born jones

ali. 24. poet. hufflepuff.

[bornjones-blog]

Pyre, they say, rhymes with fire and that’s how we make ashes I didn’t like that they reduced you to that, to just ashes. Your last good day was in December, fourteen days after your Last birthday and there was snow on the ground, mixed with your ashes. Your son was here. His coat smelled like cigarettes; I knew you’d be Mad, because I knew you could taste them on his breath, those ashes. Hospice is a cobweb word that rests in the back of my throat I can’t breathe; you cough and the spider comes out and weaves ashes. The day you died I held your granddaughter until my tears soaked Us; it made my heart ache. My mouth was drier than your ashes. Your urn is small, nondescript. It doesn’t look like you at all It is not what I would have picked to hold you, or your ashes. Your daughter’s arms around my waist are bird-delicate, I think They (she) might crumble under the weight of her skin like ashes. I feel abandoned, left standing in the wake of your forest Fire. I miss you most when I am not alone; burnt to ashes. Rise, my mother tells me, but the words burn hotter than my tears I am no phoenix; I cannot rise from this, from these ashes. Broken wings and I’m falling. I am a songbird; no phoenix Just a songbird with broken wings and no voice; only ashes.

phoenix pt I

[bornjones-blog]

Mostly that time doesn’t flow (it stops. And moves fasttoofast) with your absence like the gaps between the hands of the clock they match the holes in my heart.

things i learned from the day you left.

[bornjones-blog]

She is thin. I can count the knots of her spin the ridges of her shoulder blades the lines of her ribs. I finally understand what they mean when they say “thin as a rail” because rails—this woman is made of them but for the tumor that bulges out of her neck. Lumpy. Monday’s oatmeal. Unappetizing. I cannot take my eyes off of it. I stare. Even though they teach you bland smiles vacant smiles, caring hands I feel like I’m skydiving she says and I smile at her tumor. She looks like an art project; a lump of clay with toothpicks for limbs. I cater to her— this is your call light can you see the TV are you comfortable? because I’m not. I want to ask her how she gets her clothes on with that thing sticking out of her neck. I want to know when she noticed it. Did it start as a lump? Did you seek help when it was still small enough to pass as a cold? Did you wait until it was stretching the skin of your neck so thin you could see the roadmap of you veins? Did you wake up one day and look in the mirror and oh my god— but by then it was too late. Wolf in sheep’s clothing; Cancer whispers that everything is normal until it’s gnawing on your bones. Her mortality hangs from her neck; a pendulum that counts down the days-hours-minutes. As I am leaving, she cups my cheek with a hand that burns cold and says thank you. I smile and try to make a hasty exit but her icicle fingers curl around my neck—smooth, supple— is she jealous? and No. Thank you for seeing me instead of my tumor and what do I say? She won’t live long enough for the white lie that falls from my lips to matter. The thing that spurts from her neck has sucked all but the marrow from her bones. Cancer is a starving child— it will eat itself to death. Yes, of course— my cowardice is bitter. I smile to sweeten it.

7251

[bornjones-blog]

Monika, my therapist, says I’m a private griever. Sometimes, I wonder if grief comes in Crayola. If sharing pieces of you should be easy, Tickled Pink for cheeks and Burnt Sienna for freckles. Monika, my therapist, says I should discuss my mood. Today, I feel Unmellow Yellow. Like bile. The truth is, I’m not a private griever. I wear the way I miss you in living color, a fault line of Purple Mountains Majesty and Bittersweet Pink. Monika, my therapist, hands me a sheet that says the last step of grieving is acceptance, but all I can think is that I can’t remember if your eyes were Blizzard Blue or Cornflower.

support group

[bornjones-blog]

Green. The sucker you rolled around your mouth the day we met. Your sneakers and my flip-flops burning up the boardwalk. Bellyaches on the first day of school and— the taste in my mouth when someone said you had left me here. Yellow. The flowers I wore in my hair when we said goodbye, butter for pancakes on Sunday morning, syrup-sweet in my mouth—I want to vomit— my uncle’s teeth and the sorry he slid past them, bile they pumped out out out and not enough never enough and— My father’s arms around me squeezing life out of the cracks you left. Red. The line down the back of my leg, the cat’s tongue when it got smashed by the garage door. My brother’s truck, his girlfriend’s cheeks in the passenger seat and— The sound of the ambulance and your voice in my ear when you said I can’t. White The dress I bought for you—satin for mourning. My mother’s cigarettes my first communion the way the wafer tasted in my mouth. My foot, asleep, pinned under yours, static and the first snow and— your skin the last time I saw you, my stomach twisted and the world went mute. Blue. The ocean on a good day. My mother’s eyes my little sister’s popsicle tongue, the collar on that stupid dog. The writing on your shirt the last time I saw you, the way you tasted when we were fighting and— the smell of the world without you when I try to pretend you aren’t gone. Grey. Today. The hours we spent that night waiting like hands on a clock, raindrops on a window— you strung us out and a part of me chose with you. I want to go back and tell you don’t and— the negative space in my head, the way I feel when someone tells me they’re sorry.

gone grey

[bornjones-blog]

Here, your absence screams. I press my hand over my mouth and miss you like baby teeth. It’s a funny thing, living without you. I press my hand over my mouth to keep the way I feel with you gone secret. It’s a funny thing, living without you; my heart feels like it’s missing teeth. To keep the way I feel with you gone secret, I’ll keep smiling, ignore the gaps of my grin. My heart feels like it’s missing teeth; I’m all shaggy flesh inside, ravaged, but I’ll keep smiling, ignore the gaps of my grin. Your absence is like spaces between the hands of a clock. I’m all shaggy flesh inside, ravaged, but don’t be dramatic; loss makes room for new. Your absence is like spaces between the hands of a clock; here, it screams. Don’t be dramatic; loss makes room for new, but I miss you like baby teeth.

funny things

[bornjones-blog]

Sometimes I forget. My brother’s cheek is pressed to mine if I close my eyes I can still feel his baby-stubble pressed tight to my cheek. He’s seventeen and I can remember when he was born— watching watching watching. Waiting. My sister’s hand, the small, warm, wet press of skin against my own— which means my memory is at least seventeen years old and still some days I feel like I don’t know him. The scratch-scratch reminds me that as I grow older so does he. Sometimes I forget. My sisters are so similar in the picture, their lovely almond eyes smiling smiling and the smell of their shampoo clouds my head. It’s cloying, but still I am laughing. I remember when the younger one was born and she is fifteen now. My sisters mirror each other one above me one below caught in the middle, I’m always caught in the middle. Sometimes I forget. When I was fourteen, my mother gave me a box of tampons for my birthday and I felt the split from my sisters—a fault line. Things are not the same; adulthood came first for me. It’s been ten years and all I can think is it’s been ten years since I knew them and sometimes I forget.

fault line

[bornjones-blog]

My mother told me to paint my face and smile like I want him. She told me to pull the corset of her expectations tight suck it in, suck it all in, until I can’t breathe under the weight of her eyes. She told me to comb my hair, pin it with her smiles be nice, Allison, be lady, chef, mother, virgin and whore because your life is not about you, not anymore. Lock me up and throw away the key; I’ll climb the walls for a glimpse of the sky. I want to scream—princes are weak; they hide behind steed and steel and what their mothers told them I would be. When the apples have fallen from my cheeks and the pins in my hair are rusted in place; when the key has fallen to the bottom of the well and I’ve stopped climbing— I am worth the rescue. Obedient. Kind. Demure. But I want to make him work for it. Show me what that sword can do— maybe I’ll light a fire and fight too. Mother promised knights in shining armor and white horses, but he’s a boy in tin foil and paper crown. I’ll scrub my face, burn this corset to ashes, take these pins and pick the lock. Nice is blue lips, pale skin— complacency on a death bed. Good girls who shed their wings— I am not nice. I am woman, raw and untamed; a forest fire that will melt his sand castles to the ground, melt my tin-foil savior, burn him like his paper crown. These princes are weak; I want to ride dragons.

dragon

[bornjones-blog]

Pull down your heart from the high shelves— be careful not to break, precious like porcelain— and touch here, you’re moist on the inside like a sponge. Soggy, sloppy flesh but be careful not to break, precious like a porcelain doll, but a real girl now, wet and wanting. Like a sponge. Soggy, sloppy flesh and it feels good. No longer made of stone, but a real girl now, wet and wanting. Fingers splayed wide; don’t hold back, baby, it feels good, doesn’t it? Dirty sweet and hungry. Fingers splayed wide, don’t hold back, baby, breathe yourself in, savor it. Dirty sweet and hungry; feel it in your belly, in the pit of who you are. Breathe yourself in, savor it because you’ll rot from the soul out. Feel it in your belly, in the pit of who you are. Take a deep breath, baby. You’re rotting from the soul out, but touch here, you’re moist on the inside. Take a deep breath, baby and pull down your heart from the high shelves.

dirty sweet

[bornjones-blog]

I burn in blue, methane veins—Icarus, cast in ice. I fly farther from your heat. Fault lines in my head— the bed gets bigger when you leave me here; out of oxygen. I’m stuck breathing through ice water in my lungs. Eyes frosted, I’m blind, gasping—airless. Without your dirt, your earth, sky and sun to ground me, anchor me, I float, free-falling. I am clouds of ash and pounds of dust; I rage; Queen of the sea and all its moons. I cut my tether to you and your sky; forsake your sun and all your stars. I am cast in ice. I fly farther from your heat— I burn in blue, methane veins. Icarus.

neptune [ a series of alternating couplets and quatrains, where the first couplet is fhte final couplet reversed. Each couplet has ten syllable lines and each quatrain has five syllable lines. ]

[bornjones-blog]

I want him to peel all my skin off. Devour me, use every inch of this carcass. I want him to dig his fingers into my flesh and pull— until I pop, until I’m an opened kernel of corn, yellow-white, my insides raw and inviting. I want him to slather me in his butter and salt and then eat me— but he doesn’t want my fat on his fingers. Doesn’t want to lick me up, feel me grainy and greasy smeared on his skin like I belong there. He doesn’t want to dig his fingers into my pounds of flesh he might chip a tooth on my big bones but I— I want to be loved so thoroughly I am taken apart, chewed and tasted, consumed or even— swallowed whole. Savored.

popped

[bornjones-blog]

Drunk off the syrup of the night air and the melted ice cubes and Cuervo still mingling in our cups, my skin buzzes like katydids and the sugar paints my lips pink; tequila stings them red. I want to lick this night off your skin, roll it around in my mouth, taste it— the rotten sugar slick of your lips the itch-in-my-nose of sulfur, the heady burn ache of the chlorine, dirty tequila kisses, the cloying pool water taste of the back of my tongue and the salty sticky bite of your sweat— I shift in the chair, you tap your cup against mine. I drink us down and close my eyes.

fireworks

[strange-bloom]

Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion… Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.

Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell, by Marty McConnell  (via soracities)

[5000letters]

I knew I did from that first moment we met. It was… Not love at first sight exactly, but - familiarity. Like: oh, hello, it’s you. It’s going to be you.

Mhairi McFarlane - via 5000letters (via bl-ossomed)

[nohappypeople]

Sorry about the absence, phone went for a swim 🏊🏽 #depressingfridgepoems #poem #poetry #writer #writing #words #fridgepoem #fridgepoetry #magneticpoetry #tumblr #funny #poetsofig #poetryofig #humor #quote #quoteoftheday #igpoets #poetsofinstagram #wordporn

[bornjones-blog]

For Lent, you said we were giving up sugar and hot water. But we’re Baptists, I protested and you laughed, because we never go to church and we drink and dance, naked in the sheets. We’ll burn in hell together, but Lent— our repentance. We’ll pay penance in hot water and sugar. The first (and last) cold shower you took, I sat on the toilet seat in my socks and underwear, listened to the hymn of holy water on your skin, thought about joining you in the reparation for our sins. Instead, I laughed, traced the goosebumps, when, teeth clacking, you stepped out of the shower, shivering: a baby bird, fallen from the nest. Fuck that, you stammered. We’re going to hell. I laughed when we feasted on chocolate cake and took showers where the steam stained us pink.

hot water and sugar