The Brushing

The bell at the door chimes.

Someone new begins to wander

between the shelves.

I can feel their footsteps:

slow, methodical,

afraid to disturb the amber motes hanging in the air.

the spines of books with titles

abandoned and fading in the sun.

I can feel their head cock

at the crystal orbs when they catch

glimpses of images waltzing inside.

Ears strain towards

the stained glass bottle,

A siren’s song inside.

And I remember

dancing between the

cabinets and curios

before collecting dust.

“May I help you?”

“Hm? Oh, no thank you.”

“Alrighty. I’m here if you have any questions.”

I mean it. I’m here.

It is easier to navigate

behind the counter.

There are thousands of

stories sitting on

the tip of my tongue

about the subway token

that belonged to the

Vox Populi of New York City,

The single earring

listening to its lost counterpart

like a walkie-talkie.

Their fingers linger

between the discarded crown

of the pirate king

and the planter

that revivifies any

root.

Between and

underneath

the weather altering umbrellas,

They lift the

Sword of Sortilege

by the hilt

Incorrectly.

But there is a counter

in my way

and stitches over my hip,

and I have become the things I sell:

An old legend, lying in wait to be needed.

The Brushing

CW: Gender dysphoria and behavioral misgendering

The same poem previously titled Miscreation: Misgender

She lingers on a sentence

She wraps herskin over another hull

She crawls nine-legged spiraling a spine

She nibbles on the nape behind a brain

She-mandibles munch, marking a membrane female

She picks at a pelt and pickles it in plasma

She eats away inside an eardrum

She titillates tendons

She irritates involuntary irate

She sips on surface epidermis

She perpetuates perverse presentation

She falls for face value

She is not considerate, she demands

She creates a crusting carapace

She is a creature

She wanes wonder in words like “woman”

She echoes externality

She ignores an inner (in)tangible

She forces a feminine façade

She feigns herfeelings

Link TBA

CW: Imagery of guns

Bubblegum

Gumdrop

Double Bubble

POP! POP!

Mom says

“Mosquitos like you ‘cause you’re just so sweet!”

Bite me!

Try to bleed me dry I’ll rot more than just your teeth

Royal Crown

Lindy Hop

Soda bottle

POP! POP!

“You’re so gentle

And such an old soul too!”

If life is pain, then I’ve seen war and

I’ll sugar crush you

Glitter girl

K-pop

DOMINO

POP! POP!

May I have your  

Pay attention to the freakshow 

MANIAC

‘Cause Imma knock you down like 

Motormouth

Nonstop

Cut a bitch

CHOP! CHOP!

Sweet as candy

Sugar high hurl

Manic pixie

Not your fucking dream girl

So cute

Smile prop

Jawbreaker

POP! POP!

Saccharine loaded gun

Sweet psycho arsenal

Let’s blow up the sun

Everything is scarier

behind sparkles and a smile

Boil sugar

Make it hot

Candy blood

POP! POP!

People think I’m shy

No matter my age

But sometimes silence

Is just quiet rage

Bubblegun

Gundrop

Double trouble

POP! POP!

Call me cute

I fucking dare you

Link TBA

CW: Gender dysphoria, body dysmorphia

1.

A body is a building.

A body is blank walls to be adorned.

A body is a church, skin like stained glass:

Carved and covered in color.

A body is lit with candles, careful to not be set aflame.

A body is adorned with worshippers and shrines.

A body is a house.

A body is haunted by what crawls around in the attic;

What whispers unwanted words through the vents and screams in the absence of sleep.

A body is tented by exterminators and crawling with contractors.

A body is under renovation.

A body is abandoned.

A body is the crumbling walls of a temple,

Half buried in overgrown foliage.

A body is quiet with the echoes of the people who once revered its rooms.

A body is in ruins.

2.

What is a body without scars, but a body unlived?

If your body is a temple

Then I will build shrines of art in honor of what saved me.

I will take needles and mix ink with skin.

I will draw blades to slice the wrong from my chest.

I will paint my hair, drain bad blood—

I will fill my face with what glitters.

I will let forests grow.

I am my architect.

I am the only resident of my body.

I will renovate what is weathered until I have good bones and my heart(h) is my home.

I will not follow the blueprints of those who don’t bother to visit.

A temple only needs one worshipper—one caretaker—to be holy.

What is a body without scars, but a body unloved?

3.

A body is chiseled

Chipped

Carved

Scraped into shape

A body is built

Brick by brick

From the ground up

A body is art

A blank canvas

A block of marble

Crafted

Respected

By the beholder