"today my professor told me every cell in our entire body is destroyed and replaced every seven years.
how comforting it is to know one day i will have a body you will have never touched."

"We have built cathedrals out of spite and splintered bone, of course they aren't pretty, nothing holy ever is-"

boy is jumping off church roofs in desperate attempts to feel whole again, boy is drinking ***** and holy water in class to purify his soul that he says is a desert wasteland. he is a river, deep and twisting, wild and dark but dark like a forest not a starless sky. he is tired, down to his blood cells.

boy is "try harder next time" boy is "smart kid but doesn't apply himself" boy is "needs to contribute more to discussion" boy is trying, he is cough syrup and caffeine, a system that is rusting and breaking.

What did I expect?
To leave a haemorrhage
of violets wherever I walked?
No. A lost son is called prodigal.
A lost daughter is just called lost.

She should've stood out in a crowd
She should've made her mother proud
She should've fallen on her stance
She should've had another chance

She should have been a son
She should have been a son
She should have been a son
She should have been a son

'You're a heap of flesh and guts and blood in a wax museum. The only thing real. Sickeningly real. Crimson and warm where the others are pale and cold. Revoltingly red,
nauseatingly alive. You're a child in a graveyard.

when i die i want my corpse to be unrecognizable. a something-or-other dead on the side of the road, half-eaten, half-crushed, all-forgotten

i am no hector of troy.
the gods of Olympus won't keep my corpse clean until my father comes pleading.
my gods are the earthworms writhing beneath me and gift-giver Gaia, who strips my bones of their flesh and whispers softly as she feeds me to her children "lie still, lie still, lie still"

/a k/
noun
1. heavy wind, cold rain, & yes the stars, & yes these hands of mine. a dream in my chest is melting. my dream sheds its muddy, thunder-stained skin & asks for a heart of peony fields this time.
2. & the nights get heavy like they always do. i am older which means when i think of forests i get stuck not on the robin eggs but on the fox teeth. in my head I am hunting for myself, but I come up empty again. the night grows so wide it could be a cavern & i am somewhere underneath it, inside it, lost. but travellers always leave lanterns behind & as i feel for the candle there arrives a memory of bronze-coloured light.
3. so i dream, i dream, i keep dreaming. one word in my mouth crystallizes like sugar: hope.

Hope is not a delicate bird.
It doesn’t have colourful feathers or comes.
When you need it most
Hope is a starving rat
An ugly thing
With broken glass claws and yellow pointed teeth
That carries diseases like rebellion, revolution and change
Were ever its tail flicks they drop
It snorts pesticides like coke
It survives in our world
Able to find a way to live were nothing else can.

I had a broken tooth and you had a broken car that sang at certain speeds.
I was holding my crimson soaked mouth, we were all laughing.
You, the only one who was worried.
Speeding to the doctor with your hands at ten and two,
sending me the occasional look, asking if it hurts,
does it hurt.
-All the memories of you do

I used to think blue eyes were pretty,
his were not.
his were not cornflower, sapphire, baby, indigo, azure,
or cloudy sky blue.
His were midnight where the light pollution from the city blocks the stars.
Iceberg, squall, hypothermia, eventual death

The sky is on fire,
and the world holds its breath.
It bleeds out in streaks of crimson,
fingers of flame
licking the edges of clouds,
leaving behind ash that the wind cannot carry away.

It doesn’t scream.
No, it only burns
in silence,
a slow, tender rage,
as if the heavens themselves
have grown tired
of holding the weight of the stars.

We watch from below,
a chorus of small prayers
wrapped in our own fragile skin.
Some of us still believe in rain,
in the mercy of the dark,
but tonight,
the fire is too bright,
too wild,
too beautiful
to look away from.

The sky is on fire,
and I wonder if this is how
the end begins—
a blaze too beautiful to escape,
too hot to be touched.

We hold onto the night,
our hands trembling with the heat,
knowing,
somehow,
that this fire does not care
if we burn with it.

The sky is on fire,
and all we can do
is watch
as it consumes
the last of the light.

You fear the stars
not because of their beauty
but because of their distance
how they hang unbothered
while you remain
earthbound

They do not need you
Their cold light spills
forgotten knowledge
burning far away
untouchable
like the things you cannot know
You fear their silence
the way they look down
without speaking,
without offering comfort
or explanation

They are too old
too full of stories
you are not part of
whispers of time
that do not echo
in your fleeting breath
In the dark
you trace their patterns
the vastness presses
against your ribs
reminding you
how small you are

You fear the stars
the absence of answers
the endlessness of questions
the reminder that you
are just another blink
in the night sky

World, forget me — grind my name to dust,
Let rot reclaim and turns my blood to rust.
Strip me bare of flesh and thread,
Unmark my grave, watch as i bled.

Erase the stain where I once stood,
Bleed out my soul into the wood.
Let crows feast where memory fades,
And silence howl through empty glades.

No prayers, no plea, no tender grace,
Just darkness folding in my place.
Let time spit out my bitter taste —
A shadow lost in deeper space.

World, forget me — not in peace,
But like a curse you must release.
Like breath you choke and force away,
Like light that dies and dares not stay.

Let no one speak what I became,
Let even grief forget my name.
No myth, no ash, no twisted tree —
Just nothing left.
So let it be.

My English teacher said The opposite of love
Is hate.
But it's not hate,
It's apathy.
Hate still breathes,
It's fiery, raw, and real.
But apathy?
Apathy is a void
Where nothing's left to feel.
No anger, no tears,
Just empty.
So if you ask what's worse,
Hate or apathy,
I'd say apathy,
The silence,
The hollow space, Where nothing is felt
And nothing is left
Between us.

She died at 7:07 a.m. PST. It is three hours earlier in Hawaii. Does that mean in Hawaii she hasn't died yet? But the plane ride to Hawaii is five hours long. This time gap can never be overcome. The difference is called grieving.

The war will end.
The leaders will shake hands.
The old woman will keep waiting for her martyred son.
That girl will wait for her lover to return.
And those children will wait for their heroic parent.
I don't know who sold our homeland.
But I saw who paid the price.

/'mad-nes/
noun
1. i forgot i had fists today. my heart decided to be vicious warrior. punch after punch, does it seek a glory? i'm washing my hands, they shine like red sunsets when I first found paradise.
Am i a murderer? or did i **** all my thoughts in self defence?
2. angels are talking behind my ear. they don't sound like the cruel laughter i know. they never leave (everyone always does) should i call this love a lie? for the first time I think I could be holy.
i almost smile.
3. my lips are full of ruby lies. smooth criminal dancing in forgotten light, put on a trail for breaking. for hurting, yesterday i tried to burn my mind, i left three bodies fading behind my back (all were mine mine mine) forgive me father for leaving those marks. mother says heaven doesn't want me anymore.

It's strange how your childhood sort of feels like forever. Then suddenly your sixteen and the world becomes an hour glass and your watching the sand pile up at the wrong end. And your thinking about how when you were just a kid, your heartbeat was like a kick drum at a rick concert, and now it's just a time bomb slowly ticking out. And it's sad. And you want to forget about dying, but mostly you just want to forget about saying goodbye.

Flowers bloom in my lungs, white like a frost-covered morning, their roots weave intricate walls around my heart, protecting it. But although they look pretty, I find I cannot breathe. The white suddenly seems more like a freshly cleaned gravestone, and the roots choke my heart in a cage lined with needlepoint thorns. The bright flowers once blooming in my lungs are now a wilted bouquet clutched in sweaty hands watered by salty tears.

Flowers bloom in my lungs white like a frost covered morning, their roots weave intricate walls around my heart protecting it. But although they look pretty, I find I cannot breathe. the white suddenly seems more like fresh gravestones and the roots choke my heart in a thorn lined cage.

Maybe that boy just wanted a taste of the sun.

They tell me I'm fussy; with lovers, with books, with music. I tell them that I would rather freeze than be barely-warm. I tell them that if it doesn't set me on fire, then no thank you, I don't want it. It's taken me years to confess that I would rather be alone than settle. The truth is, I cannot stand the taste of in-betweens. Half- measures will never be a part of me. If it cannot fill me up to the brim, I don't want it. I will only ever be empty or overflowing and I'm okay with it. And they say, girl, how do you think a wildfire starts? From a spark. Relationships need kindling. And I cannot make them understand than I am not afraid to build on things, to work hard and relentlessly on something, but I must stop apologising for the fact that, truth be told, I cannot seem to want a love that does not engulf me. Someone once told me that when you've tasted fire, you ache for it, no matter how badly it burned your tongue. They weren't wrong.

Maybe Icarus knew what he was doing all along.

/'god / es/
noun
1. you know what it is to be holy. deep veins filled with ichor ache for wounds the earth feels, lightning storms and hurricane pain walking hand in hand across a ground you helped design. the thousand voices that scream your name in both battle chant and song. their lives are not a game but you play anyway.
2. you are sharp edged steel. a lone fragment of a shattered mirror, the broken bone reflection of a cruel smile. all that you are is ripped edges and cracked glass but your heart still throbs with lioness blood.
3. ichor drips from your fingertips, gold glistens on your lips. you took to power like Icarus took to the sky and you know your fall will be just as sweet.

/pes/ti/lince/
noun
1. we are little gods unto ourselves. locust-eaters, fire-bleeders, laughing wicked boys with figs in our pockets and honey-stained mouths. we ride on our white horses through villages that will be nothing but the ashes of the sick once we leave.
2. our laughter tastes like victory. you can't help but stare, we look so holy glowing in the light. go on, tell us how we are beautiful, ghost- like, how our skin reeks of thunder, how you make love to us and feel your body turning inside out with fever. how you are so hungry to give up your soul one sickness at a time. go on, surrender.
3. we wear crowns given, not taken. take life instead of giving it. we sweep through villages like contagion, and we always conquer. conquer, conquer.
goddess

/ka / THär / sis/
noun
1. your head pounds. your heart pounds. your fists pound a bag of sand, over and over, again again again, and you hear bones crack that are not your own. the crimson blood on your knuckles is no less satisfying than if it were his.
2. the end of the year brings a summer bonfire with all your classmates. the faces blur together with one too many beers. you throw back your head and yell like a banshee, like a wild thing. I am free now, your scream says. your classmates howl with you and their earth-shattering chorus of no more goes on for miles.
3. poetry, photography, acrylic paint, short stories. you create everything you can to escape the destruction you left behind.

/ dev/ i /steijn/
noun
1. shadows wreak havoc under an oil-black sky. what once was a gemstone of a city, shrouded in a film of dust & decay. i linger in the aftermath of a bomb-swollen storm. a thousand babies are buried beneath the ruins, wailing for mothers long gone.
2. war is a plague. i see more and more phantoms with eyes like the void, haunting the streets after twilight. an orchestra of bullets patter on my window, sliding down the glass like rain.
3. the emptiness of my home was a lot to bear. but when they set it ablaze, i salvaged my soul from the ashes.

/gref/
noun
1. the pain says, i have come for you, and you say, you are too blinding, I don't want to look.

2. your chest is a wall of fire. the pain says, I own buckets, and I own torches. you pick torches.

3. your soul is a wall of thorns. the pain says, what can I do for you? you say, nothing. this is dream from which I know I will wake.

4. your heart is a wall of storm clouds. the pain says, I will lend you my shoulders and my hands. you say, I don't have strength in me to touch anyone yet.

5. life shivers, melts, moves on. the pain says, I have come for you, and you look upon it and say, yes, I’ve kept you waiting too long.

Ik/sting(k)SH(a)n/
noun
1. ultraviolet silence. fracture patterns in the exposed knuckle bones. we pray with our knees in the dust but the gods do not answer us. the pines creak with the weight of ghosts.
2. it is a fire light dance. it is a marrow-born dance. close your tired eyes. let yourself be spun in winding circles. remember to breathe, remember to breathe.
3. no red feathers, all red ashes. listen to me, child, it always starts with you saying, I am doing something right.

/'mad-nes/
noun
1. I forgot I had fists today. my heart decided to be a warrior. punch after punch, does it seek glory?  I’m washing my hands; they shine like red sunsets when I first found paradise.
Am I a murderer? or did I **** my thoughts in self defence?

2. angels are talking behind my ear. they don't sound like the cruel laughter i know but they never leave (everyone always does) should i call this love a lie? for the first time I think I could be holy.
I almost smile.

3. my lips are full of crimson coated lies. As I dance in forgotten light, I pour a trail of gasoline, yesterday I tried to burn my mind, I left three bodies fading behind my back (all were mine mine mine) forgive me father for leaving those marks. mother says heaven doesn't want me anymore.

P- pages torn from books coated in prophesies  
R- razor blades slice through memories
O- open wounds drip crimson blood upon chalk stars
P- pen drawn runes coat your skin drawn in black ink
H- haloed in holy fire angels descended with knife blade wings
E- eyes gunmetal grey rimmed with puffy red highlights
T- they call you proclaimer, gods words carved into your bones.

As Icarus fell, he laughed. Because for the first time in awhile he felt something.
He felt the wax burning his skin.
The wind rushing around him.
And the sea acting as cement.
For it was Apollo the sun
the Anemoi who controlled the winds,
and Poseidon who witnessed his last moments.
But it was Thanatos and Hades who took
him to his new home. Where he could live a new life in the underworld.
And thats what they don't tell you in school.

My English teacher said
The opposite of love
Is hate.
But it's not hate,
It's apathy.
Hate still breathes,
It's fiery, raw, and real.
But apathy?
Apathy is a void
Where nothing's left to feel.
No anger, no tears,
Just empty.
So if you ask what's worse,
Hate or apathy,
I'd say apathy,
The silence,
The hollow space,
Where nothing is felt
And nothing is left
Between us.

i.
your shoulder blades bend themselves back into wings,
your spine bows under the curved chapel roof ;

ii.
you say gabriel visits you in your sleep,
tells you with to cold eyes and bared teeth soaked in crimson
that you are the messiah,
before speaking about the end of the world,
the ichor in your palms.
red hyacinth dust drifts off his eyelashes,
and apathy falls off his tongue like boiling blood.

iii.
for the next month, there are bruises on your elbows and the remnants of a dead language rattling in your lungs. you wake up in the river, thighs carved with sigils and crows perching on your shoulders, weeping ichor and ancient clay. the names of your newfound kin ring in your ears until your partner confesses that you scream them in your sleep.

iv.
Gabriel visits again, six months after you
realize that your native language has
slipped from your tongue and realize that seclusion is more of a gift than another cross for you to bear, afterwards, you tell me that he had four sets of wings, three eyes, and seventeen hearts, and the most unusual feature was the trembling in his steps, his inability to remain still as he phased in and out of this world into another.

v.
you say his reverence was a holy march, a fragment of bone, an aching lung.

"i was written by a man" this "i was written by a woman" that.
i was written by myself because no one had the energy to pick up a pen and do it for me. i wrote myself with scavenged ink and put myself together bit by bit with agonizing scrutiny because no one wanted to write the details

"When they talk about the tortured genius, somebody always brings up Van Gogh-
how he swallowed yellow paint
because he wanted to put the sunshine inside himself.
How his psychosis was probably the result of lead poisoning.
They called him a prodigy ,
but what I see is a man who was so sad,
he found a beautiful way to **** himself.
They say, "it's awful isn't it?"
They say, "It's always the talented ones who go before their time."
And me, a 10 year old kid
who's always been told they were so
talented
wonders when I am going to die.

I had a broken tooth and you had a broken car that sang at certain speeds.
I was holding my crimson soaked mouth but we were all laughing.
You were the only one who was worried.
Speeding to the doctor with your hands at ten and two,
sending me the occasional look and asking if it hurts,
does it hurt.
-All the memories of you do.

one time he and i were sitting in bed and i said "where do you feel stuff?" and he said "what do you mean" and i said, "here is anxiety" and pointed to my bottom left rib where the spiders start. he pointed to his throat. "it's here for me."
i keep anger in my breastbone, he holds it in his hands. i feel sadness on my shoulders, he feels it in his lungs.

I wanted to be born as a star
but someone had a different idea.

That's how I ended up as a street lamp. I die too soon and flicker too much. But yesterday I saw a moth trying to kiss me. It almost burned her.
I have heard stars do not get this luxury.

if you want to learn
what someone fears losing,
watch what they photograph.
- that explains why he never took pictures of me

***** burns my throat
but your name hurts my head
so i would rather black out with a hangover
then stare blankly at my hands
trying to forget what its like to touch you.

[people generally think blue eyes are pretty, but his were not.
they were not cornflower, sky, baby, indigo, azure. his were iceberg, squall, hypothermia, eventual death.]

I'm sorry about the blood in your mouth
i wish it was mine

i am
         craving something unholy
i said
unholy, not
blasphemous
                                          drink the blood
                                                       of a god
i always
get those two confused

let me tell you a story of remembrance. it's made of green glass shards, crushed beer cans, men's thick bones scraped clean. life ain't like the sea. she's her own god. i should know- I'm one of her angels.

2. let me sing you a lullaby about salt. how my mother left my body to the waves. how i learned to swim instead of drown. it's not a sad song, don't you weep like that. it's a good lullaby, a lullaby born of survival, and if you follow me i'll sing you the rest.

3. let me tell you what i am: scales and gills and smiles made of sharp teeth, sharp teeth, sharp teeth.

Your lips are bruised
from the apple you bit into,
and my heart is empty
from leaving the garden.
But your sin is mine too.

It was written in the stars.
Who can explain this dream
that fades soon after waking?
Truth becomes tainted in time.
so let's live in loveful doubt.

Did you know I thought
of eating the apple first,
just to spare you from wrath?
I knew and did nothing,
so let me carry your guilt.

we were created for each other
truly
not Adam and Eve
but Adam and Lilith

i was not created
from your rib
i was not created
to appease
your toxic masculinity

i was created
from the same clay
as you

equals
in the eyes of god

the hero who fought long enough to become the victim
the victim who was wronged long enough to become the monster

i wont glorify or romanticize heartbreak
for me it was a kind of death
and i was forced to keep on living

the feeling of powerlessness
that turns good men
cruel

-you know the oldest lie in history? is that power can be innocent

This is a story about two boys
The taller one has a gun tucked into his waistband
And thinks the bullets are meant for him
The older one has a record player in his head
He sings along to the same five songs
They know each other
Down to the color of blood
And the sound of bones breaking
But they are strangers
The one with the gun keeps forgetting the words
And the boy with the music Won't let him shoot