The Passover

He looked like every other angel of birth,
but he was an angel of death,
He looked like every other angel of berth,
but he was an angel of dearth.
He would make you moan in pleasure
so he could make you groan in pain.
I had been warned by his ex-prey,
and I was prepared to drive him insane.
I sprinkled the blood of his victims
on my door,
and in my eyes,
and in my ears,
and on my lips,
and on his head.
“You can’t kill me like you did them.
You have tried in vain, lame.”
He passed right over me,
and he never called me again.

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Healing Touch

And when we held each other,
I felt like we had joined
our hearts with our hands,
like we had been dead all our lives,
and because our palms touched,
we had both come alive.
We had,
for the very first time,
taken real breaths.
We were both excited
because we had finally found each other;
we had both found sweet peace.
I was afraid to release his hand,
as though,
if I did,
I would drop dead again.

Love is a Butterfly

If you truly love a butterfly,
you ought to let her fly.
She’ll show you her buttery side if you do.
If you open your palm wide enough,
she’ll always perch in it if she wants you.
Don’t break her wings off
because your fears make you want to.
If you squeeze her in,
you would either weaken her
or make her cry,
or make her die,
and at any chance she gets to be free,
she’ll fly far away
and never come back again. 

A Damn Mess

I was licking my wounds
but you stopped me.
You wanted to do it
so I let you.
You licked and sucked till
my wounds became scars.
Then, you cut me again
at the exact same spots.

So, here I am, a damn mess,
studying our synastry chart
for the 50th time,
fiddling with tarot cards,
tiredlessly hoping you’d come back.
I want your tongue and yours alone,
and I know that even if you return,
you would lick me up
so you can cut me again.

Listening

Listening

“Yes.”

I am assessing the size of your eyes
and the magnificence of each,
the crevices of your earlobes,
the shape of your nose,
the way it gorgeously sits on your face,
the curves of your lips,
your beautifully-sculpted cheeks,
the way your tongue dances
in your mouth as you speak.

“Yes, I’m listening to you.”

Every part of you,
and every detail of you.

Death VII: Denial and Delusion

I don’t think Death takes all the lives that it has stolen
around with it;
He would have too much to carry.
I’ll look for where He keeps them
and return yours to you;
we’ve got so much more to do.
I’ll make sure you are not buried
till I hurry back with you.

Can’t anything at all be done to bring you back?

Wounded Healer III

Goddess of Forests

I’m shedding everyone’s tears
but I can’t shed my own.
I’ve got it all under control in public;
I’m a mess when I’m alone.
Pain has injected itself into me;
I can feel it bite through each bone.
I’m decaying on the inside,
but this body is not mine to disown.

My heart and soul are drowning,
and I can’t stretch my hands
to reach them through my throat.
They’ve absorbed too much;
they’re heavy,
but I can’t save them.
I can’t drain the tears and blood;
I can’t heal them.

So, I’ll shed my tears through my mouth.
I’ll cry with my hands and feet,
with my words,
and with my songs,
and with my dance,
till I feel my heartbeat.
I’ll shed my tears as sweat;
they can’t pass through my eyes just yet.

Death VI: Death is the True Life

Our bodies were made out of dust;
our spirits are enclosed in dust,
and so, we’re dead,
we’re born dead,
buried in our bodies,
buried in our selves.

We don’t die forever, of course.
It only lasts for a day,
or ten years,
or fifty, or eighty, or one hundred years.
Then we become free from our graves,
our bodies;
we live forever!

Panty Poetry: Hurt

You suddenly become perfectly good at
reading between the lines
whenever I want you
between my legs.
It hurts
me.

Beautifool

Women-in-paintings-by-Russian-artist-Konstantin-Razumov-1

Painted by Konstantin Razumov

Do they have beautiful faces
but ugly minds?
Well, you can call them beautifools.

They only make friends with Mirrors-
friends who don’t care about the soul,
friends who don’t care about the real self,
vain friends who are as blind as bats.

Why do I call them Mirrors?
Mirrors only tell you how beautiful you look;
they don’t tell you how beauty-full you are.

Beautifools place mirrors in their bags,
and walk with mirrors by their sides.
They only see what they want to see
and hear only what they want to hear.

True beauty lies in the heart;
don’t be a beautifool,
and don’t make friends with one.

Even if you are not full of beauty,
since no one is,
be yourself,
but be the best you that you can be.

True beauty comes from the heart;
through the mouth and the hands.
Let your beauty be perceived;
let your beauty be seen.