Spiraling odes of love and loss,
lost pages strewn on the desk and the floor and the eyes and the sky and my limbs,
each one with a piece of myself I do not want to see anymore.

what have I created?

gaping mouths, the pages metastisize. I need to find the eye,
thread myself through the tornado. I miss,
the needle always misses, and a drop of blood puckers
at the scene of the crime. 

I put it in my mouth, hiding, but then it comes again.

Revulsion in my veins, running. Throbbing,
with each pulse of my ever-beating heart.
Blooming disgust, a positive feedback loop of smoke.

A girl showed me a picture of me the other day,
and I said "ew", not because I meant it but because I felt it.

The picture was beautiful. She asked if I wanted to retake it.
I shake my head, watching as a crimson drop

stains the sky.



YWP Alumni

More by amaryllis

  • Forgotten altars

    You blink and look and stare
    and stare

    As if trying to find the snag in the dream
    the catch in the sweater
    the cards hidden up someone's sleeves

    The meaning of this miracle that tapped you on the elbow
  • You, Tree

    As I sit on this stump and read
    from these pages of your cousin's pulped flesh,
    I burst with the excitement of next year seeing you draped in color,

    You. master of graceful loss.

    You, vessels of wasted breaths,