Nineteen year old in white lace and satin gloves,
choking her own throat to bruise blossom hurricane –
the spiral twister comes from her screams, lifting
cattle and dead wood up in her agony, she clenches
her esophagus in a dead vice grip, starved of air,
because mental wards and curses of psychosis are raw
after a half-dozen years of black roses. I offer her
flowers, daisies and daffodils, and she smiles, lets
go of the death hold on her throat, the black rot on
her heart is kintsugi gold, shattered but now whole,
and her forefather weeps at her freedom, breaking
his ribs open to make her his Eve in pooled reflections
of puddles, lives pass, deaths come, births go, but
the girl is nine now, alone in a haunted movie theater,
and horror reels play on the screen, the Devil is in
a bowler hat and has red gall eyes – I bring light into
the darkness, promise her she will heal, and nine year
follows nineteen into flowering fields and forest ripe
with deer and rabbits, spring blossoms in golden curls,
and quarter century, nineteen, and nine dance in ruins.
From those ruins rises a phoenix of hope, and love heals.
Everything is crumbling, the swallow’s nest is frozen over,
the trees are bare and moss eats the corpses of old lovers.
Winter berries red as blood are the only fruit in wickedness,
this place is cursed, my heart is ice, and winter is far too
Every time you say “high-functioning,”
I feel nails scratching my cheese brain
can’t you see all the ganglion holes?
The dead traumatized neuronic garden?
Each intrusive thought is a stab wound.
Every panic attack suffocates a sphere.
Every manic outbreak is a machete slash.
Each depression is a culling of millions.
The OCD thought patterns are flamethrowers
My mind is a battleground. A horror scene.
Psychosis is barbed wire around my stem.
Delusions are corsets draining me of air.
Hallucinations are vices driving down.
Paranoia is a straitjacket, tightening.
People are on disability for a sixth
of the diagnoses I have – depression,
anxiety, panic attacks, psychosis, OCD,
ADHD, mania, dissociation, bipolar,
violent, horrid intrusive thoughts that
make a monster of me, normalcy is just
a dream when your soul is bedridden,
well is not real, health is not possible,
and the Sword of Damocles is my balance,
so I swallow the pills, walk the tightrope
and sometimes I slip into a net of razors.
You’re growing tired of me, I can tell, my feathers are fraying
angels without wings aren’t angels at all, I can’t sing a lick,
kick me out of Heaven into the hellish choir with Cuban cigars,
the smoke will give me asthma, I’ll breakdown, scream, beat my
arms black and blue like I did laying on the floor with stigmata.
Today is not my day, tomorrow never comes, and yesterday died.
We may well nosedive into the Pit and scream out our last words.
May as well carve my epitaph “Life was Short and Shit, I Quit.”
(After all, writing out these trite little poems keeps me alive.)
We were born in the gutter, carrion kings, star-spangled
splashes of gutter water reflecting the crystalline night.
Every time I touch you is a gasoline rainbow Exxon Valdez.
Each time we kiss, you suffocate me – your breath poison.
Hold me tender and crush my bones, devour my red red wine,
for my organs are rotting just for you, sugar fangs, and I
was born dying of nuclear radiation, deformed, demented,
shatter every semblance I have of normalcy, anxiety, you
are the only master I answer to, and life is pain, a bane.
I drink down death like caffeine.
I’m addicted to the abyssal kiss,
the gore and dissolution of black.
Whether by storm or by fire, taken
aback the divine psychopompic lips
of every demon I have tasted, Yama
and Hela, even angels are destruction,
and their prince ferries the departed.
Wanting to kill myself, I die dreaming.
A blood debt to my Yngling ancestors,
a soul debt to my angelic and demonic,
when the Grim Reaper swallows you whole
it feels like an orgasm of apocalyptic
proportions, that glowing tunnel light
is a birth canal into the karmic cycle,
I flee from burning things, I seek dark,
I seek velvety soft hair like razors,
I cup the rot breasts of Lady Death,
I dreamed as a child I dug my own grave,
and I’ve been filling graveyards since.
First goes the flesh, then the spirit
as you sleep so deep you are nightshade
berries and belladonna on the throat.
It is so brilliant to not breathe.
It is so terrible to live like this.
My eyes are rotting wounds, tears venom seeps
onto crater collarbone, I drag invisible knife
through the ugly swell of breast and belly, rue
my creation, my sickness, my mind hellish bells.
I am constantly falling down an elevator shaft,
and when I cling to the pulley, I cut my hands
on barbed wire, I do not deserve life, friends,
for I am a swamp hope sinks into and cannot fly.
My brain is on fire, bipolar beast, ricotta cheese
holes and smelly with fog of medicine, depression
mania is wedding dress restraints, I married demons
that ride me with spite, I am Hell’s bird, Babalon.
When you have wanted to kill yourself a hundred times
no, jump in front of a train, no, drown in undertow?
Does that make sense? Thanatos drive whispering you to
take a razor and fuck yourself up, get high off death.
There is no end, just cycles of pain, my thoughts
scream, teem with obsessive compulsive, a panic parade
but I bury the swords deeper and walk bleeding heart
I am the sheath of my torment. I carry agony well.