Waking moths
I don’t want anyone to tell me how I should feel.
when I don’t even know how I feel, I can almost guarantee that whatever falls out your tears, is not how I am feeling right now and surely is not what I will be feeling in a spell.
I would think that I would know how to bite by now.
Thoughtfully, with time taken to assess the damages and call in my dogs.
But no. I don’t.
Perhaps I have unlearned that in a matter of waking moths and growing toads.
Growing toads. The very downfall of my own wildness.
If I raise my voice too much I’m eruptions. If I don’t say enough I’m just desert.
So fucking what? If I can’t be eruptions and I can’t be deserts why would I ever want to be their mountains or skyscrapers or valleys. What scenery are we even building? Because I don’t fit into it. Perhaps that’s the dice.
Why we fold people into origami cranes and set them to the sides of our desks. We won’t ever fit right but we have a small place if we must exist.
Well.
I’ll set your cranes to craters.
I will pull myself out of my jowls, straight from my toes, where i’m curled into blankets.
I will pull myself out of my mouth until he doesn’t think he knows me anymore. Questions if he ever knew me at all,
if I was ever rosemary,
if i was ever sunrises,
if i was ever cotton.
And I will keep coming, and coming, and coming.
lengths and cords of this sage, this seer.
Until im standing cauldrons high
and taking hash in powerful laughter of witches.
Until I am so certain of myself and my tears I won’t ever choke on my ropes again.
But humanity might.
I will carve them into my snakes. And take my seat up in storms.
I’ll sit in the clouds and watch as my guts spill out, everything that I have ever swallowed, ever hesitated to say, or carried in my clutch.
I will watch it play across the sky in dark clouds and harrowing twisters. Lightning to the pastures. My weather will eat the things i love like games. It will do to the outside what it has done to the drawers.
And it won’t cease fire until the cupboards are scrubbed clean and the wounds are licked and the gardening gloves go back on.
And when it calms I will round up my cherries and tell them of what I’ve seen. About how ladies take up swallowing snakes and let them live in their bellies. How if they sit, they fester and bubble and stink.
How the bile is like the backwash of the ocean when I vomited back onto grass.
I will let them know that there will always be growing toads.
But they are theirs alone to tame and harvest.
For there are gnomes in the woods and they are petty thieves, and they will always try and get to talking.
They want to change the way your kitchen door slams and how you peel your oranges.
And if the bones inside are tired, and if the physical body needs love.
My dear, as I, you just might let them.
But when the graveyard overflows and arm hairs stand on end, the time has come to disrobe. Know your own snakes and call in your dogs . Head alone to barren eruption road.
I don’t want anyone to tell me how I should feel.
when I don’t even know how I feel, I can almost guarantee that whatever falls out your tears, is not how I am feeling right now and surely is not what I will be feeling in a spell.
I would think that I would know how to bite by now.
Thoughtfully, with time taken to assess the damages and call in my dogs.
But no. I don’t.
Perhaps I have unlearned that in a matter of waking moths and growing toads.
Growing toads. The very downfall of my own wildness.
If I raise my voice too much I’m eruptions. If I don’t say enough I’m just desert.
So fucking what? If I can’t be eruptions and I can’t be deserts why would I ever want to be their mountains or skyscrapers or valleys. What scenery are we even building? Because I don’t fit into it. Perhaps that’s the dice.
Why we fold people into origami cranes and set them to the sides of our desks. We won’t ever fit right but we have a small place if we must exist.
Well.
I’ll set your cranes to craters.
I will pull myself out of my jowls, straight from my toes, where i’m curled into blankets.
I will pull myself out of my mouth until he doesn’t think he knows me anymore. Questions if he ever knew me at all,
if I was ever rosemary,
if i was ever sunrises,
if i was ever cotton.
And I will keep coming, and coming, and coming.
lengths and cords of this sage, this seer.
Until im standing cauldrons high
and taking hash in powerful laughter of witches.
Until I am so certain of myself and my tears I won’t ever choke on my ropes again.
But humanity might.
I will carve them into my snakes. And take my seat up in storms.
I’ll sit in the clouds and watch as my guts spill out, everything that I have ever swallowed, ever hesitated to say, or carried in my clutch.
I will watch it play across the sky in dark clouds and harrowing twisters. Lightning to the pastures. My weather will eat the things i love like games. It will do to the outside what it has done to the drawers.
And it won’t cease fire until the cupboards are scrubbed clean and the wounds are licked and the gardening gloves go back on.
And when it calms I will round up my cherries and tell them of what I’ve seen. About how ladies take up swallowing snakes and let them live in their bellies. How if they sit, they fester and bubble and stink.
How the bile is like the backwash of the ocean when I vomited back onto grass.
I will let them know that there will always be growing toads.
But they are theirs alone to tame and harvest.
For there are gnomes in the woods and they are petty thieves, and they will always try and get to talking.
They want to change the way your kitchen door slams and how you peel your oranges.
And if the bones inside are tired, and if the physical body needs love.
My dear, as I, you just might let them.
But when the graveyard overflows and arm hairs stand on end, the time has come to disrobe. Know your own snakes and call in your dogs . Head alone to barren eruption road.
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