Seven Poems From My Seventeenth Year

left as unedited as possible :')

I. The Girl Who Carried the Stars

The creature sulked

and slumped

and lurked.

Its voice was demonic and echoing

as if Its throat was an extensive, damp cave.

It bellowed the first command with lackluster.

It was in need of entertainment.

“Bring me the oceans.”

The girl had no choice but to venture into the desert

And then the forest

And then the jungle,

All barefoot,

Until she reached the vast waters.

With wavering strength she forced the water to travel across the lands.

The water would collapsed upon her

And the salt dried her up.

The sharks attempted to eat her,

They bit at her skin.

Nevertheless, she endured the oceans

And delivered it to the creature.

It laughed and howled

At the absurdity of her gift,

At the fact she’d actually done it.

The creature was hysterical.

It was instantly fascinated

With the girl and her subservience.

It bedeviled her.

“Bring me the mountains.”

“Bring me the jungles.”

“Bring me the waterfalls.”

“Bring me Europe.”

“Bring me the horizon.”

“Bring me the moon.”

“Bring me the stars.”

The stars were the worst of them all.

They were unbearable.

They branded her,

Ignited her flesh,

And left her skin black and smoldering.

But the stars had been

The most amusing

And the most pleasing gift of them all.

The creature laughed and clapped,

Invigorated and roused.

It offered the girl a sadistic praise

Before sending her off once more

To have her acquire for It the universe.

II. Getting Older

A vast wilderness now lies within me

the same way a crater sinks into the moon.

And there is this woman that wanders through it

Possessing a conviction I can’t understand.

I feel that she doesn’t want me to either,

But to simply let her roam as she pleases.

Somehow she knows this place better than I do.

I try to trail her, but I lose her every time.

And when I see her again, it is only because she decided to find me.

This woman is an asteroid, gone and lost in space,

Leaving behind a forested crater in my chest

that is possessed by her essence

For—seemingly—no reason at all.

All the time I find myself impulsively digging at it with my fingers.

III. Pseudo Ribs

Pseudo ribs protect this very real heart

Like a child protecting her mother.

These ribs are small, child-like fingers

Attempting to encase a mature heart,

a mothering muscle,

With youth and innocence.

What must be strong bone is still cartilage.

What must be full fledged is still immature.

These ribs falter, but they play their role.

These fingers are small, but they still cling

To their mother’s trembling hand - and tremble with her -

reassuringly

Like pseudo ribs

Around a defenseless heart.

IIII. Ruined Perfection

Heaven sends down an angel

Like an open mouth spilling sweet nothings.

The more I grow,

The more I envision

That same mouth overflowing,

Like Heaven sinking toward Earth.

But I know better than to ponder

Heaven spoiling

And overflowing mouths.

I know better than to ponder ruined perfection,

And there is perfection in the sculpted outline of those lips.

There is obvious perfection in those

cold, golden gates— Heaven’s lips.

What a perfect idea that angels

Come down to see us and help us

And spill sweet nothings,

But wouldn’t it be such a sight

Seeing them cry?

V. Sympathy

On Halloween I spent the night in my room.

I counted the wolves outside my window.

One, two, three,

Three vampires, now trying to find me.

Apparently my blood is a delicacy.

I counted the skeletons passing by:

One, two, three, four, five.

And yet I still don’t have a spine.

In the middle of night,

When I had finally passed out,

The vampires and wolves

They came into my house.

The skeletons were too late.

When they finally arrived,

I was already bitten and drained,

Torn to the bone,

But they stayed for a while.

Then, they gave me a spine of my own.

VI. Pain Exiting Flesh

Tear into me on a starry night.

Open my scars. Lay out my vulnerability.

It will be a red carpet for my soul

As it ascends to the heavens.

I’m assuming it’s true,

That God wants every single soul,

Tangled and warped by its own possessor.

Even if God ends up turning me away,

I beg of you,

Turn me inside out.

Expose my intimate sadness,

My blood and guts,

To that phenomenon with

unadulterated emptiness

so that my vain presence

disrupts its opulent indifference.

It doesn’t matter if nothing is out there,

Just don’t let me rest with that mess in me.

VII. The Butcher

November was a bloody month.

It was the end of me and the beginning of us.

The end of “mine” and the beginning of “ours”.

But instead of extending to one another,

reaching for each other’s essence,

I became a part of you.

And like the handle of a knife extending from my heart,

so murderous and final,

I am the extension of you: the butcher.

You sever pieces of me to replace the missing parts of you.

What part of me is your favorite? What part of me will you destroy?