Author: poetryfest

When you left me, I flew with mighty black wings to the edge of a black hole. It was there that I thought I might find you, yet.

Pain never felt so exquisite as it did in your absence. The fire of the void of you licked at me — flames of my own personal Hell.

The pain of you was my ecstasy. One which I had no intention of letting go. The pain was the only part of you that was still mine.

It was here I challenged God Herself, at the threshold of the Universe. It was here that I scratched and screamed and choked on impossible tears.

There were many things I endured.

Her mighty hand once reached inside me, and reminded me. What was I without Her?

She ripped out the part that made me whole.

The fall.

The fall, where I learned about infinity. Who wants to live forever, always wanting more?

At the end of eternity, I endured the cold. Frozen was the lake of the Morningstar.

It was here that we learned why the Lightbringer was so singularly talented at burning.

He did what he had to. He burned the only thing there was to burn.

The fallen ones who man the bell tower at the gates of Dis still scream with the pain of his fire.

Out of the pit, I climbed for you. For seven days, I climbed. For I am the wicked, and you know what they say about our rest.

To leave the pit, I had to change. I was the first to learn what it was to be baptized by fire.

I was the first to be baptized by the kiss of Hell.

To be of Hell is to endure. And I could endure.

But not you. If there was one thing I could not endure, it was the absence of you.

And so I stared into a dead star and witnessed a billion suns rush past, eager to join.

Me and my black wings, at a singularity.

My love was always a gravitational, crushing sort of thing. You said that. Do you remember?

So fine. I’ll meet you there. When you’re ready to be loved, I’ll meet you at the edge of the universe, at the grave of a long dead star.

for Masume

An Iranian woman believes
she will be married off
to a Muslim man but it is
her sister chosen this time.

Fearing she will be next
she begs her father
to immigrate to the U.S. She
leaves to re-create her life.

Iranian relatives call & ask for money
in desperation. She gives &
gives until she cannot swallow
that burden any longer. It ends.

Her greatest secret: In 1990 she marries
a Lutheran man, a U.S. military veteran,
and in her heart it is right, but he is
not Muslim, defying parental orders.

This phone call reshapes the
course of her life. Her mother reacts
to this news: Well, Christ was a prophet,
one of the holy ones, so that is OK.

But it is her father’s wrath she
anticipates, expects the hammer
of his voice to fall upon her, the flood
of time & distance to drown her.

But he asks his beautiful immigrant
daughter very slowly in Farsi—
the years had only softened his heart:
Is he good to you?

i listened to the dry thunder in the distance
and drank a sip of the coffee they told me was immoral
what a day

i used to swear i was destined for street lights and silk
and taxi cab horns and stilettos and stage names
but now I just tell people i like to write when they ask
i like to write

i used to dream about being all grown up when i was a kid
little did i know i was about as grown up as i was going to get
i still feel like i’m nine and know everything-
or that i’m nineteen and know nothing at all

i’ve taken to going on walks in the evening sun
thinking about the shapes of trees
and the shape of my life and the shape of all the lives i could’ve lived
my shoulders are red and sunburnt but at least my head is full of ideas
i always forget i am so young

i used to believe in heaven and hell
but these days i don’t believe in much at all
and to say i did would be a sin, huh

i used to wish my skin would be clear and my ribs weren’t so prominent
and that i was faster and stronger and smarter
but she forgot that she was pretty and healthy and still growing
and so am i

growing up is both a punishment and prize for being born
for existing, in the simplest way
did the extra inches forced into my legs
make up for all the times i should’ve stood up for myself?
did the scars from the smattering of acne across my face
pay the debt for envying the girls in my class whose hormones kicked in early?
did the hurt in my heart do anything either?
what did i do to deserve that?
the stupidness of youth, i think

punished for ‘i didn’t know better’ and the betrayal of my own body

i walked into my apartment and wished for my childhood bed

Moments,
times of bad and good,
listen as they speak,
these stories never heard.

From the ordinary they rise,
begin speaking,
seeking the listening,
tales they’d tell,
of times now past.

Dust and wear,
time taken hold,
now left forgotten there,
in the unused,
old clutter with old stories,
of snapshots in time,
where life once engaged,
remaining in stories never heard.

Much like a bear,
these southern white women
will fight, tooth and nail,
for their cubs
and their sleuth.1

Much like a mouse,
this queer person
slinks from their hole,
afraid to leave
and face the sun.

I envy these women,
with painted claws: a perfect
pink. Nature documentary mommas
with feathered eyelashes painstakingly
applied every morning.

I know
nature documentaries are scripted.
Reality: the bears
get punched to death
too.

But when they leave their house
and enter that restroom,
they don’t worry
that red stains ruin their
bright clothes.

1 A group of bears

Expanding outwards the unknown and spectacular
Unrecognizable, macabre.

Colors that exist here among the
twists and curls.

Emotions so twisted and thorny,
I cannot bring myself to start to untangle them.
A concoction unheard of and new.

This thrives, while the sun has none
caked in dirt, I am left unsure but,
We are unable to leave.
Yet both of us look out of place.

We are stuck in a cycle
Only paying attention to the new if it is odd.
Emotions are lying
Or begging.

Rotted and new.

The menu is limited.
The ingredients, contorted.
But I am a woman who knows how to manage
How else could we have survived years of this damage?

The preparation is relatively simple.
You get ¼ pain, ¾ Shame and ⅓ Sadness.
The more unbalanced the equation, the bitter the meal.
As the chaos begins to simmer, throw in 1/7 of guilt and 1/7 of grief.
The fire of the pot will almost go out, but hold, this marriage must cook.
Add 1/7 of pity.
Ignite the flame,
prepare for a party.
The ugliness of this meal is to remember the tears, ¾ will do.
Forget the recipe your mind will give you, how could she
without being here, know that he’s sick of your blues.
Throw in vinegar, add dark to gloom, watch him dissipate,
it’s only you who remembers the last time you were you.

The cooking is real hard work.
But persevere.
Or how else can you feel the heat?
You are a woman, the fiery heat is a conquest,
Your oiled, piled dirty dishes are proof for your inquest.
The final drink for such a meal is a home made cocktail.
Take ⅙ of trauma with ⅙ of vodka and ⅕ of maddener
The crazier you look, sound and feel,
the more delicious the mixture and meal.

The eating is torture.
You can serve your man parts of this dish.
If it’s cold, he will eat it.
If it’s warm, he will repeat it.
Eating for you is a habit
You eat, you shit, take his shit, repeat.

The digestion is the hardest.
Swallowing the pain is rough,
Chewing and twisting the truth is not.
If I choke on tears or wine, what difference does it make?
If I slit my throat or hand, what hell could possibly remain?
So my broken heart tears, and travels with the pieces to my gut.
The meeting of the two causes a rupture;
scattering the debris of my crushed life and body,
forcing it to expel into a thousand, wasted faeces.
He will come home and find me in my mess.
He will sigh, pick up his phone and call his miss.

hadow creatures
between awake and asleep,
painting alleyways and
silhouettes on rented houses,
any but their own.

stepping in and out of lives
so smoothly
that their echo,
similar to a drop in a puddle:
ripples and then calms.

a shadow rests
on the opposite side of the light,
occupying a small space
for a small time:
reprieve from the burning sun

a shadow
can be striking
but only for a moment;
the day and it’s events
can only be a memory.

as the sun searches
for rest, becoming
a drop behind the horizon,
the shadow finds company
and loses its shape

1st Gear:

Very slowly, I wake up and my brain tells me where to go.
It says you already know.
Get up, brush your teeth, wash your face.
Don’t let the water be a waste.
Get dressed, don’t be stressed
Let your mother tell you that you’re the best.

2nd Gear:

Leave the house, I look up at the sky and all I see is blue.
Birds chirping, I’m drinking soda and I’m burping.
As I’m walking to the car door.
I look down at the concrete floor and wonder what else I could adore.
As I’m getting driven to school.
I wonder if what we are getting taught are the ways of a fool.
As I start to arrive, my brain goes into a deepdive.
This is the pitstop, and this is where the good part of my day stops.

3rd Gear:

First half of school, Counting some sheep.
Getting a wink of sleep.
Periods passing by, like the blink of an eye.
Now for lunch, Some people may call it brunch.
Fights, giving people left, right goodnights.
Security, supposedly the soldiers of purity.
Second half, my brain spinning its knowledge staff.
Hallways Lessening with people.
Last period, finally over.
And I’m not feeling sober.

4th Gear:

Schools over, walking home in cold november
I walk over to the deli with my friends.
But this isn’t how my day ends.

Final Gear:

I finally got home.
The sheet is flipped over.
Doing my homework, and getting ready to trash my friends in a game.
Because they are so lame, and only the good players get the fame.
Now, after all is complete it is time to continue counting my sheep and fall into a
deep and rewind on my tape player.

Hundreds of thousands of people
Hiding behind closed doors,
feeling like they’re stuck behind the door
and can’t get out.
Like they’re chained to the floor,
not knowing if they should try to escape.
Scared to be judged for who they are,
Scared of being looked at differently,
because of who they love.
Feeling like people will hurt them if they step outside.

Thousands of people have been killed for being different.
They stay inside,
not knowing if they should go outside,
because they’re considered abnormal.
Not knowing if they should try and find love.
Instead of finding love,
They cry in their room.
They cry because they’re looked at differently.
Just because a person likes the opposite sex,
and the other may like the same gender,
that does not make you different from everyone else.
You are your own person
and you don’t need to change for anyone.
You can try and change for someone.
But no matter how hard you try,
you won’t change,
because that’s not who you truly are.