ALLURE

i dwelt where lilacs brushed the air,

with golden ribbons i tied my hair,

where laughter rang but never strayed,

where all was bright, where all obeyed.

“stay, my love, the world is cold,”

“soft and sweet, do as you’re told.”

so i twirled in gowns of lace,

a painted doll in silk embrace.

and one fair night, the winds did call,

a silver hush beyond the wall,

the stars, they hummed, so soft, so low,

“come and see what lies below.”

so through the dark, my feet did stray,

soft as petals lost in may,

one step, then two, the night was wide,

its breath like honey at my side.

but velvet hands, so light, so small,

curled round my own and bade me stall.

“hush, my dear, the dawn is near,”

“come inside, there’s naught but fear.”

the latch did click, the sky was torn,

the stars still wept for one unborn.

and in my bed, so safe, so small,

i dreamt of dark

and dreamt of all.

The Cost

spring was wicked

soft-fingered, silver-tongued,

pressing warmth into the belly of the earth

until even the stones surrendered.

she let it touch her.

let it settle in her lungs,

trace rivers over her collarbones.

let it wind him through her veins,

like ivy curling into brick,

like a wasp slipping too deep inside the fig.

petals unfurled.

she let the scent of him steep into her skin,

let his hands teach her a softness

her palms were never meant to know.

her ribs split open,

and love rushed in like floodwater.

but spring had betrayed her.

it gave life where there should have been none,

let her roots tangle in poisoned soil,

let her cradle the teeth of a man

who once swallowed her world whole.

she should have known

the jungle does not love its lovers.

it devours them.

vines twist into nooses.

petals curl into wounds.

the well in her garden calls her home,

and this time

she listens.

the ivy still climbs.

but she does not.

how does the sun burn in a vacuum?

as the light grows warmer,

my heart reignites.

the dollhouse jitters,

disrupting the static of my space.

young fingers press rosebuds into my skin,

& light fills my house with life.

time healed the wounds of the night

the nights i spent picking my skin,

letting my blood flow under the faucet,

the kitchen light watching,

silent,

as it pirouetted in a beautiful set.

i sat where you left me.

a paperweight in your room,

a glass bird on the windowsill,

an old star,

burning itself out,

while you traced new constellations.

and still, i stayed

a book you would not finish,

a song caught in the static,

the afterimage of something bright

that never quite fades.

the sun grows warmer.

the light returns.

why then, does its coming

send shivers down my spine?

why does it whisper a fear

so familiar, so known?

will the night knock again?

will it creep in as i shower,

peek from behind the window,

curl beneath the curtain folds?

the lights blind me

incandescent,

golden,

bright

bending, shaping, reaching, forming

two hands that cup my face,

a shoulder carved for the slight of my head,

two eyes that see me dream.

but when the light is done playing,

when it’s had its fill,

will it go back to its world?