belle’s poetry @bellsandstars - Tumblr Blog

a letter to myself

all my regrets coalesce behind closed doors, discussing the things i’m trying to forget. there is no lie more bitter than the truth that i keep trying to outrun, but i set foot in this city and it all outpaces me. i’m staring face to face with the words i never meant to say, in a room i always hated, in a place that never felt like home. so many nights spent screaming in the silence, suffocated by the quiet. the writing on the walls is mine, still there after i scrubbed it clean with time. what is there to do with all of this inherent guilt i left behind? my shame is sickly sweet like spoiled fruit, lies are always so much sweeter than the rotten truth. and that is: i cant stop trying to outrun the things i did to you.

-belle

glory be to the carpenter’s son

glory be to jesus, the carpenter’s son. glory be to jesus, the oldest brother. glory be to jesus, mary’s beloved child.

for our sake, he was crucified under pontius pilate. for his sake, i hope it was worth it to him.

did he feel alone in his crown of thorns? did he cry when they nailed him on the cross? was he scared to die?

it is deeply painful to me, that jesus was selfless and generous. i agonize over what jesus could’ve been. what his life would have been like. i wonder if he thinks about it, too

does he stick by his choice? are we still worthy of being saved by him?

look at your brothers, your sisters, the snakes hiding in the cracks. are we still worthy of being saved?

i ask myself that question every day, burdened by inherent guilt. the choices i’ve made add up to a throne of bones and a dance with death but i still ask jesus, am i worthy of being saved?

i want to know him. i want this guilt to mean something. i am desperate to know him.

if i ever meet him, i would ask him about the life he could’ve had. i would ask him about his siblings and his favorite thing about his mother. i would ask him if the smell of wood brings him back home.

but i have never met jesus and my questions just scream in the silence.

so glory be to the carpenter’s son, the oldest brother, mary’s beloved child. glory be to jesus and all that he could’ve been.

-belle

daffodil

maybe i’m afraid of you

when the lie is so much sweeter than the truth

just rage that burns coalescent blues

i fear the scene behind the ruse.

when i bite the hand that feeds

give you a snarl with all my pointed teeth

you fend me off with a jagged scream

running away from what i’ve schemed.

i’m the problem, im the lie

sweet tastes turn bitter with some time

if i ever grew, we could’ve thrived

but all i know how to do is just survive.

-belle

galatea

i am created for you, a statue rended from flesh.

you carved my warmth out of the marble and now everything is cold. it sinks into the marrow of my bones, engraving my own uselessness into the stone.

i cry from my eyes to my teeth, pearl and diamond tears slipping down my cheeks, but don’t worry, my body is pristine.

my words are nothing but inane ramblings, ephemeral feelings from rotting flesh.

pay no mind to my mind, the double entendres that i lie through, fading, falling, fine.

but behind the marble, i am ravenous. i am a raging storm, i am the devil that you forgot, i am the face of wretched rage.

you never spared a prayer for my soul, wasting them on war and vast empty seas.

blood is thick, id like to see it spill from your chest. pain is love, id like to split the skin of my fist on your face. violence is sacred, id like to topple the pedestal you so proudly claim.

in the rubble, we are equal. in the decimation, we are nothing.

-belle

aftermath

in the aftermath, we are silent

each holding a gun to the other’s head

we are waiting and we are watchful

for the lulling siren’s song of death

your lure, your fishing hook

and my line of tiny toy planes

soldiers on a battlefield

decimated by the waste

soulless and withered

the roses cloud my lashes

angelic and ephemeral

there’s cathedrals in between the dashes

in the rubble, we are equal

in my words, i mourn our strife

in the destruction, we are faithful

in my mind, this will never die

-belle

i’m sorry i’m like this

i wish you’d touch me until i falter

spread out naked on the altar

divinity in your lips, crimson like a slaughter.

i need some kind of ruse

some kind of dismissible excuse

like being drunk on whiskey instead of drunk on you.

-belle

my thoughts on current affairs

an oblation for the cycle, a gift to the violence.

death waits upon abstemious fools who dine in gluttony, serving up excuses about coaxing forth the wind.

they pounce upon paintings dying to speak, drinking in their terror like sweet red wine.

they gloat amongst themselves like dragons hoarding gold, never deigning to look upon those below the clouds.

this is the court and we are beasts in the colosseum. bred, born, and raised to be slaughtered by shadows behind cardboard castles.

i reread my notes and manuscripts, trying to make sense of a hurricane, desperately nailing down shutters that are torn away.

i die a thousand small deaths but they don’t mean anything. nothing ever means anything anymore.

all i know now is death and dying. decay dusts the edges of my vision until it’s all red and purple like an open wound.

is this the debt i owe for existing? what use is protecting the weak? where is hope when you need her? nothing makes sense.

i shout at the reaper in the corner. i hurl broken glass at the shadows. i fall asleep to the sound of my own frantic breathing. this life is a ticking bomb and we are not built to last.

the cracked ground is splitting. apocalyptic trumpets are singing. through dead forests, the wind is whistling.

an oblation for the cycle, a gift to the violence.

-belle

untitled

i need you to tell me how to be and i will be it if i can pretend that i’m yours.

tell me how to be everything you’ve ever wanted and maybe i can finally rest.

i’m too exhausted to keep explaining my soul.

would you even want me as i am? chipped teeth and chubby cheeks?

no, i am so foolish to think i could ever be enough.

the wanting can be too much sometimes. the need for something i’ll never reach. the loss of something i never had.

in another life, i am iphigenia at the altar. in another life, i am galatea made from marble. in every life, i am an oblation for the cycle and a gift to the violence.

ink bleeds through the paper, blood mars the margins; but writing is the only way i know how to mourn now.

and i mourn everything i never got to have.

-belle

mom

the blood from your hands stained my skin too.

you hoarded all my colors so i can only see blue.

you forced my soul to be saved, i was your willing fool.

i hate that i love you, but that’s all i can do.

you pinched my ruddy cheeks and cleaned my sticky hands.

you bathed me in the spirit like a sacrificial lamb.

carved me up, spit me out, and that’s all that i am.

a lost child with a palm outstretched to the damned.

i’ve dreamt of escape but it’s a fleeting dream

the blood on my hands is all i can see

a child in a monster, reaching through sharp teeth

i fear the gates of heaven are closed to blasphemes like me

-belle

until i falter

you are rotten to the core, born from the rib of a man, apple already in hand, edge of a knife to the damned.

you pray for something more, but god is already gone, who of us will be strong enough to save the souls he forgot?

you pray to a god who doesn’t hear, hallowed be his name, written from the blood of the slain, taken from their slashed veins.

you pray to a god made of fear, made real by a grave of a womb, the one who unwillingly bore fruit, a child for a tomb.

you look at your hands sheathed in blood, red dripping from your nails, the drops echoing wails, the pitiful cries of the failed.

you feel the devastating flood, the phantoms of knees in the pews, prayers for the refused, god does not look kindly on you.

as i am

i am eve with the apple, born from the rib of a man.

i am a liar and a schemer, red drips from my hands.

i am a faithless blaspheme, go on and hang me from a cross.

just an accumulation of my mother’s rage and the failures that she fought.

what am i if not a gift, an oblation for the violence?

immolate me to the cycle so that i may remain silent.

a weapon in a child, a reaper’s scythe in the blue.

don’t you hear the firing of a gun and the tightening of a noose?

so much blood on my fingers, i feel it drip from my nails

isolated on an island while advancing ships raise black sails

just a painting dying to speak through a tongue devoid of words

my nails dig into my palm, it’s like drawing blood from a corpse.

my words barely even rhyme, can’t keep up with all my lies

i’m so talented with lip service that i can’t even cry

i may be a horned demon, but i am also the glass on the floor

i am shattered, i am nothing, how did i ever expect more?

home

i hate living at home. i hate being surrounded by all these ghosts. i hate the way the spirits dancing can’t ever leave me alone.

i hate this damn house. i hate these familiar sounds. like the creaks in the floor and the words in my mouth.

i hate your faithless lies and the way they echo in my mind. i hate every phantom of you that just won’t die.

the hot concrete under my bare feet, the way you never seem to leave, i hate your shadows following me when i think i’m finally free.

i hate the way you twist the knife, i hate the way you’re totally fine, i hate the way my wounds are still open and the way the blood never dried.

i hate that i still love you. i hate the way that you withdrew. but most of all, i hate that i’ll stand here, waiting for you to come back like you always do.

little girl