Tag: poetry

(…) Here is my hand, my heart,
my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated
cities at the center of me, and here is the center
of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we
can drink from, but I can’t go through with it.
I just don’t want to die anymore.

Richard Siken, from Saying Your Names (via sir-orfeo)

(…) Here is my hand, my heart,
my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated
cities at the center of me, and here is the center
of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we
can drink from, but I can’t go through with it.
I just don’t want to die anymore.

Richard Siken, from Saying Your Names (via sir-orfeo)

of course i wanted you.
you forest made flesh,
your heart one dark bruise
and kinder than anything
that’s been done to you.
you god. you promised land.
heart the size of paradise
and golden honey.
of course i’m afraid.
there is nothing i have held
without it coming away in blood.
i have a mind like a mousetrap,
savage like whole cities burning.
you tender bird, violet sprig.
your mouth is so soft
my kiss will hurt.
of course i dreamt you.
you impossible boy, you miracle,
look at how the sun is jealous.
it knows: when you want
something badly enough,
you must create it.

the second secret // natalie wee (via infyres)

I asked him for it.
For the blood, for the rust,
for the sin.
I didn’t want the pearls other girls talked about,
or the fine marble of palaces,
or even the roses in the mouth of servants.
I wanted pomegranates—
I wanted darkness,
I wanted him.
So I grabbed my king and ran away
to a land of death,
where I reigned and people whispered
that I’d been dragged.
I’ll tell you I’ve changed. I’ll tell you,
the red on my lips isn’t wine.
I hope you’ve heard of horns,
but that isn’t half of it. Out of an entire kingdom
he kneels only to me,
calls me Queen, calls me Mercy.
Mama, Mama, I hope you get this.
Know the bed is warm and our hearts are cold,
know never have I been better
than when I am here.
Do not send flowers,
we’ll throw them in the river.
‘Flowers are for the dead’, ‘least that’s what
the mortals say.
I’ll come back when he bores me,
but Mama,
not today.

Daniella Michalleni, “Persephone Speaks” (via ladystigmata)