|Mah gallery. I hope you enjoy! ^^|
Before My Mouth Told You I Was Sickbefore my mouth told you i was sick, there wereBefore My Mouth Told You I Was Sick by Mercury-the-Queen
the fingers that wrapped around cups and cups of tea.
i sipped oceans.
i sipped the seven seas
and my ribs were the rainstick that
sent shivers pattering like some
down your swaying, praying spine.
there were the hurricanes.
that is what you came to call them,
my eyes burst into lightning,
my chest quaked with thunder,
when my ribs heaved with the monsoon
that was my breath
until i collapsed, shaking, into your
beach house arms.
there were the missing beats.
sometimes my heart slowed, stopped,
staggered home drunk to gasp morse-code warnings
between my aching ribs.
sometimes the stillness was so perfect
(and alone so tempting)
that i wished for the beat
to wander far and
to be forever lost.
there were the ribs, and the collarbones.
i was a mountain range with
blood in my rivers,
you saw the carrot sticks
(oh god how could you)
and you let me feed myself with
there was the blood i was suppose
Mother of Mine"i have loved you plenty"Mother of Mine by Mercury-the-Queen
she screamed as she slipped
away across the street, across the state,
across the country we spent hours loving,
sparklers in our hands and her lips by my ear.
"never forget where you come from."
well mom where i come from
they love you just enough to give you hope
and then they leave you
mom where i come from
hope is a curse because it keeps you from
cutting too deep at night,
it keeps the pills in the bottle and the
knife out of your veins,
sometimes the only thing that keeps you from
what you really want,
it's the only thing stronger than your need to
hurt, now tell me
how can you be okay with it when i scream
"let me die,"
how is it okay for me to hurt while
you hope that
whenif i make it through
i'll somehow still remember who you are
and that once upon a time
i loved you.
i remember where i came from.
a womb poisoned with fertility hormones and
reese's cups and hopes that this one
won't come ou
Carving Treesonce i spoke to the balding forest,Carving Trees by Mercury-the-Queen
hushhushhush cried the wind and he
knifed through my jacket
like flames lick ice like
lovers find reasons to peel off clothes,
i stroked the branches
of the sycamore and
felt its long, smooth trunk and the letters
scraped dreamily in the bark, and
let someone else grow up with our regrets,
let our names stretch and bend
and remind us
that once upon a time we didn't cringe at
warm wet breath on the
backs of necks,
at least i was innocent as i
lumbered back and forth over frozen ground
like some lost and lonely stormcloud,
like some flame guttering before dying out,
at least i was as many cupfuls of insanity as i could swallow
before my stomach
tricked my brain tricked my heart into thinking
"this is all okay,
(and at least my name is not expanding
somewhere in a forest,
carved lazily into trees that
grow and grow in spite of
all their broken love.)
palsied branches and the forest and the moon
those burning nights in parisif paris is easy, then easythose burning nights in paris by Mercury-the-Queen
is the way i like my love.
there are souls folded into cafe corners,
there are lives we'd like to taste and try on.
(whose empty eyes? whose wrists are these?)
and they will beg of you
"oublie moi, chers amis."
and you will forget them.
paris is easy.
i have probed her underbelly,
felt the warm rumble of the coming rain, and
she has shown me her metropolitan drunkards,
stray cats and
women of the night:
the girls who slither through back doors,
(a feather lost floats softly,
kisses the ground and blows away.
"c'est la vie," she croaks,
and in her voice i hear diamonds,
wine bottles and a hundred
the wind that snakes between the legs of
the eiffel tower
has whispered wicked words to me,
she has teased the braille on my tongue and i
learned to read the love in a pain au chocolat, le foie gras,
le vin blanc.
i have learned that pastry chefs
are the worst kind of
paris has been my lover. i have traced
|Mah gallery. I hope you enjoy! ^^|
the china shepherdessLike a magician's scarf she pulls bright colors from the air into her hands, throws them over her shoulder and runs on to the river, laughing. She is a blueberry girl, a watercolor stain, a shepherdess, but here in the desert her colors are turned to sepia and her eyes can't remember the land.the china shepherdess by trufflefancy
She knows the sky is blue. It must be.
She takes herself to the riverside and colors the landscape, knitting colors through her fingers to throw over the ground like quilt patterns. They won't stay here like they did in her land across the sea, and too soon the dust comes up and the wind takes them far and up and away. The sky is painted like the mountainside, but she will see the ground stretches on forever.
She says, don't let me catch you. And then, catch me.
She might have seen her futures at the riverside, and even though the cottonwoods wrote love for her in their shade, she will not remain. She is an orange-seed girl, a mislabeled valentine, a weaver, and we all know that the salt that cov
to the girl under the covers at nooni wish i loved to starve myself bestto the girl under the covers at noon by sleepysheepdog
of all the punishments. but that isn't my
preferred method and for good reason,
the empty stomach sneering (unlike the
the shuddering emptying stomach) and
leaning as insubstantial as my attempts
at sleep up against the wall between me
and better days. maybe there are times
when i am orpheus descending into hades
for the treacherous chance of returning,
ring on my finger arms brimming with
woman (one woman, the woman), but don't
forget that means i look back, too, that i
cram the nostalgia of one lost woman in
my mouth until i give her back to the
shadows i swept her from so easily; to know
the exquisite sonatavoid of bargaining
for the prize and then throwing it back in
the faces of those gloating higher powers
(but they have no heads, only mirrors atop
bloody necks that speak a reflection
like an apology. a condemnation).
what if i took you aside and was as warm
and shining as a jaguar or a sunspot or a dream
you had of someone who could accept an
Painting NightsDear Emma,Painting Nights by brassteeth
The truth is I'm not a painter.
The truth is I followed you here from that flower shop on Whitmore Street, two and a half months ago. Please, keep reading.
You actually took my breath away when I glimpsed you holding a bunch of lilies in your slender hands at the flower shop counter. You stunned me. That's never happened to me before. I was watching you turning the bouquet left to right, you seemed in awe of the flowers' beauty. Your eyes, your perfect smile, the way you held yourself. It was not a conscious decision to follow you here. I think I was in a trance. I know how it looks; I know it sounds like a movie.
When Miss Vale said it was only the beginning of the painting course, lesson two, I signed up, paid my money on the spot, just to follow you into the room.
Just to keep seeing you. Just to be near you. I know it's crazy.
I stared at the back of your bobbed hair for that entire lesson. In my mind I was shouting for you to turn around
|Check out these amazing artists. They are truly talented.|