The battle scars from betrayals stopped hurting eons ago
but the ink staining our palms, scratching out adjectives from our noctuaries,
for adjectives be a poet’s weed, his stash, his strength, his ego;
stains that kept burning like pyres, torching all self-pity and sorry and sympathies.
For those arms that once knew warmth must now be burned
for the sins they are guilty of… of all the tenderness and care
so they be held accountable now; and they’ll soon be damned
for all the love they’ve lied of, sculpting invisible tattoos of promises, lies laid bare.
she let them coil her, like two great serpents eager to devour
not off hunger, just sport… and she let them have her, body and soul
gently, slowly, she sunk into that abyss that those palms held for her
& emerged with her mortality intact & her psyche shattered in artless mosaics unknown.
Tired from holding funerals for all the carcasses of what used to be dreams
still imprisoned in that embrace, subjecting herself to an idea, to become an abstract
to embody nothing in those arms that embody her; nothing but an idea, a concept, a muted scream,
a whisper, a ghost of all that she’d given up, and all that she hoped to be, for her part in this act.
Pretending to be at peace, molding her reality to weave perspectives infinite, hoping
there’d exist one universe, at the least, where she gets to be real and so do all her needs
to be heard when not spoken, to be understood when she stood unexplained, almost begging
to let go of sanity for it held no shore she could swim to, to escape this and not to a path it leads.
A question of existence, dared not be spoken, dared not be heard
as if it was all inside an imagination of a vile child or a reality the world had forgotten of
for there be no other soul, no other thing she could label real but those arms that held her
and she urged herself to believe, that the arms didn’t hurt her, those fingers were her friends old.
And so she opened her eyes… not scared, not even daring her demons to exist, not even as a mistake
she just unwound her eyelids like phrases that didn’t know of a need to become statements.
Plain, undemanding, and for some reason, alive; she looked at herself, naked in her wake,
with imprints of all that she’d gone through written in tongues those things from her nightmares meant.
Neither a tear nor a smile but an acceptance of the fact of existence of life
a pity in itself, that the arrows of cupid couldn’t foul a heart that so desperately wanted to be fooled
perhaps they could only effect sinners or saints and she was none; neither be purged nor defiled
for her wings beaten out from her purgatories were real enough for her to remember the ink-stains she bathed in.