I am not fit for sunlight
I was made for clouds
and the kind of sweet nostalgia
It was never truth I wanted,
the sum of her stems and curves
the ecstasy of her lines, her heaves, and her sighs
the turning of a season
that bears her tears
with the grace of gold September
cross-stitch of a leaf
I hunt for a skeleton of fire
I lust for the savagery of now
I could tear a man from my lips like a curse
I suffer to be carnal
to live without delusion
If I gave you my hand, would you touch me?
Light that cigarette.
I am that girl.
I want to unravel the earth with my feet—
to speak with my soul or not at all—
My darling, I will mark you with my scent
eyes like cruel moons
my pen skims the curve
*The first stanza of this poem was initially published in December 2017 as “Untitled V.” I’ve since reworked it and deleted the original, much shorter post.