Just Sunny

Writing. A Memoir of Sorts.

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

in a room

full of hanging

daggers

I bit the walls

in effortless

through ever evenings

and long mornings

I knelt,

For once

But not for god.

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

I deadlifted about 140 pounds tonight and managed to finish training on time. I feel good about it. My hands don’t, however.

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

FYI 360 is my warm up now 😹💪🏽🥴

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

often my body is used for gain

for purpose in movement and spittle

often my heart is used for space

the old ghosts holding cigars smoked to the nub often pray in the distance

when i am presently presented

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

He

Loves

Everything but me

My eyes

My eyeliner

My pussy

My throat

anything but

Me.

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

I read Plath

The first time

I tried to cut my

Wrists with a butter knife

and none could tell me

how miserable I became

The day after our first kiss

When then I found that

You wished I looked like

The ocean rather than moon-like.

Maybe I don’t deserve

The radiance of a burn like this

Perhaps I scar too

Easily.

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

the skin

on my forearms

is so tough

from all the mistakes

I’ve made —

on the surface where

the eyes meet for daybreak.

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

hurt

hits a bit

differently

when you

are not looking

for it —

when swimming

between the sheets

of eyes of a lover

that cannot muster

the words to save

your heart’s descent.

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

I wrote a thousand

poems for a man I

knew from the back

of his head –

turned on his belly,

he became a moth

in clenched fist.

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

let him touch you deeply in the shadow of new breath 

and regret it later as he lay in wake with another’s burden

is that not how it ends with lovers here with lovers there

those fingers up the   equivalent sanity  of a woman’s threshold aside her womb

dirty knuckles against the cusp of candied skin  

let the flies accumulate around the purpose of death 

it is the same during the passing of love. 

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

and most

defiantly

he fills the rooms

of this indifferent

mind –

a phantom trapped

in a catacomb

of sour memory

some semblance

of a sunrise for the blind

again, the veins run

at the seams

like the opening

of a letter from

A long lost friend.

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

I have a evolved

From simple pleasures

—left from the skins

of yesterday.

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

stop looking for love in the wrong places.

spilled the man, his words like flatulence upon the scent whose hands are covered in scales and dried cum

whose sex did you man handle today ?

skin torn from the thrusts of promises screamed in whispers behind the ear

my fragrance concealed in sweat and dirty fingernails

stop looking for love in the wrong places

said the man whose purity runs along the stream of shit i’ve left in spit upon his flaccid cock.

[undertheguiiseofwoe]

you told me to stop looking for love in the wrong places but you keep coming back here

–as soot neath’ the nails.