flowered in tumors, in the end, only evil found your soiled soul fertile.
tonight, i have conjured the witch and brought you back to life, and, daddy, it was easy. you are
dead, yet forever, still, you swim in my blood.
perhaps if you had a grave, perhaps you’d be laid to rest, perhaps if god was a god who suffered
fuckboys. that text to jesus in the last days? revelations and a three-headed beast, when the ghost
gets ghosted, when the answer to bent knees and pathetic prayers be, new phone, who dis. daddy
with the two heads, a face of love, a face of hate, and me and jesus down by the schoolyard
at eighteen, i changed my number. at 30, i put flesh to fire, the hands that bruised that welded the
belt, the heavy feet just down the hall, the tongue set fluent in torture, well, fam and i took the
bits of burned down bone, took fierce and maleficent filaments from black to red then pale
and gray, and motherfucker, in the end all fuckboys fuck themselves.
and all daughters with daddies are written in sky, we suck at the spark, every glow that we can,
we swallow the specks, we tend every wound as an opening that went too far, too wide and for
too long and we fill it with light,
we open our veins to stars, we stay high, we stay alive. we keep daddies around to remind us
still, we survived, and yo, like Angelou, still, we rise.
i miss the big of you
the simple sex of it, the hunger – you
and your dirty mouth
how you reached in and made the mess of me
a little less ragged
the unsingable singable
the wetness more wet
you and your shameless heat
fingers fucking the glut of me, the girl who
likes it and likes it more
hard as you fast as you can i can
take it deeper than deep.
she has to bore you
those shiftless eyes
those stormless skies
i was the ocean you tried to hold
the salt of me lingers