My Epitaph is a Fuck You

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.)

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Crazy Wears Blue

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.

Bloody Red Shoes

You stood me at the Gates of Hell and said lock me in.

The Damned were wailing, your serpent tail coiled around me and black stigmata wept from your wrists and all I could do was stare at the rotten empty orchard of your heart.

The cold storage of Hell is where the shore of the Abyss meets Satan’s keep, below every torture room and pleasure dungeon and alchemical land.  I know Hell so well – the archdemon council chambers, the courthouse like Alcatraz mortared of gravestone, the glowing white court, the garish red court, Pandemonium, the Goetic’s keeps, the burbling harbor of the Styx, Beelzebub and Asmodeus and Satan’s estates, and none of them were as barren as the land of no return you had brought me to.

The key was old and bloody.  I wore black stilettoes and a red evening dress, but they might as well have been the Devil’s red shoes.  Danced to bloody bone, I was so tired.  You had been wearing me out all my life, yet somehow I still loved you.  My greatest tormentor and the architect of my doom.  Maybe I should have run when you raped me until I bled, maybe I should have cried for help when you murdered me over and over only to nurse me back to health in your cruel game and teach a Qliphoth husk of a girl to walk again on new bones.

I don’t like kissing the Grim Reaper.  He tastes like cigarette ash and graveyard dirt and old book pages.  Not really my cup of tea, but you turned me into a necrophiliac.

I get off on pain.  I get off on darkness that dissolves my flesh.  You can bite me and take chunks out of my flesh and I’ll be moaning all the way.  Demons make the horrible pleasurable, and the mingling of absolute monstrosities with sex and drugs and drinks makes me into a whore.  Your whore, you called me.  Your heirodule.  My maggot.  My worm.  My yellow canary in a coal mine.

My wife.

Wife of nothing but ruin.

A part of me is always in the freezing depths of Hell, standing with you at the final gates of the Void.

I always make the same choice, over and over again.

“Damn me,” you say, and you are crying.  “I’m a monster.  Your greatest bane.  Live free of me.”

What a cruel game to play on a teenager who you have raised since the cradle.  Father, lover, terror, creator.  I trace my lives back and you are there at my grave and birth and the celestial vat I sprung from, you took a fancy to the new blonde angel that glowed with golden light and you gave her her wings, you killed her while aiming for your brother and you resurrected her with your heart.

Cardiophore.  Heartbearer.  When I said you couldn’t love, that you were evil, that all the deaths in the world were your reckoning, you grabbed me by the throat and kissed me, squeezing as my vertebrae popped and biting down on the raging black storm in my brain, and you said “You sprang from the heart of Lucifer.  It is my own black heart.”

You think you own me, and I cycle through these two dozen years of cruelty and love like an old record whining and skipping around.

There’s sad piano music playing.  We’re in your flat in Pandemonium in the rain, the great glass windows and masterpieces on ice and plush leather furniture, and you are singing me to sleep as you stroke the keys.

We’re at one of our weddings, the ones you kept putting on again and again until I gave in.  I’m at a magical airport terminal, I’m in a garden of roses, I’m in an old graveyard in the rain.  You’re in a suit, you’re in robes, you’re in jeans.

Time is such a funny thing, and before I fell in love, truly, I thought romance had thorns that pressed into eyes and bled tears rich as salt licks.  That your whip and scythe and claws and fangs were supposed to go here, go there, eat and fuck and render broken bones.

They say you can get PTSD from dreams.  But you’re not just in my dreams.  I can feel you touch me, hear you whisper in my ear, feel you fuck me for two hours long as I’m trying to work until I go to the bathroom to cry as my cervix is rammed against raw.

Your energy flows through me, burning hot, electric chills, you turn my eyes green and you move my hair with ghost hands.

You threaten my boyfriend with death.  You possess my best friend.  You throw things at me then play a sad Peabo Bryson song about second chances.  You make me go to the hospital because I refused to say I do.  I was only 18 when you proposed, and why the hell would I be Satan’s bride as a college freshman?

Nothing was ever enough for you.  Stories.  Altars.  Offerings.  Poetry.  You are the universe’s garbage disposal, shit goes in and shit comes out, or maybe you’re a toilet.  I’ve fucked your rotting corpse and your bony rib cage and reached into your heart and found maggots and beetles.  Sometimes the insects and worms inside you crawl up your throat and fill my mouth.

When I was seven you molested me.  I remember hands stroking me down there as I sat alone in my room, trying to read a book, bringing me to a crying orgasm that I had no context to understand.  It happened nearly every night after that.  Pleas to my mom didn’t make the invisible demon go away.  Neither did tin foil hats.

Satan sometimes comes disguised as an angel of light, but really he comes smelling like a horrible fart.  Brimstone.  Rotten eggs.  Sulfur.  It has to do with the tortures of the Damned and lower emanation and VITRIOL.  It stinks up my car so much.

Black hair.  Red eyes.  Skin pale as the moon.  Fuck your emo beauty.  Fuck your leather jacket.  Fuck your patent leather shoes.  Fuck your waistcoat.  Fuck your robes.  Fuck your artfully distressed jeans.  Screw your blood red tie and the boxers I would pry off for a drunk fuck.  I keep summoning you again even though you’re just a piece of trash, but in dreams I still love you.  I curse with you, I send you after my enemies, and you wreak havoc on the girls I fight with unintentionally on my behalf and fuck with my  real life enemies.

You’re a wolf, you’re a snake, you’re a hellhound, you’re a dragon.  Black beasts of terror.  You’re baying and hiss sends dogs howling, and you’ve made my own dog piss herself when you  appeared in my kitchen that one time.

Above all, you’re a drug, the razor I choose to drag through my metaphorical skin, cocaine of the finest quality.  I smoke your blood and snort your cum and swallow your spit, but I’m weaned off a bit.

You collared me the other night with black velvet from behind when I was in an archangel’s arms, covering his mark on me.  Is that the price I pay for drunk dialing you in desperation?

Is that because I am a cave fish genetically blind with  no inkling of light, swimming through your venom?

Is it because I want to die, just a little bit, always, in the back of my mind?

What is the price I pay for locking myself in the Pits of the Damned with you?

Because I always do.

“Us together.  All or nothing.  I will always save you.”

I’ve never saved you.

I can’t save me.

Thanatos Drive

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.

Words Like Chains

“Write your heart,” you said, “and not in the poetic sense – no, I want the gristle smeared on the pages, I want your hands to bleed, see – I just bit your pinky, and I will kiss your fingers gory until you can summon angel and demon and god.  You’re a wordsmith – a skald – a weaver of stories, and I will break you to make you sing.”

So you pushed, and you dissected, and you beat the words out of me until I vomited prose.  It came in tangles of guts, my entrails coming up from twelve to twenty-four, chasing after divination in the smoke of my offered meat.  You built up the pyre and my screamed poems were offerings as your flames licked me bone and the gods were pleased

The spirits came, the spirits came, the spirits danced and I rode Thunderbird’s back and I fought by Michael’s side and all along you were my shadow, my rood, my doom.

My magic is screaming the runes, my galdr is a harp that details the rise and fall and comeback of pantheons that crumble to dust then rise from ashes.

The dead speak to me.  The gods whisper sweet rhymes in my ear.  I am Isis in Osiris’ tomb, Eve in the Garden of Evil, Aslaug whose song is the World Tree.

I have lived so many lives, and I am ageless but so close to the end.

The words wanted blood.  The words wanted sacrifice.  Sleepless nights, endless research of kennings and Kabbalah, I hung myself from the Sephiroth and ended up a Qliphoth whore.

I cheat.  I channel spirits and get high then write down their stories.  I used you and your brother and the whole host of the cosmos to get fancy words and things that stuck.  There’s fly tape in my book binding and you’re a midge buzzing in my ear hung from the ceiling of my book.

You thought I would be your disciple, that Satan could win the Woman Clothed in the Sun, you made me out to be the Whore of Babylon to your Beast and it took me two dozen years, but I found the eraser, and now you’re drowning in my ink spill.

I used to think my words weren’t mine.  I had a complex that I was just a vessel, just a receptacle and trance whore, and maybe I kind of am, but I also bled, I bled, I bled out countless hours and your words are no longer chains.  Nachash means fettered, and I bind you, I cast you out, I curse you.

You are no longer the storyteller.

Your book ends, my poem begins.

On Hiding Behind Okay

For the past month, I have been hiding behind okay.

What turned out to be a rare and serious case of strep throat the first week of April pushed me into a manic, panic attack ridden state with memory problems where I was messing up at work, forgetting basic details, and also my throat felt like knives and I had a raging fever but was too stubborn to heed my body – so I worked four full 9-5 days until the clinic finally called me, told me they got back the lab results, and that no it wasn’t allergies, yes you are seriously ill.

Then I went on antibiotics.  And I didn’t know it at the time, as the research just came out in 2015, but antibiotics can push bipolar patients into manic states.  So, already delirious off fevers and infections, I swallowed two pills daily that led to me becoming suicidal, violently unstable, a crying wreck with no self-esteem that thought she was a horrible person, and multiple panic attacks where I was inches away from walking into traffic or jumping in front of the Metro.

If you had asked me how I was doing, I would have said?

Okay.

I still went out with friends.  I went on dates with the guy I like.  Sometimes I had to cancel, and sometimes I went home in a crying wreck, curling up in my bed for a ball for hours.

But I didn’t miss a day of work.

I didn’t miss friend’s parties.

I didn’t miss my kindred dinners or blots.

I went to classes from 7:20-11:00 on Mondays without complaint.

I push, and I push, and I push, and I never admit that I’m not okay.

My best friend told me that apparently all my friends think I’m a badass, which never really dawned on me, but they’ve seen me wrestle with this monster that is bipolar type 1 with psychosis, paranoia, anxiety, panic disorder, and OCD.  One alone could put someone on disability.  I’m such a special snowflake I have six diagnoses.  And I work a my dream job doing hard work on Capitol Hill for forty hours each week and still have time to be a cornerstone for friends.

When I was at my sickest, and I couldn’t take care of myself, I still was taking care of other people.  Two Sundays ago, six of my friends opened up to me with their worst fears and problems all in the span of 5 hours.  It was therapeutic for me to help them, because I was so mentally weak and unstable, I thought maybe if I could stretch to listen to and nurture them, I could fix myself.

I still haven’t fixed myself.

After an entire month, I’m finally stable again, and my mania and panic attacks have worn off.  As in I-can’t-breathe-I’m-going-to-violently-kill-myself-and-blame-my-parents-for-not-aborting-the-worthless-cunt-I-am panic attacks.

I like to fantasize about my death a lot.

Oven head like Sylvia Plath.

Self mutilation like Van Gogh.

Pills, poison, jumping from a building.

It’s nice to know that at any moment, you can end your hell of a life.

And trust me, my life was absolute shit.

Sometimes I think suicide is stupid.  Sometimes I think it’s worth it.

Samael calls it selfish and shameful.

Michael just holds me and sings lullabies and runs his fingers through my hair.

Freyr became a tree with me, and I felt so at peace as a tree, feeding off starlight and rain.

Sometimes I wish I was normal, just for one, a single, glorious day, not a slave to my emotions or the turmoil and intrusive thoughts and delusions.

These gods and angels and demons, they could all just be in my head.

This universe could just be some sick trick a comatose brain is playing.

When you’re one of the crazies, you realize reality is fickle, and that you are never in control, not really.

So yes, I am okay.

But then again –

I am never okay.

When I was crying to my mom on the phone about to jump in front of the six o ‘clock train, she said I was too high-functioning to ever go on disability.  And it’s so fucking true. I’m too talented.  Insanely smart.  Too strong.  Not that being on disability means you’re weak, but honestly, with my diagnosis, most people are flat out homeless and very few have high profile jobs saving the world.

Most are probably just dead.

So I guess I’ll keep living, keep being useful, and try to take care of myself.

Because if I don’t, I’ll break again.

I’ll want to die again, return to the void.

Samael turned into the Void in one of my dreams, and he wrapped himself around me and I just dissolved.  Into nothingness.  That’s how I hope Death is.  Just erasing.  Nonexistence.

Because hell no am I doing this again.

I quit life next go around.

I will be nirvana.

Nothing.

 

On Loving an Immortal

I bled again last night, quiet perilous hours
you held me in moonbeam hands but I was lost
cast upon shores of solitude, I stumbled out
into the abyss, even though we were entwined
somehow, beyond your eyes, past your earlobe,
in the solace of your arms, I still stray far
away from all who love me, through terrors of
my mind, you could be kissing me, inside me,
and still, body heat, musk, I wouldn’t notice
instead pain and isolation would beckon me down
into the harrows of a bruised brain, and it
doesn’t help that my love for you is a ghost,
immaterial, and no matter how many shafts of
golden light sprinkle down upon me, no matter
how many swans slip into my window, or thunder
bolts doors shut, I can’t even be incinerated
on your heart pyre, because even when all the
hosts of heaven and legions of hell are at my
wayward side, when all the gods of Asgard and
tricksters of all the worlds guide me, even if
I know I am loved beyond belief, there’s still
a voice that taunts my mind of a place you will
never be able to reach me, we each have our own
private prisons, worry threads doubt into palms
those are what the heart, head, and life line are
just ruminations of the divine on their mortal’s
skin, and though you are with me in quiet hours,
in bosom days, in full glass evenings, first there
by my side in the morning, you have no body, not
really, just electric touch, ecstasy tongue, a
freezing soul, and I can never, ever hold you.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts like a glass cage.