Diglette

I'm choking on the ink-dipped fingers of verbs & metaphors still lodged in this bruised, paper crane throat; the starving, dead-flower scent of your words, still kissing my ribs. How can you judge me- when you don't bother to read the naked poetry beneath the temple of my flesh? How long can butterfly ankles hold up a star-soaked frame? Don't bother whispering your secrets to nebulae, not even the dust in my veins will listen anymore.

this is hard for the world around us to grasp: these wildfires raging in our retinas & the sins we wear like demonic similes on our tongues- they are not enough. & i am so fucking sorry of saying i'm sorry. but, tell me, what is a young poet(ess) to do with veins made of kite strings?

She is dream dust, too bitter or wise for her own good. A timeless dragon's soul somewhere inside a scaled shell, burning the silence in her bones alive, honeysuckle sweet. She collects fireflies only to set them free at 3am, crying to an uncaring moon. & she's begging for the stars to take her away, make this house a home rigged in the sky. To me, She is already naked fever swimming through the cosmos & I orbit her.