K's Kyrielle

Twenty-first

Pierced by steel-tipped
wishes I tried to preserve my heart in a freezer,
but I was long past my expiration date.

My bones are midnight-tinted,
right to my fingertips.
You said, “don’t talk to me”
after I painted my eyes black.
You spoke as if I were dying.

Twenty-second

Crunching sand
between my back teeth while bottling
the sun, trying to drink it like bleach
(quick and easy, quick and easy) because
“nothing fucking works any more!”

Crunching snow
beneath my boots, but my breath
doesn’t mist; my lungs have melted, seeped
out, pooled in corners like surface run-off
as if I’ve spent too much time
infiltrating the topsoil.
Can I have a little quiet please?
The last time I saw you I spoke you dark,
and have woken up with the taste of paranoia
on my palate every day since.

while bottling the sun

Oooh I love this.

Twenty-third

Sink your teeth into me.
Bury your fist wrist-deep in my chest,
leave an imprint in dirt
from under your fingernails -
a testament to depths of the Earth
you were dug in.

I don’t shatter the same way as those empty
wine bottles we threw into the street -
my breaks are softer than that,
and I slam myself into the pavement
for stress relief, not for the same sort of satisfaction
we have from taking double shots of star-
crowded windows.

Twenty-fourth

You are the cosmos that seeped
into ribs; flying buttresses -
a resistance to lateral falling
wall-forces.
Your camera is stutteringly erotic – succubus
in full sprint of day, glutting
on the reciprocal of your fish-eye lens,
teaching me to shoot first
and ask questions never.
“J’ai envie de toi” was the line
in the sand.

Twenty-fifth

i.
Nail me to a cross.

ii.
Pierce my side with daydreams
so I can watch the sand spill
from the broken hourglass
behind my ribs.

iii.
I auctioned you off
to my fondest memories.

iv.
I sacrificed my body to narcotic
wine, resurrecting spiteful
enough to not give a fuck.

v.
I had you tattooed to the inside of my long-
term memory,
because these days you don’t exist at all.

Twenty-sixth

pulling back the veil
you reminded me
that you were a princess
but I could not give
a royal fuck

Twenty-seventh

The weather vane told me you smelled
like rain today,
but you tasted like sandpaper, dry
and stinging. At least when you lie to me
you’re honest about it.

Twenty-eighth

I have dog-eared every page
with you name on it since the narrative
switched to third-person;
I can’t interact, only observe.
Your cells propagate the previous scene,
and populate the next one -
life seems to follow you.
I’m tempted to compose black-out
poems on your skin,
because it’s the only way I can touch you
since the second-person died.

Twenty-ninth

You are the daughter of intersections
and the Sun. “Heart of a lion,”
you said before trading mine for a mane.
There was never enough anatomy
in my body to please everyone at once
after that. If only it was your head
I could hear banging on the wall next door.

Thirtieth

You used to trace the spaces
between the freckles on my chest
but that was before I used my fingernail
to gouge them out,
tearing out flesh
to reach the cancer underneath.
You keep saying I need more sunshine,
but staring directly at it only makes my head hurt.

Obligatory poem about NaPo

napo is over
didn't exactly start strong
steadily got worse.