You.

you. 

indescribable, ineffable—

every word for beautiful could fail to describe you. 

every phrase meaning i love you

ardent, luminous, so exquisitely ruinous

would fail, tottering and stumbling, 

to capture your essence. 

yet you’re like the silken, moonlit night; 

a swatch of deep velvet sprinkled with stardust 

like bright fireflies caught in dark amber

like stars you can touch, small suns in your hands 

because holding you is like the sun in my hands 

i’d give you the sun if you asked me to

each dusted freckle like a delicate kiss

star-kissed

we are all made of stardust but you—beloved—

are made of the seraphic, most radiant of stars 

of perfection cradled in the heavens’ hands. 

and I would know you 

if we were nothing but dust and ash 

after the unraveling of the universe 

i’d know you after the death of all stars

i’d know you in utter darkness or light 

i will always know you—

you.

how to be a saint

they expect much from you. they will touch your skin and claim your blessing. they will chant your name until their lips form it without thinking, until their tongues have memorized the way it tastes, until they have said it so many times that they’ve claimed it as their own. your name is no longer yours. it is theirs. it is divine, now. 

you, too, are divine. they will fall to your feet and you will feel the whisper of their lips caress your skin. benevolently, gently, they will graze fingertips across your face like they are touching the face of your god. this body is not yours anymore. it is of the gods. it is a vessel. 

they will not always be so gentle. they touch you with reverence, yes, but they are hungry. they are hungry for the touch of the divine for the gods for you. they will devour you with dripping lips and red hands and smile and say more. it is never enough. it never will be. they will slowly taste your flesh and tear you to pieces. your blood is not yours anymore. it is stardust and ichor and wine and ecstasy. 

the choir sings like angels with your name at every breath and you realize their singing starts to sound like screaming. why aren’t you singing? Sing for us. your voice is the gods’ voice. no it is not your voice you do not get to speak for yourself. you never spoke for yourself. your voice is not yours. 

your body is a temple. they will offer up food and drink and more gold than you will ever need. none of it is yours. the church will take it. you do not know what for. they tell you not to worry about it. worry will mar that perfect face of yours. do not destroy that body gifted to you by the gods, they say. do not be ungrateful. they have made you a perfect vessel for us. this is not the first time they have made a temple out of a body. haven’t you figured it out yet? you own nothing. nothing is yours anymore. 

they crave you like they crave anything they cannot have. you are intoxicating, addicting, your silken skin and sweet voice. they stare up at you like you are a god, blinded by the light. they do not realize they are looking at a corpse. 

how come you are not perfect? you were molded in the shape of perfect beings. you should be perfect. they want more. they need more. you are not enough. if you are not enough they will feast on your flesh and lick their lips and beg for more. can you hear them screaming? they need more. more. MORE. 

you taste divine. 

[image id: a four-page comic. it is titled “immortality” after the poem by clare harner (more popularly known as “do not stand at my grave and weep”). the first page shows paleontologists digging up fossils at a dig. it reads, “do not stand at my grave and weep. i am not there. i do not sleep.” page two features several prehistoric creatures living in the wild. not featured but notable, each have modern descendants: horses, cetaceans, horsetail plants, and crocodilians. it reads, “i am a thousand winds that blow. i am the diamond glints on snow. i am the sunlight on ripened grain. i am the gentle autumn rain.” the third page shows archaeopteryx in the treetops and the skies, then a modern museum-goer reading the placard on a fossil display. it reads, “when you awaken in the morning’s hush, i am the swift uplifting rush, of quiet birds in circled flight. i am the soft stars that shine at night. do not stand at my grave and cry.” the fourth page shows a chicken in a field. it reads, “i am not there. i did not die” / end id]

a comic i made in about 15 hours for my school’s comic anthology. the theme was “evolution”

coffee and roses

It’s the way your name tastes like

coffee beans and rose petals. 

How your golden hoops, 

Glittering like precious metals, 

Swing with their embedded rhinestones. 

It’s the way you run your tongue 

over your teeth and bite your lip. 

How you prove my arguments wrong, 

But with a playful quip 

As if you don’t know the warm glow in my chest.

It’s the way you invited me to 

That coffee date and we took 

Pictures like a real couple. 

How we folded stars with their colorful look

With those strips of colored paper. 

It’s the way you gifted me 

That jar with our paper stars.  

How the jar’s glass refracts the sun 

And scatters the light across my room 

In dappled spots like komorebi. 

It’s the way I felt when you

Told me I tasted of the 

Lip gloss you wear

How I felt when you said that 

I tasted of your lips. 

It’s the way you hold my heart 

Cradle it oh so gently 

In your hands as if you don’t 

Have the power to crush it 

Into a million tiny pieces. 

It’s the way I know that 

Even if my name on your lips 

Tastes of ecstasy 

You will be

The death of me

kalopsia

the light plays across the covers. 

i chose white covers because i 

thought it would make me sleep 

better but i don’t sleep anyways 

but they are beautiful. they are 

beautiful because i am leaving. 

kalopsia caused by an 1800 mile 

move. they are beautiful because 

i am leaving because i have to 

leave because i know this logically 

but my sheets at home are green. and 

in massachusetts. and i am in bed in 

texas. which is quite a problem, i 

would think. 

Right Here, Right Now

TW: mentions of suicide, self harm

What if, right here, right now, 

I just jumped from off this roof? 

What if, right here, right now, 

I took this gun?—for no one’s bulletproof. 

What if, right here, right now, 

I took this rope and let me swing? 

What if, right here, right now, 

I took those pills? These tiny things? 

Coward, you screamed—coward, coward

Never did anything right

Always failed, always disappointed

So what if I gave into the night? 

What if, right here, right now, 

I took this knife, right at that vein 

Slashed ‘til I found blood and bone

And let thick crimson liquid rain? 

So slit my throat. Slit my arms. 

Slice this traitorous heart of mine. 

Carve these words into my chest. 

Smile and say that everything’s fine. 

Cut these thoughts. Cut these hands. 

Cut the voices inside my head. 

Ignorance is bliss—and so’s oblivion

‘Cause nothing can hurt me if I’m dead.