Bury my phone under the maple tree.
Do not unlock it.
Let the passwords rot my teeth.
Let the wind lift the dirt in small spirals above it
so anyone passing by feels the urge to walk faster.

Keep the bracelets.
Keep the letters in the wrong order.
Let my poems splinter across languages
until no one can tell what happened first.

They will plant my voice in the garden
and water it with salt,
never admitting they were the ones
who taught me to bite.
They will leave flowers at the door
and pretend they never nailed it shut.

They will drop my name in the brown-thick lake
and watch the fish stop swimming,
like an old car battery, or a dead dog,
and it will feel like both,
depending on the sun.

They will drag my words ashore, gut them for parts.
They will build a church from my mouth,
hang my jawbone above the altar,
and pray it never speaks again.
I will kneel with them,
smiling with my empty mouth.

They will say the work was too sharp,
the girl inside it dangerous,
and never admit they handed her the knife.
They will polish the handle,
wrap it in velvet,
and wonder why she carried it everywhere,
as if it wasn’t still dripping.

Your demons don’t play well with mine,
They bite and they bruise and entwine.
Yours weaponize tears,
Mine whisper, come near.
The chaos is purely divine.

Yours gasp for the rush of cool air,
Mine drown in your scent, flesh, and stare.
Yours vanish like shame;
Mine burn all the same,
Still lit by the hunger we bear.

We drift toward escape, dark and slow,
They bloom with our secrets and grow.
Yours pull at my seams;
Mine knot in your dreams.
A dance only demons could know.

They told me —
a woman’s hunger
should be poetic,
not physical.
Desire should be folded
into metaphors
and hidden in kitchen drawers
behind cumin and shame.

But my lips
do not write verses
to please you.
They burn with wanting—
not your approval,
but my own arrival
into a body
that I refuse to apologize for.

You called me dangerous
because I asked for more
than survival.

You called me broken
because I moaned without fear
and dared to say
what women were only allowed
to whisper into pillows
after the lights went out.

I am not the fire
that ruined your perfect home.
I am the fire
you lit
and ran from.

I touched myself
and did not shatter.
I confessed to desire
and did not turn to stone.
I spoke of my body
as mine—
and that
made your temples tremble.

You said,
“This is why women are left.”
“This is why marriages die.”
“This is why daughters should be quiet.”
“This is why God gave shame to Eve.”
And I replied—
“No. This is why women are reborn.”

Your disaster
is not my doing.
It is your brittle masculinity
cracking under the weight
of a woman
who refuses to be less.

I lit a lamp inside me,
and you called it a wildfire.
But don’t mistake my flame
for your ruin.
I burn to become — not to destroy.

I touch things I’m not supposed to
and call it prayer.
mouth open,
spine bent,
tongue tasting the fence line.

They say longing is holy
if it stays quiet,
but mine doesn’t—
mine breaks the jar and drinks the oil.

They told me I was an open wound,
festering with verse and girlhood.
They weren’t wrong.
But wrong feels a lot like worship
when done slow enough.

They say impure
like it’s a curse,
but all my favorite girls
are made of swampwater and sin.

I’ve never confessed
without turning it into performance.
My mouth was built
for poetry
and plea deals.

I was thirteen
when I learned to ache
without making a sound.
Seventeen
when I turned it into scripture.
Twenty-five
when I realized no one was coming
to carry the body but me.

I keep trying to write
the right-sized truth
but it never fits in a single poem
or apology.

I want back the girl
who ran barefoot into fire
because she believed
it might be heaven.

I want someone to touch me like I’m soft—
even if I’m not.
Even if I bite back.

I want to grab
without apologizing
for how hot my hands are.
I want someone to look at me
like a threat they’d die for.

I want the kind of love
that makes funerals nervous.
I want to be written about
by someone who isn’t me.

And I want to want less.
But I don’t.

You want a softer girl?
Tell that to the altar
I keep burying her under.

When the Red Death held sway over us all
There is no pain
There is no remorse for life
Only blood flowing down lucidly
And don’t you see?
The blood is my haven
And I seek refuge in it
Every time

When he jumps off the 13th floor
Does he feel the wind
Freeing him
Or does he see blood oozing out
As his flesh slumps in it
Like a sleeping infant?
And he seeks refuge in it
Every time

When he cut his ear
Did the blood rush to his head
Or hands first?
Did he pour it into a cup
Or let it speak lazily?

Do you bathe in the very blood
That forms you
Or eat yellow paint instead,
Van Gogh style?
Do you let the waves brush you
Or build another door
That doesn’t tower over you?
Do you let the shadows watch you
Or do you sip your drink
And wait for all your hallucinations
To come alive?

And don’t you see?
The blood is my haven
And I seek refuge in it
Every time

I could only keep my full omerta
when that one and only friend of mine
turned away and
lay his slender body
on the chaise longue

Those doe eyes now wide closed
as the ascot came loose

And his voice croaked
in a dull monotone:
“It's not my desire to cast Love aside, like Alberich and Wotan did
—as others do as well.

I was forced to do it all,
before Love could've launched, Its long-schemed
most arcane betrayal, which had been planned
in minute details, since the day
we were born.”

My fingers unfold the truth
on a late night poem
in a different country
than my own–
between two black cars
a street light,
wine,
beer,
and
hard drugs

untold white lies
        
        Do you know what's really hard?

         Trying to make something beautiful or ugly
          out of a lie.
      
            This is me now
talking to the reader
or probably talking just to myself:
                   There's a hole in the Earth of me
                   my tooth has a cavity
                   I have a man
                   who can't keep
                   the truth in his pants
his mouth
gets real happiness
when he can bend
what's real and what
he wants me to know
which takes away any real
chance at happiness
                                             the only real
                                             way I can
                                             find out the lies
                                             is by picking
                                             up pennies
                                             that lead down
                                            a trail
                                             to girls,
                                                     coke,
                                                        hash, and
                                                         attention
                                                           seeking,
                                                     rocks
                                                 and a hard
                                              place.

There I go again
trying to make
poetry
out of tears,
and an untrusting heart.

                                   He makes
                                 amazing poetry.
                               about nights he's lied
                             keeping it hidden
                         in metaphors
                      and grandiose statements
while I applaud and like each write.
                
                          I'm ******* stupid
                         that's probably why
                         he says he likes
                         me as much as he does

You think about
the times
when your gut told you so
or the other times
when you ate it up
like drinks and fine dining

                              Now you forget to smile
                             and things you wouldn't
                             think would connect dots,
                             begin to.

My breast hurt
and I feel a panic attack
is at the bottom of this bottle of beer

Now I can say
I didn't make a poem
cause these are just words
on a page

Don’t knock.
Just rattle the door like the wind did
that night I sat in the bathtub
eating ice with a steak knife.
Bring your worst self—I’ll know what to do.

I’ve buried better men under worse moons.
Named stars after bruises and made constellations
out of what never touched me.
Still called it love.
Still called it mine.

I painted my ribcage lavender
to trick the vultures.
Grew silk in my throat
just to scream prettier.

There is no map.
Only muscle memory and perfume
that smells like the lie you almost told.
The one you rehearsed
but lost the spine
to say aloud.

I practiced not loving you
like it was piano.
Every night, slower.
Quieter.
Wrong keys, on purpose.

So if you must come,
come wrong.
Come ruinous and unready.
Come like someone who forgot the story
but wants to hear it again.

I won’t read it to you.
But I left the pen uncapped.
Go ahead. Ruin the rest.

“please, daddy–
don’t make me confess my sins.”
i hadn’t ever been so close
close to heaven
feeling enough pleasure to be able to compare.

“tell me, angel.” he tenderly whispers.
oh, he wants the truth..
should i tell him what i’ve done ?
i don’t think he’d like hearing
what his darling daughter does after dark.

–

ANGEL’S iNTERLUDE

FORGiVE ME, FATHER
FOR i HAVE SiNNED.
iT’S BEEN TOO LONG
SiNCE MY LAST CONFESSiON.

i DiD SOMETHiNG BAD
BUT iT FELT FAR TOO GOOD TO STOP.
THE iMMORAL SiN OF SELF PLEASURE
WE SHOULD FOREVER STRAY AWAY FROM DESiRE.

i DON’T WANNA ADMiT TO SOMETHiNG SO TWiSTED
BUT i LOVE THE SCENT OF YOUR SKiN–
HOLDiNG YOUR TATTERED TEE BETWEEN MY TEETH
TO HOLD BACK MY SCREAMS

ON MY ACTS OF DiSOBEDiENCE
DO YOU UNDERSTAND MY REASON ?
MY URGE TO GiVE iNTO THESE CARNAL CRAViNGS ?
YOU COULDN’T POSSiBLY BLAME ME.

iT WAS HOT AND i WAS NEEDY.
PENT UP FROM PUSHiNG PAST PRiVATiON
BUT WE ALL BREAK AT SOME POiNT, RIGHT ?
i FiGURED i’D MAKE iT QUiCK..

THEN i FELT THE HEAVY PULSE LiKE A HEARTBEAT
AND i KNEW i WANTED TO ENJOY iT
i’M TiGHT, DRiPPiNG WET AND SOFTLY GLAZED WiTH ESSENCE
i JUST COULDN’T WAiT PATiENTLY ENOUGH FOR YOUR PRESENCE

THERE WAS NO GOiNG BACK FROM THERE
i REALiZED i WOULD EiTHER GO TO HEAVEN
OR FEEL iT.
CLEARLY, i CHOSE THE LATTER.

AH, i PENETRATE, PUSH DEEPER AND DEEPER iNSiDE
THE NEED TO KEEP QUiET
BUT i WANTED YOU TO HEAR
TO KNOW THE SiDE OF ME THAT i DiDN’T EVEN KNOW MYSELF

MiND FALLS TO THE THOUGHT–
YOU LiCK THE SLiCK BETWEEN MY LEGS
TAKE THE MiLKY NECTAR
AND LET iT GLOSS OVER YOUR LiPS

OVERSTiMULATiON OVERLOAD
i’VE REACHED MY ******
SUCH A MESS, iT TRiCKLES DOWN MY THiGHS
AS i LET OUT A SYMPHONY OF SOFT WHiSPERED SiGHS

TASTE MYSELF ON THE TiPS OF MY FiNGERS
STiCKY AND SWEET LIKE HONEY
PRACTiCALLY POURiNG OUT
EXUDiNG THE ADDiCTiVE AROMA OF AROUSAL.

–

my thoughts intrigue me !
they lead me to imagine explicit things
i’ve never once thought about.
these all-consuming fantasies of you
that preoccupy my mind late during twilight.

“you shouldn’t speak like that, my dear.
indulging in such desires
can have dire consequences.
it’s like playing with fire,
though i know you like the way it burns.”

the night calls
and i just couldn’t help myself,
i had to tend to the appetite
and please to the calling
one way or another

the satin sheets soak up my shame
drenched in self pity
along with stigma
sultry noises escape my parted lips
suddenly sparking up the feeling again