She is eaten up by clever words
Rotting with desire, she abhors the way
It makes her feel; tormented by illicit thoughts
Wondering if she should have acted sooner.
Eyelids shut in reproach, searching for oblivion
As I adorn myself in honey, chains, roses, thorns.
She watches with barely repressed ferocity making nimble fingers
She watched me peel it all off, she ached with
The thought of how soft
It could be;
The all-consuming desire to sway the
Pendulum of pleasure a little further her way.
3AM Thoughts // AKA “The Devil Is A Woman.”
Me, in the early hours
Of the morning, whispering your name
Until your fingers sleepily find mine, is the shortest
Poem I ever wrote
3AM Thoughts // AKA “KISS.”
She seemed, at once, some demon’s mistress, or the demon’s self.
// John Keats
Male gaze is a pyre
I would rather burn than keep
Feeding his desire
3AM Thoughts // AKA “Haiku 33.”
Lit a match, burned the effigy
Devoured his ego from the
Inside out, innermost desires
Dripping down face, satiating pores
I want him in his rawest form
Ripped apart, put back together
Infused with my fingerprints
The last shaky breath from my
Lungs as I come dissolving
On his tongue
The first letter of my name
Wrapping in cursive around
His brain, driving him
3AM Thoughts // AKA “Steady As She Comes.”
I remember her body like Corradini
Hard as stone until caressed, brought to
Life under nimble fingers, made soft, angelic
Vengeful Medusa, nimble queen
Elusive garden surrounded by
Rose-filled walls you would be
Best off not to climb, esa rosita tiene espinas
The smell she exudes is always
Tender, but even honey tastes sweet until
You feel the sting, enchanting with a smile like a
Lighthouse, shining through the darkness to
Help everyone else, never thinking to keep
Enough to save herself
3AM Thoughts // AKA “Strong Bones, Made for Storms.”
There is not a particle of life which does not bear poetry within it.
// Gustave Flaubert
Tell me more of addiction
He says, picking nails at the
End of the bed as I stretch
Emitting purrs like a feline
Languidly checking my back for
Answering his question
Through intentional absence
As the daylight crawls and
Falls over the sandstone walls
3AM Thoughts // AKA “A Habit, A Destructive Vice, A Toll.”
You hold a little fire up to my bare skin, which is already a small pyre, one which burns and burns but never burns down; in fact the flames are ever growing.
// Franz Kafka
Your depression doesn’t make you
A better artist –
You aren’t even an artist now.
You write dried up, worn out, reused metaphors to
Try and cover the regurgitated plots in your shitty prose:
He loved me and I left him,
I adored her and it was never enough.
Your fake epousing of wisdom isn’t worth the
Plane ticket you bought to another country,
Trying to douse the North American off of you like a cheap perfume.
Buying a different accent, a stranger lifestyle,
A few voyeuristic stories to tell through loose lips to tight friends.
You are a fucking fraud and it seeps from your skin
It pulls one side of your smile down like
Rotting wallpaper drops to old wooden floors.
Your mind is evil, your thoughts are despicable –
There is something growing toxic within you
Eating you alive from the inside out.
Vileness, treachery and a cunning
Set of linguistics round you out but
You are not worth the
Time or effort, and soon
He will have had enough.
3AM Thoughts // AKA “My Intrusiveness Bleeds Elusiveness.”