The room became mine the day my sibling
was born. Time has passed. A quarter-century
and more of being alone in the attic, stuck
surviving on consecrated bread and wine.
Don't let me run back.
Don't let me worship his altar again.
My devotion feels like an oath
and I'm too comfortable bleeding.
Water dissolves flesh; I kneel in the shower,
sentience slips down the drain.
River droplets dapple my skin,
reflecting the tiny suns in the ceiling.
Chiaroscuro.
Light and dark interplaying,
rippling rhythms, contrasting patterns,
a balancing act, a fight nobody ever wins.
Hades, my myth, my beloved,
I sink before you, I'm on my knees—
tender-hearted concrete knees,
pomegranate-spring knees.
Take off your helmet, please, let me
see you. I can smell your cypress.
Don't make me beg, I'm red and raw
and your ruses sting, thorns,
the tragedies tangle my hair.
Wealth of the earth, where are you?
Showers make poor coffins.
I tire here.
YOU ARE READING
Blood Orange Periphery
PoetryMy suicide had been two years in the making when I decided not to follow through at the last minute. Over the past decade, I've written poems, books, short stories, fanfiction and hundreds of thousands of words, but nothing felt complete. This coll...
