round as the moon let me
love myself
let me escape the beating
wings of womb bloodless let me
dance with white moths mother
where is your
tell me. i am clawing my
way out through sheer force of
will clawing blood clawing
placenta mother let me
as the moon is constant
love and death only variables mother
let me (out

an update of sorts

hi everyone! sorry i haven’t been writing for some time. i shall try to post more poetry soon, as well as a few reviews of books i’ve read recently. in other news, i graduated from high school a couple of weeks ago!! kind of scary/nostalgic/happy/exciting all at once. i’ll be starting college next year, so if you have any advice about that, please feel free to share. i’ll need it. anyway, i hope you’ve all been doing well! here is a mix of music i’ve been listening to lately:

Game Theory

There are these silences and then
the words in the middle, suffocating
out of love. That is to say, the love inside them
suffocates. Asphyxiated with a veneer of something
closer to common civility. But love bruises
so delicately. Like an apple in late November,
rotten fruit that will not reveal its ankles. Never
lay all your cards on the table. Everybody knows that,
even the gazelle who outruns the leopard only to fall
into the lion’s open maw. But I’m patient. I can wait
it out, live a little while the skies darken and the
moon comes into being, a curve just the sly arch
of Mona Lisa’s smile. I can bide my time while
the sun grows cold. After all, nobody said it
would be easy. In my dream, an apple made of blood.
Show me the blood in your mouth and I’ll show you – 
no. Your move.

Aubade at 5am

When I looked I did not see
My eyes were flooded with light, my limbs made of air,
as if there was no flesh, no matter, only shadow,
and blood welled in my heart,
and I could not breathe

It was the pain of beauty, the pain of love
It pierced me – it was so tenderly exquisite –
and my soul was a tendril of smoke
moving over the earth


What sunrise has come,
to greet the day with a mouthful of blood?

By night, three old crones sat at their loom,
weaving the clouds blood-orange, passing
an eye between them.

Now immune, I am no longer afraid of
the inconstant spindle. I prick my finger
on the axle of fate. Draw blood.

Rotten fruit flowers from these stigmata.
In and out, in and out, the needle whips
the red thread through this useless cloth.
The four velvet chambers will not give it up.