Denial sits upon the crown of my head
Bathed in course, satirical waters
Of ambivalent teenhood.
Its bony wing rests above my ear
Its back arched along the curve of my skull,
Craning my neck to sustain the weight
Of the denial I so yearn to suppress.
Its calf dangles just under my brown,
Concealing the truth
Woven into my eyes
By my own fingers and thread.
“How I wish you could perceive my handiwork;
How I wish I could capture your reaction
To the multicolored string in my gaze
Dangling down the brink of my eye
And darkened by the river of tears to my foot’s heel.”
Before my denial’s blanketing calf,
Clothed by the mistrust of ambiguous glares of judgment,
Falsity is truth,
And my truth is a fairytale.
And to all outside my colorful gaze,
This paradox is clarity
And perhaps, love, you are the writer.
Cradled by the surging foam of wave’s brink,
Glass crawls out of the clarity
As if in fear of its own evanescence,
As evanescent and everlasting
As the ocean itself.
Spears the dampened powder, it does,
A softness shadowed with each sporadic breath of a sea,
Foaming by the mouth of incomparable genius,
A wisdom and insanity
Sustaining the very feet of this earth.
Regardless and nonetheless
And with all words of molded neglect,
Jagged bits of glass thrust themselves
Into illusive welcome, a powdered sin.
And heat’s merciless palm
Cups the lingering beads of genius
Until enigma is merely
Glass in sand.
And yet, reflected within the tinted clarity,
Under grime of an hour’s homelessness
And blood of a runner’s toes,
Is the glistening hint of a lost brilliance,
Through fear of fate.
It is not the ocean I fear.
Nor is the glass beneath which I hide
For whom my tears are shed.
It is rather the question that surges the waves,
That is the catalyst for an ocean’s foaming lips,
That is the shadow that coats
All it engulfs
In its entirety:
Who are we behind the glass?
And who remain within the sea?
Close yours eyes
And stroke the vacant breath in which you are planted
And enfold both fists ‘round the first letters [you] find.
Gnaw into your palm, they will,
Grinding your callused flesh between points of A and curves of U
Beads of violet blood drawn by the biting words
So carelessly combined.
Perhaps your fingers [will] rain purple gore
And assail the square in which you stand
At its heart,
Square scarred by the lavender trailing down the tilt of the surface
Under steadfast feet.
Perhaps purple storm will pool ‘tween your toes
And soak words that once sprang with vigor
From the tip of your thumb.
And with a god’s prayer hidden ‘tween the last two letters
Let its jagged edge dissolve into lavender silence
And let it [never] again strike the crumbling cheek of a woman.
Perhaps, with every liquefied word,
With every empty prayer from a soundless god,
The violet will rise to encircle your motionless calf.
Let it rise, my love, let it rise.
To the hip with quivering disbelief
To the palm slick with the residue of your words
To the lip that [know]s not the power of its speech
It is you
Your words will silence.
Take hold of each thumb
And grasp until the snap of its thin spine
Meets your carnivorous ear.
Dig each nail into transparent flesh
To finally feed upon the soundless melody lying beneath.
Parasitic, your eyes engorge the bitter music
Leaking from each wound.
A thousand voices build below the arch of my brow.
And I perspire the words that I am unable to breathe.
So I breathe foreign screams
From a thousand foreign lips
That crawl from my grimace and,
With pity, caress my speechless cheek.
They await, in unity, the joining of my tongues cry
To their brigade of invisible grief.
And still, blanketing my tongue
Is yet another corps of sorrow’s sullen regiment,
Suited in camouflage
And cocking their guns in synchronized lament.
My broken thumbs and torn flesh
Embody the voices of a thousand men,
Bleed the music shed from a thousand mourning fingers.
And yet, my tongue is void of its own cry,
Jailed behind barring lips of silence.
I pray, in mute grief,
Keep hold of me.
Bend the limbs that once gloried themselves in song
Just to reassure my quiet ears
That they are my thumbs you are breaking.
The rich jade of my pen
Bleeds unto the page lying dormant four below.
Bloodied ink stalking line and curve,
Scarring blank faces with staining bullets,
With the burden of my words.
And my pen weeps with murdering immortality,
And my tears bleed with the ink that I cannot use.
Now I slip between each word,
And dodge each mistake,
And feel my way blindly
Through slaughtered legacies, cool ink blacking my fingertips
Until I reach the fourth below.
Faint mark of a letter here,
Transparent promise of a meaning there,
That is no longer a promise, but a cold truth
And no longer a cold truth, but a raped reality.
A forced meaning through tired hands
Unto white innocence.
Two more kills and three more pages
Until the fervent flame
Raging to be written
Is, too, murdered
By the truth she induced.
Impulse sheds from shaded eyes of excuse
Into excused actions by an impulsive hand.
Five fingers, palm, and wrist
Armored by transparent latex that peels
Only when caught dripping poisonous red,
And, with tears on paper,
Confesses dysfunctional restraint
And, with this,
Fulfills a crime done and uncommitted.
But there is residue between fingers
And fallacy in tears directly hitting the page
As if the mark mistakenly left, seemingly all too deliberate,
See, silence is awaiting death
And truth is pulling the trigger
And staining the innocence you forced yourself to believe.
But deceit is simply stalling the inevitable,
That only gains interest over time.
Because one day,
Wide eyes will strike upon the hint of crimson on thumb
And, only then will you finally understand
Malicious teeth hook into the curve of my words
And drag my hollow value down the gilded page of my book.
Foreign pens and malevolent verses scrape upon the face of mine,
Inaudible whispers beat upon my ink’s ear,
Soundless and yet
Just barely understood.
The strike by the lip of the astonishing
Just barely felt.
Twelve, or four, six, or two
Shred my meaning from my back,
Stripped the purpose coating my flesh
And deserted me bare
To penetrating, dilated eyes of unforeseen critics
From behind the glamorous veil of their likeability.
Amounting to what?
Beige foam fading from the sea’s rich teal
Strokes with pity the sun-burnt sand,
Off-white ash pierced by the anchor of defeat,
And stained by the wrecked stern bleeding,
Crimson spreading rapidly across a shore’s murdered hope.
Tired heels of a broken people
Mark the ash, only to be forever erased
By shaming waves.
Helmets fall, swords clatter to rock,
And he sinks to sliced knees, mourning man’s pride.
And his arms curl ‘round the waist of a woman,
Cheek buried in her chests emanating warmth
Of which the ash between his toes are void.
Empty of men, he cries.
Empty of men.
Three hundred tears rust the iron,
Binding his shattered ankles to his past,
And his past to the anchor.
Six hundred more, nine hundred again,
Until the remnants of lost men are sealed by rust.
Two fingers of a father;
The forearm of a son;
The embrace of miscellaneous gore
Around the waist of a mourning wife,
Speared to the rust of the anchor
And to the flickering memory
Of the time when men had understood
How to be victorious.
Inhale as enduring a lie as the truth
Collecting this ash on benevolent youth.
Conformity molding the seal left behind
Concealing potential remained undefined.
This clay that had dried, intertwining their wrists
Expands with the pressure enforced by her fists,
Greying and aging by years unrepaired
Ruins the only potential they shared.
Veiled by the shield of a false woman’s force
Denying all hints of disheveled remorse
She’ll trudge through the murk that her promises wept
And imprison her trust ‘till a promise is kept.
Never had she gazed upon such a revolting shade of blazing white,
Than that which she stares at through the window her mother had built.
A tiny, practically minuscule frame,
A glass opening into the frozen, wintry terrain
That had become the only reality they share
The chilling wind seeps through the fractures in the glass
And yet she had grown numb to the cold
She could attempt to swipe the glass of its neglected dust and grime
And yet she knows not to waste energy on this futile attempt
But no, but no…
She splinters this glass with the force of her fist
Ignoring the crimson that drips to her wrist
She squeezes through what she had left of frame
Driven by hope she desires to claim
Her toes touch the snow on this frozen terrain
And she looks up…
And she sees nothing.