leta iris

⊹ ࣪ nostalgic midwestern poetess 🪶🫀 ⊹ ࣪ nature, femininity & madness ꩜ ˚.⋆ ִ ࣪ 𐦍 insect lovin’ aquarius 𓆣 ☪︎ ⚤ ♒︎ ˚.⋆ ⊹ ࣪ author of “when summer fades to fall”

[tangledflxwers]

THE END OF SUMMER SMELLS

LIKE CHARCOALED GRIEF /

scraped my knees / from crawling / my way /

through the turmoil / of my mind / left a

bloodied trail / dripping on the earth / i will gut everything /

that i am / if it means that / i can

start over / to climb inside / the stickiness /

of my mother’s womb / a suffocating warmth /

where i may rest / for a while. / my existence

is a tomb / confined / to vampirism / i have

become / the darkness / i am cold once again /

blackened frostbite / in the heat of peak july /

i am still picking the rocks / from the crevices /

of my skin / i wasted august / trying to find

myself / my brittle bones / are shriveled / hungry

/ for a feeling / i’ve not quite / tasted / yet. /

starved / for the newness of september /

[tangledflxwers]

i. nostalgia is a slow, painful death. a disease that lingers, despite the photos you capture or despite how bloodied your fingernails become. from clawing at them to stay, for the moment to last just a second longer. you pick and preserve the flesh from beneath your crescent moon talons, yet it dies with a quiet ache. a pulsating whisper, a spiraling ebb that returns years later in a wave of deja vu.

ii. covid stole the thrill of growing up, my stagnant mind not evolving past sixteen. i would rather dwell in the comfort of the past, the fear of change is devouring me whole. swallowing each memory and chasing it with a shot of vodka, choking on empty promises to exchange letters or catch up over coffee. the aloneness consumes my anatomy, each vessel deteriorating. hanging on with a bittersweet shred of hope that time will slow down and things will last forever.

iii. i snip my bangs with my mother’s sewing scissors, watching the strands melt into the bathroom linoleum as they fall. how ironic that i strive to change my appearance but fear the changing of my own life. i listen to joan dideon’s on keeping a notebook, craving to preserve my youth in ink pens and poetry. but each word i write drowns with the last sunset of july, consumed by the mosaic mystery of the future.

[tangledflxwers]

she was not placed on this earth to be subtle.

she is a thunderstorm; a loud laugh, a drunk

walk home in maroon high heels.

a marijuana infused car, a jumbled chime

of keychains, an alanis morissette song,

a bold lipstick. she is harsh.

her teeth are permanently grit

from biting her tongue, jaw clenched

from holding back tears and an obnoxious

accumulation of “fucks.” blunt bangs

and harsh truths, she will never be accused

of being a fake bitch. she may not be liked,

but she will never be a liar.

her eyeliner is always smoked and sharp,

brows always furrowed because she can

never hide her judgmental facial expressions.

an angry daughter, content with being the

black sheep, the outcast, the misfit.

she was not made for most.

despite her harshness, she can also be soft.

she loves very deeply, she hates very deeply,

every emotion consumes her like a bodily plague.

like a tsunami, like a stroke. she cannot

be contained, cannot be tamed.

[tangledflxwers]

bathed in the { holy

water } of the galaxy tub

i sweat purple beads

of blackberry juice,

mulberry stained fingertips

as the artificial coloring

disguises my auburn hair

into a greenish blue

mascara flakes softly kiss

my freckled cheekbones,

grazing each scar and

blemish as if they were

the most heavenly

glimpse of perfection

trying to morph the fleshy

canvas my soul was born within,

my avatar becoming more me

with every wrinkle, tattoo, and

metal caressing my skin

the purpose of my life isn’t

to find myself,

but to create myself-

to // alter | the altar \\within

the [ sacred temple ]

of my vessel.

[thepersonalquotes]

[tangledflxwers]

i’m your daisy [edgar]

jones [ & the six ]

- you regret me

and you won’t forget me

two halves of the same rotten,

infested apple- molded with stolen

glances and longing, but universally

untouchable and doomed from

the beginning. fucked up, destined to fail.

still, i write the same three damn

poems and they are all about you.

perhaps i am a fictional fantasy of

a character you know so well; broken

bones, a shattered soul that mirrors

your own. you are nicotine, caffeine-

bringing out the worst but so addicting,

intoxicating. i hate that i see myself in you.

our flaming souls were crafted with

the same fiber; magnetic, maddening.

so holy, our forces fight like a tornado

and a hurricane- together we

make a disaster with no solidity to depend on.

you were never supposed to be

my soulmate, but a twin flame.

you taught me how to burn, a passion

within myself that needed a spark to

ignite my potential. to soar, without you.

[tangledflxwers]

metamorphosis

perhaps humans were never intended

to know who we were meant to be,

the same way we were never intended

to see our own reflection except for

in murky puddles, emerald lakes,

eyes of lovers. i am just a scrapbook

of idols, a vessel of admiration. my bones

worship the creators, the artists, the designers.

a desire to morph into different versions

of myself, to reinvent, to mimic-

molding my brain like clay.

i’ve spent my entire existence searching

for the meaning of it all, discovered

that my soul was crafted from the same fibers

as the roots of a weeping willow.

my own roots reach so deeply that they graze

the graves of ancient poets, burnt witches

and backyard burials of lifeless sidewalk birds.

i pick shards of each memory from the canals

of my admiring heart. i am but a vessel of tribute

to the immortal arts of this fleeting life,

soul outliving my body by reflecting

the everlasting words within my being.

 

[tangledflxwers]

my muse in your marrow

you left your bones

behind on purpose,

for me to find. to treasure,

to adore and protect each part

of you in your absence.

i’ll wash the fragments

with a bar of sensitive

ivory soap and soak them in

blackberry juice, framing

them in lace and longing.

i worship you. i’d allow you

to reach your fingers in

and graze my brain, praying

to the poetry that lives inside

of me. you’ll find that you

are my muse. i’ll wait by

my window until your return,

cradling your ligaments

and collecting dust until you

crawl back home to me.

[tangledflxwers]

exit wounds of my independence

you peel each layer of my skin

with the cruelty of your words, slowly.

the desire to control. the blood orange

tanginess of my spirit, withering

at every wedge under your criticism

of my being.

the acidic strength of my independence

rotting away, dissolving beneath the pressure

of bleach that you press into my sorry soul.

to cleanse whatever uncontrollable evil

that lives behind the surface of these walls,

a creature wearing me as a meat suit-

living off vodka, blood cells, caffeine, fingernails,

and pomegranate seeds.

you detest the nasty embrace of my womanhood.

i am raw, dirty, honest, loud. i make insecure,

uneasy men uncomfortable.

each passive comment of cruelty you make,

a jab at my open bullet wound.

you needed an escape route from

the galaxy girl- an alien you were afraid of,

needing to control. to chain her down

with rusted barbed wire to your simple earth,

where you are god. i hope the venom

from my feral feminine bite eats your

ego away, tearing the flesh from the bone

as my memory gnaws at your narrative forever.

[tangledflxwers]

ancient romanticism

it sickens me how instead of:

- attending the royal ball hosted by the small monarchy, in order to fall in love with strangers

- collected the local stray market kittens in a wooden picnic-basket

- scurrying through the forest in a floor-length satin gown, while being chased through the brush by my hidden lover

- hosting gatherings in my attic with pumpkin muffins and herb-tea

- sneaking around the headmistress’s back as i exchange notes written in liquid ink

- reading a classic novel with tattered pages and a faded cover on top of the wildflower-hill at sunrise

- being young and in love, purchasing each other two-cent peppermint from the mercantile

i have to be in high school in twenty-twenty one