⭑ mae ⭑

⭑ 20 she | her ⭑

[maedefrance]

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hi, i’m mae.

here are my poems, thoughts, and other things;

let’s get to know each other better.

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[maedefrance]

“Teatime”

The teapot screamed at nine—

“Boil fast, the world is fine!”

The cups began to spin,

they chanted, “Drink the key!”

And I poured my fever in.

The curtains clapped in twos,

the walls rehearsed the news,

the spoons danced cheek to chin,

and begged for eyes to see,

the ceiling folded in.

The mirror bit its tongue,

the radio came unsung,

the feathers itched my skin,

the sea turned into me,

as i laughed the madness thin.

The nurses hum in pairs,

their shoes become the stairs,

the kettle croons again,

“You never should have seen—“

I spill where I begin.

[maedefrance]

“Half a Halo”

It waited on the tabletop—pale and patient, a promise rolled in paper and tar.

Untouched, it dreamed of flame—like a moth that dreams of a star.

I swore I wouldn’t light it then,

but the spark was so soft, obscene,

and it whispered that wanting would win again.

It burned so clearly at the start—gold swirling into sulfur gray;

the smoke curled slowly, then fast, like it new it couldn’t say.

Still, I took it in like oxygen, despite knowing how quickly breath could thin;

so the room grew quiet and mean—

and the ghosts began to grin.

Halfway through it trembled—tired, and bent along the seam;

the cherry dulled like someone losing a dream.

My fingers then shook with nicotine, with memory and with sin;

the windows coughed a sickly sheen,

and light flickered faintly on my chin.

And when it died, I pressed it out just shy of my heartbeat;

the heat left behind a halo—though faint and incomplete.

I told myself it was discipline, just a scar left on my skin;

but truth is seldom clean—

and only burns within.

[maedefrance]

“Tangles”

Memories are fickle things,

like untangling wired earbud strings—

One tug, and I’m back on the forest floor,

red fire ants climbing my shins.

One more, and the bitter cold stings,

drowning out my friends’ worried screams.

But pull again—and things burst wide open:

My house, a mosaic of stars and stripes,

laughter louder than the fireworks.

Another tug, and a bonfire crackles—

sticky hands, sticky cheeks, sticky faces.

We burnt more than stories in the dark,

swearing we’d never grow old.

Again, and I’m leaping across hay bales—

we are kings and queens of grass-stained knees.

Again, and the woods are now endless,

an unexplored world of branches and bark.

We built kingdoms from fallen trees,

made our fantasy into reality.

Hours melted into each other there—

mud on our clothes, a pink tint to our skin.

The world so much bigger, and us so much smaller,

and no one worrying at all.

So, yes—memories are fickle things:

unbroken, untangled knots and strings.

They trip me, lift me, hold me still,

and even as I move on,

I find myself tangled in them again.