One, two, threeMy boyfriend watched, open mouthedprojectilewordvomit
as I unscrewed the lid of your urn,
and ran my fingers through your ashes.
Your depression, your soul dust.
I felt nothing other than
an ocean roiling beneath my ribs,
and an urge to hold the brass ossuary,
and rock you back and forth
like you did for me when I was young.
At the funeral, my uncle announced
that you despised religion.
But he left out the part
where you did believe in a God,
just that he was always punishing you.
“There was nothing you could have done”
said the other uncle.
I think of all those spent wishes,
the birthday candles extinguished for gifts,
the meteor showers I wasted on love,
the prayers offered from family friends
that are now given a little too late.
This year, I turn 22 years old.
But when I blow out the candles,
my wish won’t matter.
None of them did.
The Art of Poetry KillingWhen I find an old poemLeftUnfinished
Packaged beneath an allegory
Or taped beside a piece of prose,
Warm and balmy and still swollen
Ripe with the undisturbed
Within their plastic wrapper,
I untangle its cellophane bindings
To find it's too old
And too stale for the proper use of a poem
So I pluck out its
Like some guts of a creature
And sew them
Onto other dust poems
Like the mismatched socks
Of a child
Just like murder is an art,
I still walk away with ink on my hands.
Art MajorI remember the tangle of cloth,AiryAubergine
my teacher set up,
with the lights set so,
the shadows were all angles.
I was more focused on the moth,
bumping into the light bulb.
Favourite genre of music: Alternative rock and metalcore|
Favourite style of art: Photography
Operating System: Window
MP3 player of choice: iPod(c) and Zune HD
Personal Quote: All those feelings, those yesterday's feelings will all be lost in time.