SomethingOnceSacred

Charon, I still keep the constellations in jars. You will not take me across the Acheron, so I wait on the river bank, trying to steal pennies from other passengers. I hear them clinking in your hull, ferryman, forgotten and oxidized. You call me by my name, even now. "Persephone is dead, and her king never heard you crying out as I have." I sang a hymn for you, Charon, but you only smiled and turned away. Charon, have you met the slighted king? When he called, I answered, but his memory was just as rotten as mine. I had loved him with my own shadow, once. Ferryman, have you ever been in love? "Stay on the shore. There are those who would

It left a taste in my mouth, like swallowing A handful of salt water. I had Loved you in my sleep, waking up to wonder If the devil had at last taken me. I gave my soul away To spiders made of ink. The ground looks so much softer From six thousand feet above; I knew this fall Before sweet dreaming, midnight wishes, all Glasgow smiles and gnashing teeth. And you would pick The skin from my lips for those Copper kisses and say that it Was only for a little while.

I realized in sixty-five stars, You were as big as the ocean And twice as terrifying. You had such a Pretty way of leaving high tide In my lungs; I never knew what to do with my hands. In three years, this girl will be another ghost Standing in the corner, picking Dandelions and itchy scabs, pretending she could ever pray To a dying god. She counts backwards from thirteen And makes wishes for your skin and Catastrophes. Seven more hours, fifty-six minutes, and sixteen Seconds and it will be 3:54 and I’ll breathe to sixty Twenty-nine times before I can open my eyes again. He said I would break you Between twenty-four bones And th

There are a thousand ghosts of you   Branded   Into flesh that would have never otherwise   Been so lovely and marred. Your image is pressed   Into all the pieces you’ll take away with you When you grow out of my tired skins. Let me Exist in every line Of your calloused palms, for a little while, to guard against   All the things that have hurt you Before I could make them disappear.   You were a sanctuary   Disguised as a rainstorm, circling   Across the sea. I got swept   Back to shore And you never drifted away.   There’s ice on the window panes and I know   You would think it’s beautiful, tracing phantoms   Of forme

I was gifted with sandpaper knuckles And a crooked spine for those tired enough   To fit into the awkward curve of my waist.   Un-squared shoulders are best for catching Tears otherwise meant for dirty pillow cases.   My bones creak and ache to echo back A sorrow my lips couldn't understand. There’s an ocean Between my ears, but ribs held together   With scraggly, red ribbons, hardly   The depth of a bathtub, couldn't Keep it back from my eyes. There was A little girl, addicted to the smell of blood And the taste of salt water, Who told me   That angels never understand the importance of oxygen; I wish Each evening to remember

There was never anything so lovely, so poetic, Lying here beneath smashed ribs, a wandering Heart much less brave and beautiful than you Promised it to be, penned down in borrowed ink straight From the veins of a tired man's wrist. You, shackled man, with sleepy eyes and weathered hands, just Smiled, promising her, as she swallowed blocks of salt to try and burn The demons trapped in the pit of her stomach, you knew Exactly what freedom was. "The righteous man Could have at least learned enough of the truth To have faked a holy purpose," smoothing matted hair From sewn eyes, your stained, paper butterflies taking the chocolate Wrap

If there is anything I've learned from Waiting for you to fall asleep, It’s that when I get restless At four o’clock in the morning, there’s no Point in getting up to try and write you poetry. I've got a list Made up of the seven things I haven’t ever Been able to tell you Hidden in my back pocket, in case one day I work up the gall And lack the reason. Every blank page before noon Has got your name written all over it, and all The most satisfying impossibilities Seem so much more comfortable After midnight. If you spend enough time Watching a clock seeming To go backwards, You begin to remember How much y

I've spent far too long In these cities; I am Beginning to grow into spaces I was Never meant to fit, and this Copper coin at my throat twists another Loop closer to suffocation. I'm Slowly Forgetting how the salt used to burn. Smoke was granted with The promise it was oxygen to a child who Could not tell the difference, And they all Smiled, because she would never Tire of the taste of ash. Somehow, It was always tainted and poetic, painted Up nice for a whole world to Pass her by in a rush for the Tyrannical sun. I have shed too many old skins On these broken avenues and my feet Have bled their last for these people, Speckles

A red ribbon For every reminder to Forget all the bruises Better swept under the bed, And a silver knot for all the nooses She's tied herself in the past decades. She was an executioner, wrapped In a package of Forced smiles and ink-stained fingertips. There were two cents beneath A tongue that mocked innocence-- but Never Claimed it-- She bribed the ferryman To bring her back for a chance at life As a poet, Instead of a false prophet, all hands In front pockets and clumsy Steps and Sheepish grins that hardly Read a word to the people who Couldn't see the ticks between Her lips and teeth, or see a Seperate galaxy between starlight P