blunt force trauma @fawnofthefield - Tumblr Blog

I’m sorry

you smile like you know the truth. i squeeze your hand because i know otherwise.

you're beautiful in your sleep, he says. oh, and a possum crossed the road. i smile undecidedly at his outline leaning over mine in cricketless dark. Godless. i wish i had seen it. yeah, me too. a lion in the tropics. yeah, that too. the spirits begin to excuse themselves just as slowly as they trickled in. one by one. i love you, i do, i love the ghoul in the window. even if he had killed it, the possum, he would never tell me. he would show me.

dreamcatcher

sweetheart the line hiccups it disconnects you disappear into the marsh the dormancy unmatched by the complacency of your ghosts kissing me in all of the places my lover hasn't been (and here we are) we leech quietly off of each other in the soft, wedded lust of laundry basket blue via intravenous or the likeness of synonymous strangers

#this is for you sweetheart #poetry

don't be a stranger, stranger in the fevered cedar of my arms, we are all of the ways we could never be your breath is punctuated, it ambushes me mid-thought on an unpaved road, while I stare at rows of freshly butchered stars in their passive aggression, in their contemplative jealousies quietly I stand, rolling your eyes like dice and I don't know, sweetheart, I don't know. but, whenever I look at you, just look at you, the pain is barbed wire, its brand new. it shifts, uncomfortably, in our decided silence, in the darkness of the orchard. in the blinking, leaping from the Golden Gate Bridge down into the baby-faced Pacific. (so, before the end of this life, I'll drive my car into the lake, and meet your ghost at the shoreline).

#poetry

memory: winter. it's snowing in the northeast (you) and in the southeast (me). we talk all night, laughing like hyenas, mouths, eyes, damp with sleep. you mumble something indecipherable; i can't tell if i am talking to you or to the darkness but i hear your thunder with crystal clear reception. every word of it. it burns through the ligatures around my wrists; leaves my lilies to wilt in the quietness of their own pooled blood. when you string your sentences together it sounds like the rain of my childhood: acrylic, lightning, cul-de-sac streets in the stillness of their conversation. i imagine our silhouettes struggling against each other, "you're not real, you're not real, you're not real." which one of us is? sometimes your voice cracks; an avalanche in my ear, ambulance sirens, the titanic sinking underwater with the lightness of textbook tragedy. we coexisted, it felt like, for milliseconds, for as long as sunrise dangled in chains at the hand of God until vacating the consciousness of chemical elements, mid-breath. the line disconnected but in some ways, we still haven't. i try not to think about it too much. thought: the sun is clinging to the slopes of your shoulders, now. in the fields, i hold you, in the fields, we die, in smoke, in limbs, in love. tangible blur. you are veiled in the nest of my arms, in the wordless violence of lemonade and touch. dizzied in our virus, the moon winks at us from anesthetic blue, i wave back but it does not remember me, it forgets all but the potency of nights and years and bandaged pains. when i kiss you i can't look at you and when i look at you i can't kiss you. we blow through each other like hurricanes to palm trees. sleepyhead, i miss you, i say. but my voice is nothing. it sounds like sparrows in a birdbath. you don't respond. there's an interruption in your smile, a television losing it's signal, your image jitters and disappears. thin. when i roll over in bed, it's three in the afternoon. the dryer moans loud but silent. volcano. i try not to think about it too much.

#prose #this is about you

i am butterflies i am an alchemist i am the moss i am in a box (under your bed) i am on a shelf (in your closet) i am burning incense in the back of your head i am taking a scissor to these paper cranes the ones you still have left of me i cut and i cut at the wires inside of your wrists, calves, abdomen until your organs are small enough to fit inside the crib of my cupped hands

#poetry

voicemail: it's me, i'm calling you at a strange, dark hour again, i'm standing outside your building, buzz me in. i'm in town, i think i might be in love with you but i can't be sure. i saw an apparition of you once and you had prescription pills and seven-tenths of the moon in your fist and you shut it tightly and i looked at you and your face was soft like cocaine and i wanted to touch you but you were too drunk in the way that you wanted to appear as if you were babbling nonsense but you really weren't so then you lit a cigarette and i disappeared to the stairwell outside of your door and i heard two voices, one sounded like mine, one sounded like yours, and i wanted to tell you that she was an imposter but when i tried to talk i realized that someone stuffed an entire nest of bluejays down my throat. then i tried to knock but somehow you were still holding my hands. you smelled like old t-shirts and moths and gasoline and rain. your inbox is full.

#prose #creative writing

re: i'm not going to be able to make it, i'm going to have to cancel, i'm sorry, it's snowing in june, i'm seeing someone and it's serious, the bodies and the smoke and the four-lane highway, the images in your head, i can't get them out of mine, i showed up for my judgment but God wasn't there, i was mauled by a shooting star, i **** you, do you ever think of me? you're my little rain cloud. i keep you in a mason jar next to the stove.

#prose #creative writing

this is how i forget you; this is how i forget the sunsets, the rum, gushing from your veins a wallpaper blue in the fields we laugh like stars, like spiders in the attic crawl space it's summer now, the lesser of the aches and i try not to hurt for your voice, a cold, painful lime or the fiction of our bloodless forms, or the tilt of your chin, or the arched daisies, arched tendons of yours rising and collapsing when i see you again you are a sailboat, you are a memory i will tell to anyone that will listen: the rain, the ghosts, the cemetery gravestones all by the facade of yellow lantern light

#poetry #this is about you

the lilies and the masochists

a few years ago, i was a half-moon the lavender glow of two monsters kissing somewhere in a dark, grocery store parking lot and for months i would watch the shoreline retreat from the clay of your wrists, the birds that migrated out of them would talk to me for hours about sunsets, substances, holiness, loneliness. you, a mandarin orange, a baby soft drowsiness that lasted the whole time I knew you. I still love you, I still love you, I still love you. You and the colors of the cosmos knotted like ivy in the oak of your hands

#poetry #this is for you

narcissus/narcissist

oiled on the canvas, you are terra cotta: the humidity, stripped sheets, September (this is the bed I slept on, when I first met you.) we were daffodils, freshly bludgeoned stained on your dress shirt black button-up it still stings, it still hurts since then, everything sounds like the tides -- air conditioning, your eleven-thirty phone calls: "there are oceans, orchestras perforating near the gash in your throat" most nights you prick your finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel so, now i just try to forget the image of your sleeping form curled up in the stem cells of sunrise

#poetry

2026

• you, and your sleeping beauty face under skinny moons. the motion sickness i used to get lying perfectly still next to you. • we didn't need our mouths to lie to each other. we had knocks from the pipes in the walls, the dog barking at the mailman, raccoons trampling the rose garden. it was overgrown anyway. • the linen is fresh and warm. it smells like citrus. or loneliness. i have awful headaches and cardinals bleed out of your eyelids. but only when they're shut. • it's been several years since our night together in that hotel room. the one by the sea. sitting out on the balcony for hours. never saying a word. somehow i think we said too much. • God, the storms. every house in this city has shaken baby syndrome. it's quiet when it snows but the traffic accidents keep me working long hours. when you're not home, i leave the television on, with the volume turned down low. • shallow breaths. the steam from the shower, the creaks of the floors, that crack in our driveway. i want to murder tulips, and fences, and convenience stores. • you are so beautiful. there is darkness here but i like how good this hurts. i'm a bat and you're my cave. there are no stars this far out from shore. use your fortune teller voice and keep me in this place a little while longer.

#prose

there you are. flameless, brutalized, the blood of all my violets. a boy who strung lords and demons together with the pearls of his teeth. here i am, little black lace dress, sunflowers for hair. imagining how you'd kiss with such jurisdiction, thinking up names for the hurricanes in your temple, how i would memorize the smell of your bedroom like it wasn't a rabbit hole, a kingdom in the sky. but instead i am the light dusting of snow on the ground of some quiet, contented residential street. the kind that minds its own business.

#poetry #prose #creative writing

valentine

i miss the sound of your voice i miss you in all of your bloody, broken rivers the bends, creeks a mournless blue maiming the roots of your knuckles the crows the turquoise, the ivory there's a beast in the forest and it's out to get me, isn't that right motherless boy? i'm a motherless girl that loves you, loves you but there has been a misfire in our stars the lilies of your handsome face are such good liars

#poetry

I'm sorry.

i am too

Why did you change your name beautiful?

it’s fitting, don’t you think?

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