Stay

Push me down, lead me round, throw me away

I beg you stay

Lead me on, treat me wrong, unfair play

I plead you stay

Hold me close, want me most, hands on my yearning spine

Yet decline to be mine every day….

I dream you stay

Hold me down, let me drown in your eyes; hazel lies

Every breath wonderless, truthfulness still null, yet…

Stay, come what may.

Stay.

Red

Your face

My lace

The sheets at my place

Begonias

Powdered Rouge

The bottoms of my shoes

The heat in my veins

The soul of our flames

Your letters, unsigned

Our secret defined

Who Am I

Confusion is bewildering
Who am I? A wanton girl
Playing alone on the rusted swings
Dirt all in her tangled curls


Growth is necessary
Who am I? A woman? No.
A crying child still trapped within
Soaked in tears and paper thin


Identity is transient
Who am I? No one yet
Older than dust with ears still wet
Too old to remember, too empty to forget


Faith is ever waning
Where are you? strange voice in the wind
Tell me where the labyrinth ends
I froze in fear where it begins

Black Magic doesn’t Work on the Devil

I like to think that I

Captivate with my brown eyes

Wordlessly hypnotize

On a throne of butterflies

I often believe that I

Capture prey in silky lies

Pouncing while they fantasize

Of dreamy days and steamy nights

I push my pins in

You don’t let me win

Toxic slowly sinking in

But you counter with a grin

Me and my love are black magic

Your hallowed out heart is satanic

I cannot believe that I

Can’t Magick my way into it

Bourbon and Vermouth

Your eyes cast a merciless spell

Your kiss banishes me to hell

My heart wonders what drum yours beats to

My kiss tastes of bourbon and vermouth

I don’t mind when your skin confronts mine

I don’t expect your heart to be mine

You see lust where I see regret

I haven’t learned how to fight it, yet.

Flower Massacre

A field of flowers, a plague wrought upon by my insecure thoughts:

Does he love me, or does he not?

I scatter the petals into the wind; they falter, unable to answer my question

A daisy chain is broken with ruthless pain as my fingers commit a massacre

He loves me not, or does he? Why don’t the full blooms answer?

They say a lady should never sleep with a stranger

But his arms felt like freedom to my entangled heart

The blood-thirsty lips of the devil have a taste for foolish girls

And their foolish desires which wholly satiate liars and their sick lusts

Are they any less savage than those of us who lay waste to a field of roses?

Licking the blood the thorns draw from our fingers

The pain of bleeding is far more satisfying than that of a broken heart, constantly wounded and dense in scar tissue

He loves me, he loves me not.

Siren Song

Gone before long, such a shame

A moment into his voyage, he capsized in a watery grave of lily pads.

She sang to him, she lured him in, with crystal petals and a mischievous grin.

Intoxicated by flowers, and inebriated by lust, her voice reverberated within his head,

And whimsically, she braids her hair, and watches his boat break among stones.

Just another fool, yet another fool

And the love of a fool doesn’t last very long,

So he may as well suffer a siren’s song.

Strawberries in the Winter

Strawberries taste like summer, with a sweetness that gives me visions of green strawberry fields

With bright red gems glittering with the morning’s slowly dissipating fog

And fragile white, round-winged butterflies fluttering through the miles and miles of sweet strawberries.

Tasting a strawberry in the midst of a winter, I wonder how far we roam to find strawberries in a place so cold

Across the country, through the snow, to the other side of the world where it isn’t below zero

Or maybe just a little down south, where the porch is warm enough to languidly rock and watch the trucks drive by

Through day and night, to bring these strawberries out of the light and hope they survive.

A journey up the coast, to where the sun doesn’t shine and the earth is too cold for strawberries to grow

They taste like another place, or another time, as I’ve witnessed summer before with my own eyes:

It smells like the green leaves of the strawberry, tastes just as sweet and sounds like cicadas

Feels like sweat on my forehead, my bare feet on sand and a cool salty wind with an ocean wave cadence.

I wonder if strawberries in the winter taste just as nostalgic as pomegranates in the summer

To fully validate the irony in that I only miss one when I’m with the other.

Lagos

There is no wind for whispers; just the silence of the sea.

As the waves lap at my feet, I soundlessly weep at the solace the sun has given my soul.

At last, I am whole, together with the sand from which my form was span

And the salt that seasons my tears.

After so much time alone, I’m finally home to a place I’ve never been.

I long to see that blue sea once again.

Lagos, Portugal