disconnect,
we cut off everything that makes us feel and worry and want to cut our own hearts out.

staccato
we’re clumsy when we climb and we end up falling. 
this is
an unsteady decrease
marked by pockets
and peppered holes. 
a staccato beat
bleeding ink through paper and onto piano keys.

nightmare: drowning mother
i had a dream last night. 
it was centered around miscommunication and blurred lines and inhaling water and deceit. 
my mother was drowning because she couldn’t speak, 
breathing in water instead of air, 
toes touching stone instead of tile
underneath broken lines of light
warped through water. 
my fingertips brushed hers, 
my mouth was open, 
letting water in as i chanted
the words we needed to say
to save ourselves from drowning. 
you cannot speak, mama?
that’s okay. i can try to speak enough for the both of us.

nightmare: falling father
i had a dream last night. 
it was centered more around the setting than it was crumbling foundations,
though both pressed their importance most thoroughly. 
my father took me out to california,
a place i’ve never been. 
he took me to their beach. 
all my life, i have lived on east coast beaches–
flat enough to only be barely rolling,
characterized by smooth sand
and crystalline water
that suck in both hearts and bodies. 
in my california dream, i saw cliffs
crumbling into the ocean with sand and roots and rotting earth. 
i slipped and fell through sand and clutched at roots to stay above the piercing, jagged rocks.
i climbed back up using sand i thought was stone
that ended up crumbling beneath my desperate grip
and falling against my gritted teeth. 
once we got back up, i stayed closer to the grass
while my father lingered by the crumbling shore. 
is he absent because he hears
the call of the wind and sea 
his father always answered?
yes? no? 
apprehension for an answer
beats like a drum in my fingertips. 
father, do not fall
into the festering blue we call the sea. 
i am not strong enough to pull you out.

bleeding heart
"patience is a virtue"
and it's one i do not have.
do not preach to me
about words i already know
and have had tied into my being for so long
that i have become more benign than benevolent,
turning blind eyes to bad guys
and ignoring every warning sign
by telling myself it's all fine.
my grievances have formed a line
how can i survive
trying to define
myself so brutally, so dishonestly?
this feels like a shipwrecked policy.
broken down like planks of wood,
rotting like old ships should,
the mast kissing the sky
like i wish to, and i
would break myself apart to
watch my wretched heart
fall into the sea
and then come back to me,
blisters breaking open in the flesh,
wounds cauterized to feel like mesh--
is my legacy my bleeding heart?
if it is, i will start
to reshape and redefine it.
I will not be remembered
as someone people could walk all over
without consequence.

i carry the weight of my life
i carry the weight of my
life in my hands, 
calloused and cold and
turned red with blood and rust. 
i carry the weight of my 
life on my shoulders,
coiled and tense and
crumbling under the building pressure. 
i carry the weight of my
life in my memory, 
holding onto each moment
like not doing so would cost me everything. 
i carry the weight of my
life in my voice, 
melodic and raw and
catastrophizing the burden by calling it heavy. 

school before the last bell of the week rings
the dreary afternoon sky and
dim fluorescent lighting
of the classroom in
the last few minutes
before school is let out
and tests are still being taken and
chatter is the quietest
it will ever get to be.
this is what truly embodies
school for the sake of school
and not for the sake of learning.

chasing sheep
and so i shall run back to sleep
as though my dreams are my homes
and reality is where my safety is breached.
i'll think of milk in a kettle
and cats in cradles
and all the nursery rhymes
that made my eyelids droop
when i was that little girl
chasing the sheep she was supposed to be counting
one by one over the fence
in hopes that it would help her dream.

mary shelley's creature
he was not an adam.
he was the innocence
of every small child
being told to be quiet and be smart,
to exhibit talent and obey;
to forget art in favor of science;
to ignore the way nature curves into the line of beauty;
how when you look at the world with fascination,
anything can be beautiful.
he was not an adam.
he was something new, something
created.
created to be a creature, not a son.
to be an image, not a living thing.
he was not an adam.
every sin he committed was pushed into his hands.
the creator fed him the forbidden fruit and,
upon the first glance of the juice dripping from his chin,
said,
"you do not belong."
you do not belong.
what a sad, sad thing to say to a child.
still, he was not an adam.
he was an eve.

conflicted
the unkindnesses of others
cracks my breaking skin,
the frostiness of their hearts
leaving me to withering.
a shallow, discontent beast
ravages my soul
as this callous monster feasts
and my confidence takes tolls.
i worry i'm no good,
that i don't do as i should.
maybe it's the monsters
who are misunderstood.
i'd never do what they do,
even on my darkest days.
i'd be kind and fight through
instinctive, hurtful ways.
still, i am conflicted,
and my heart cleaves into two.
if i am what i've inflicted,
am i not enough for you?
am i terrible for you?

"no offence, but it's not really the same."
i thought i'd gained your
approval. am i
no longer worthy of it?
or, perhaps, i never was.
perhaps i always
was-- and always
will be--
beneath you.