madame ber

poetry and things. this is my writing portfolio.

[madameber]

you in hindsight

then your pale frame eclipsed my sight, you, the moon, caught me staring too long and i blinked your face burnt black into the backs of my eyelids, there were nights i would rub my eyes and count the spots you’d left like stars (one two three four five six seven eight) then i thought the numbers in my head were all the reasons we were wrong i started sleeping with my eyes open if i shut them i’d see holes and think of your craters and how the men who tread your surface don’t clean their boots well enough don’t think to ask you how you like it before they plant their flags, but they offered you the world, and all i had to offer were the spots in the backs of my eyelids (one two three four) then rockets counted down the seconds until they could meet you and i counted you out, contented myself by staring at the sun, blinked and i saw spots (one two three) i am no man, would not simply stake a claim so bold. in hindsight, you, the moon, had already claimed me, wrapped your evening flag over my eyes and made me yours, i just never noticed the fabric, couldn’t see past the spots in my eyes. now i only see you in hindsight.

[madameber]

[spilled-ink-remix]

Cover your eyes with the night Your sunshine’s too brightI’m in love with the shape of youHe’s in love with tragedy In love with tragedy She was a wreck, but he loved her She was a wreck, but so was heHis words stung knives all accross her body and each time she bled he grew satisfied.. until there was no longer blood pumping through her veins that he had realised his mistake.I want to drink the stars Shine, their constellations running through my veins Suffocate on their glow Ragged breaths their edges shred my throat Did stars always bleed so red?I want to be free by doing what makes me happy, and what makes me happy will make me feel free :)

Lovingly remixed from: @deeperinthought … @nalunicorn … @stirringstill … @writteninblackink … @madameber … @bujoyrideoflife … (via spilled-ink-remix)

[poetryriot]

geometrics

circle scars and you circle scars all along the lengths of your arms black where red once did the trick got enough to take your pick crisscross patterns round your wrists there’s no patch of skin been missed said you’d stop so now you take a pen instead of razor blade cigarette stays  in your lips safer than your fingertips but inside out you’re still the same circle scars and you circle

[madameber]

I want to drink the stars Shine, their constellations running through my veins Suffocate on their glow Ragged breaths their edges shred my throat Did stars always bleed so red?

“Want”

[madameber]

The Devil’s Music

Mari did not know the god her mother knew.

Her mother took great pride in her worship. She had decorated the walls of her home with masterful illustrations of her savior, adorned her neck with beads and crosses, memorized every prayer in the worn leather-bound book she kept by her pillow. Her mother was a walking temple; her words were laced with the Lord’s, and whenever she chastised her disbelieving daughter her voice rang with the authority of the god she so revered.

Her mother spoke of a loving god, a benevolent god, one who had cleansed her of all sin and had shown her the path to heaven. She had been young once, and foolish, but her god had forgiven her, and now she knew she was not meant to live for her own sake, but for his. Every evening, she would set an extra place at the dinner table, and when they said grace her eyes would travel fondly towards the empty chair, and she would smile.

Mari’s god was nothing like the god her mother knew.

He did not approve of the way she dressed, of the holes in her earlobes nor the ever-changing colors of her hair. He did not approve of the music she listened to, of the repetitive beats and sultry lyrics which reverberated from behind her closed bedroom door – “the devil’s music,” as her mother had so aptly labelled it.

Her mother would try to dissuade her from such influences by wrapping up old recordings of hymns and gospels in glittering paper and presenting them to her on special occasions: Christmas, New Years, her birthday, Tuesday dinners. They piled up in the corners of her room and watched in silence as she danced with the devil.

Mari’s god did not approve of the way she loved: in secret, in stolen glances from across streets, in sweet nothings scribbled in the margins of borrowed text books, in late-night rendezvous in parking lots and alleyways.

“Clara was telling me the other day that a gay man has moved into her building,” her mother had once shared over dinner. She stabbed her fork into the slice of chicken on her plate, pushing it against the porcelain, her lips pursed in distaste. “Times are changing, Mari. The politicians are letting them get married now.”

Mari thought of the girl she loved, and knew her mother, just like her god, would not approve.  

[madameber]

sail away

pour me a drink from the grooves in your hands, honey i’ll lap up your words, sip your oceans like wine because i only find solace in salt water hallucinations and you are the only form of intoxication that doesn’t make me seasick

[madameber]

circle scars and you circle scars all along the lengths of your arms black where red once did the trick got enough to take your pick crisscross patterns round your wrists there's no patch of skin been missed said you'd stop so now you take a pen instead of razor blade cigarette stays in your lips safer than your fingertips but inside out you're still the same circle scars and you circle

geometrics by madameber

[madameber]

have my colours stained your lips? can you still taste me in pastel traces of fingerprints that ring your neck, a collar to restrain you from painting over another girl with your corrupt palette.

pastel pinks by madameber

[madameber]

the sun, he loved her so

Summer heat hangs in the air and she’s stretched out along the window-seat lips parted, sweat-drenched, dreaming of the coldest touch. And the sun, he watches over her, spectator to every twitch, every flutter across her face, traitors of the masquerade she wears for his eyes only. July heat chokes the air and she’s clinging to the window-seat, gasping, heaving, retching out the remnants of a fever which boiled her blood and consumed her heart. Salt-kissed tears have long since relieved her vision, yet delirium is a faithful companion and regret stings like only a lover can. August heat steals the air, and she’s curled up in the corner of the window-seat, lips parted, sweat-drenched, praying for the sun to forgive the dusk which rings her eyes, this tragic, tarnished complexion. He coaxes droplets from her lashes, dusts away the spots from her cheeks, brights her lungs so she can breathe again. Red, raw, relieved, she is awake, and just a little bit lighter. Memories of heat linger in the air and she’s taken apart the window-seat, to build a hanging garden in its place. Her flowers dream of the warmest touch. And the sun, he watches over them.

[madameber]

you said i was exotic, and i said ooo what do you mean?, like exotic like a fruit?, like i don’t know what tropics you think i came from, was imported from, but you read my skin like the label on a flavour of coca-cola you had never been offered before and i was refreshing, and different. and you liked the way my coke-bottle curves felt beneath your fingertips, said you’d never tasted caramel like me before, you said i was exotic. like i was a work of west african art, even though my mother’s from the east, like i was from a storybook like 1001 african nights, like, you saw my cover and you were hooked, never did think to look beneath the jacket, just wanted stories like the ones scheherazade sold, i was your sheba and you my solomon. we rode lions across the sands, your kiss was salt on my lips, i needed to quench my thirst and you offered me the brand new flavour of coca-cola. you said i was exotic, like a pretty foreign thing, like just some thing, some mail-order thing, special delivery just for you, a flavour of coca-cola that you had never tasted before.

“Salted Caramel” by madameber

[madameber]

where did i put that remote control?

i will not write a poem about love. it’s a tired subject, really, a matter with which i should have no concern, a channel on the telly which i flick right past since there’s usually something better on, something much more interesting. something that stings a lot less. who said anything about love, anyway? i will not write about her. her lips, her eyes, her nose, her mouth have long since faded from the screen and all that’s left is white noise, static cling, i could press my face against the glass, search for her features in the grains but no satellite could make this connection any clearer, there’s other stuff on television, anyway. i will not write about myself. this network encompasses more than just a single bed, cheap take-out boxes, empty bottles of wine; before this there was a time when the bed was made for two and i didn’t need the television on as i slept because her shallow breaths were the only lullaby necessary. if i wrote anything about myself i would have to write about her about us and go over every single episode we shared before she stopped returning. i’m tired of reruns, anyway. i will not write a poem about love. who said anything about love? there’s other stuff on television, and who likes reruns, anyway?

[madameber]

girls with pennies

mark us like sheep my fleece may be store-bought, washed clean of all identity but i’ve got a patchwork neck spotted and dotted with broken blood vessels and i’ve seen the girls with pennies scraping at their skin trying to get rid of him one stroke at a time (his lips were just as rough as the ridges of their coins) and i’ve heard the girls with pennies their marks may have faded but their pockets jingle with each step they take each move they make they say his tongue dripped gold and silver and bronze all over them but all he left was red mark us like cattle my ears may hold rings and not tags but i’ve got skin so fair you’d never dare believe that beneath i’m just another collection of broken blood vessels and he may be gone from the surface may be easy to remove but i still bleed (and the girls with pennies scrape at my neck one stroke at a time) mark me like property my body may be a temple but your prayers will not be heard here you say the girls don’t need their pennies we say you have no say in the way we heal our vessels may have been yours to break but they are not yours to mend and you can pretend you never knew what we went through when you decided to leave your signature on our skin but we promise when we look at you we only see red

[madameber]

tear the walls down

she says my heart is too big it barely fits i say i can feel the veins slithering down my wrists i was born with walls so thick no human eye could see where i began and where i ended i could feel my heart hammering away at my ribcage it wanted to get out when they tore down the walls and brought me into this world they didn’t cut deep enough she talks in pulses and palpitations and every time my heart flutters she loses her breath i tried to tear the walls down myself i couldn’t cut deep enough she says something a thump a thump a thump but my heart is too big it’s the only thing i hear the only thing i know there’s not enough room for two i can feel my veins overflowing i can’t cut deep enough my heart my big, big heart spilling through my ribcage it wants to get out if i want to let you in i have to let it out

[madameber]

betray the sky

i swear i tried to catch the sun, collided with icarus on the way he said, “hey, where are you going?” and fell before i could tell him. i said “icarus, there is a terrible beauty to this world,“ i said “icarus, i want it all to burn.” and he burned, crashed into the waves, his flames flickered and died. i swear i tried to catch the sun before he did but he stole it in his wings, betrayed the sky for a light brighter than his own, he was a shooting star that i couldn’t swallow. i said “hey, where are you going?” he told me to make a wish and fell. i swear i tried to catch the sun, collided with him on the way. i said “icarus, my world is beautiful, but terrible.” i said, “icarus, i want it all to burn.” our wings melted, and as the sky rained wax, we burned.

[madameber]

counting sheep

i have known nights where men walk the sun and the stars count people sheep huddle together in grassy fields dreaming of fences worn down see, the funny thing about nights is at some point you can’t tell the difference between the first and the last (And hey, Diddle diddle The cat’s lost his fiddle Orion’s got a belt Round his neck) the lass on the moon plucks planets from the blue and decorates the tangles in her hair see, the funny thing about dreaming is at some point you can’t tell the difference between what hurts and what doesn’t (The cat’s started drinking Orion’s stopped thinking) dawn decides to sleep in for just another hour or two see, the funny thing about nights is i have always known them but know nothing of you (And the fiddle has gone out of tune).

art by Folkloor words by madameber

[madameber]

the elephant

there is an elephant in the room.

it showed up about ten minutes ago, just strolled on in as small talk turned into big talk and the elephant couldn’t find bigger talk anywhere else so it stayed. i offered it food, drink, a corner in the garden, it laughed and told me to stop trying to be a good host and just let it be, but i couldn’t just be, trapped in the kitchen, stuck between a rock and a hard place, the hard place being an elephant. meanwhile the talk grew bigger and it grew bigger, there was an elephant in all the rooms, we should have built the ceilings higher, made the thresholds wider, if you’re going to invite an elephant into your home, it has to be able to fit. otherwise, you’re looking at tusks in the wall, a tail in your face, an elephant and no room.

the elephant swung its head and our eyes met as the big talk turned into small talk but the elephant had heard smaller talk before and i had offered it food, drink, a corner in the garden. i didn’t want to let the elephant inside, but we had left the door wide open, so who could blame it for wandering in? it stayed in the kitchen and i stayed with it, it laughed and told me it didn’t need company, meanwhile the small talk grew smaller and the elephant grew bigger, i didn’t want company but there was an elephant in the room. my heart beat holes into my chest, i didn’t know how to take care of an elephant, but that didn’t matter, it already knew its way around the house, knew how to small talk even smaller than our talk.

i asked the elephant for its name. it laughed and told me it didn’t matter, it knew mine and that was enough. meanwhile the small talk stopped and i stopped trying to talk smaller. the elephant stayed in the room.