the saddest thing about this story
he never had a .....
happy begging
happy middle
or happy end

history remembers victory
but the victory forget the lost

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.

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.

Fire turning anything and everything in its path to ash that is how some say the world will end, others believe it will end in an exquisitely haunting ice age but they are wrong it didn’t end in the world being engulfed by blazing flames and choked by thick billowing smoke clouds, it didn’t end in a ice age that slowly froze the very sea and turned everything to eery sculptures of ice . It ended with the raw devastated scream of grief so heart wrenching that the stars fell one by one into the icy darkness of space. The sky bled; darkness rose where the stars once were erasing lights across the once glowing planet and then the change. Instead of griefs broken voice there is silence. Silence that swallows the world whole, that screams but no sound follows,

A dog that weeps after it kills
is no better than a dog that doesn't

my guilt will not purify me

Icarus flew towards the sun
Not for apollo as the story so suggested, But for his freedom
He smiled with a mouth full of ****** teeth, when his wings began to melt
he laughed as he fell
as the wax slithered down his spine burning patterns into his back
it was addictive, he was drunk on freedom and high on the fresh air
even Dionysius would marvel at his insanity.
maybe it was punishment for trying to escape the gods
melted wax warps his wings till he look like an angel falling from grace
he laughed madly because soon no god would be able to find him
Olympus shivered at the sight
A dying boy with hunger in his eyes and teeth bared to the sky  
Wings on fire stretched wide like a burning angle
When he hit the water, his breath was ripped from his chest
And his lungs once burning with fire, Now drown in the sea
he sinks deeper and deeper
And he laughed silently in the water knowing no god could own him now.

" do not misunderstand me; when I call myself a shell
what i mean is a used up bullet casing.
As in, the aftermath of something lethal and horrific.
As in, an echo of inflicted evil that seeps into everything ."

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.

they call you useless
and paint bruises on your sides.
you nod and stay silent

"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

tell me how the world ended
which time?

- too many times to count

most days my demons are silent
but when they talk
oh god
How they scream

I'm feeling tired again
the kind of tired
sleep can't fix

"you cant love someone unless you love yourself"
*******
I have  never loved myself
but you
oh god, with you i forgot what hating myself felt like

A boy who shouldn't be alive
Who couldn't be his own person
Learning how to breath without permission
And live without hurting

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.

you carry your fathers hand me down rage
its two sizes to big
and everyone can see it doesn't fit you

"This is an apology
for the things I had to say about us, to get over us.
I feel most like myself
when I am washing crimson blood stains
off my hands in the shower;
and I hope
whatever is eating you alive does it as slowly as possible.
I know it doesn't sound like it,
but this is a love poem,
this is a love poem,  this is a love poem

until it isn't anymore."

/'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.

/'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.

Now at the end of all things
As we're breathing sulfur and
Lead's pouring over our heads
I'm glad you're the one I'm
Sharing the trenches with

in order to write poetry that doesn't spiral into despair
i must listen to the birds
and in order to listen to the birds
the war planes must be silent

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.

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 think you deserve a soft epilogue,
my love.
you are a good person
and  you've suffered enough.

I love you as a drug addict loves a high

I love you as fire loves homes

As tragedy loves innocence

As order loves to sit and watch everthing go wrong

But I fear I love to deeply and far far to much

(Just as Icarus loved the sun before it set his wings ablaze)

I fear I may be Icarus

born loving something much brighter then me

Doomed to burn alive forever

"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 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

if you think this is a happy ending
you haven't been paying attention
-happy ending aren't given to people like me love

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.

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 have survived far  far to much to go quietly
let a meteor take me call the gods for back up
my death will be grand
the land will  fracture
the seas will roar
the sun will eat it self

/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

yes,
you will rise from the ashes
but burning comes first

for this part,
darling,
you must be brave

Stop looking at me like that,
with pity in your glassy dead eyes.
all I am to you is a tragedy, right?
Stop it.
Stop ******* looking at me like that.
Do you hear me?

I will break you with my bloodstained teeth.

the feeling of powerlessness
that turns good men
cruel

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

I did not ask to be this
This hideous creature of crimson soaked skin and snarling voices
But this prison of flesh is the only gift you ever gave me
So I will stretch this skin until I fill every crevice and crack
And I will wear it until you regret that you created it.
You made me a creature to be feared.
So fear me.
-prefect little creation

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.

"what did they do?"
"nothing good his puppets were not supposed to live after the war"

Someone once said rage is still it just sits there this heavy dark thing in front of your eyes making you feel nothing but the hunger beating in your empty chest . So your forced to face it and open your mouth wide to swallow it whole. But rage is a thing with bones and blood and screams that turn into flames, so you chew on it take in all the sharp bitterness that makes your tongue and mouth and words go numb you don’t even know when it reaches your throat because its already in your chest.

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.

The moon hangs over the earth
A dead thing
Over a dying thing

you are so much more
then your fathers son
you are so much more
than the wars you have won

unclench your fists, my love, the war is over now.
(i've forgotten how to uncurl my fingers from the trigger.)
be gentle, my love, the war is over now.
(i don't remember what it's like not to have gunsteel in my bones.) come home, my love, the war is over now.
(i'm back at the place i left but home is gone where i cannot find it.) sleep, my love, the war is over now.
(the war follows me into sleep. i'm afraid i'll never leave it behind.) kiss me, my love, the war is over now.
(my fingers still drip red and i do not want to stain you with them.)

teach me how to be at peace again

I only ever thought there were two types of love,
the kind you’d **** for (till blood coated your arms )
and the kind you’d die for ( gasping their name with your last breath)
but you my love
you were the kind of love
I would live for.

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.