Tag Archives: life

// come away with me //

I don’t need to touch you, flesh and bone too often hide the voice I would die for if you would just speak. The world is a crumbling crystal mountain range falling into midnight, the sharp plunge of a deep-sea grave, but the life we scream for at birth is infinite. There will be cold footsteps under the glow of a harvest moon, glimpses of freedom in a purple dawn, wrought iron staircases into heavy clouds as they weep, raspberry lipstick mouths and the way you prick hot wax on the beg of my pale skin.

We are the strange and magical ones who sense the coming storms by the taste of static wind on our tongues. I am alone as you turn to leave, they have told you that the only way to see me is to close your eyes. I want to reach through you to the other side, take my ribs and spread you wider than planets that orbit the sky until you become thin as the healing breath on the lonely limbs of those neglected, a shelter for the abandoned, a hand written letter inside glass bottles that contain clippings of the salt of the ocean.

All you ever asked for was a taste but I know you seek the flood, for every word you catch in your palms as it drips from the silken lips of my aching desire becomes your blood. There is no other way. This is the love of the beating hearts of every creature who ever walked the earth, man, woman, child, beast, criminal, angel, thief, opening you like a gaping cavern hollow enough to receive. Tell me how to build a room grand enough. I need not keep you, lover, to call you mine, nor hold you to sweep your amber beauty across my alien evening mind. This is a love that has outrun time.

// private lives //

10 Replies

We are restless and unborn. We have been wounded by over exposure, the futile beg for love denied, maybe that’s why I clench my teeth so terribly at night that in dreams they split my gums and fall out in clumps. Such brutality, such crush, we are scattered little bugs, terrified of ugliness, we want to be beautiful and strange, want to be stroked to the dripping heat of heavy crippling pleasure and left to walk the streets alone. Daylight is the flash of a screen but I escape to the dark matter of my own haunted castle mind, my crumpled writer’s room, my wrought iron winter garden, listening in stillness for the linen voice of the ghost you hung to dry on the line. Where I can stand the thrust of the words, where limbs like curtains reach for me on the wind.

My messages caress you like candlelit passageways that open onto the tops of trees and spill my lucid thoughts out over a vacant listless sky, every star a headstone carved with the crude tools of their abbreviated lives. They call me crazy but I call it hopeful, for I believe you loved my bones before we met. Someplace inside you is where I come from and where I long to return, smooth and familiar is the way you taste like liquid metal knives and the crystal jewels of molten sex, a golden chalice erects in the healing hands of God. Love is religion like pavement glitter and nuclear dust clouds, a way to glorify the beginning of a thousand setting suns.

As I’m turning down the bed, your motionless face is rain sliding down the window of this house you occupy inside me. I wish you could trade my awful secrets for something better than I deserve, but lover, I will drink from you until the moons have turned themselves to snakes orbiting the delicate feet of angels if you would only look at me. Let them wonder about us, let them spin their every seductive bedtime story from the one we’re killing ourselves to write with our surrender. All that matters is this moment, everything else is fair disease. You and I are a single tragic blink, every second is eternity, every breath between us a fragile ritual. We have birthed each other, been raised from death into life after death.

We are fading and obedient bodies, thick volumes of handwritten history buried under lock and key, plunged in glossy wooden tombs to the bottom of the ocean. Instinctively, you know when I am wet and you dangle me there on the edge of my own pearlescent cliff, my mysterious gift, until the way I crave you becomes the quiet shatter of truth at the apex of desire. I can read the casual insanity behind your devotion as if through scars and blindness the code of your flesh will finally make sense of mine. Come and bow your head into my private madness, beloved, I am the tranquil depths you seek. Make me dangerous while everyone else is watching. We are as wild as we are high, painted figures in glass boxes wearing our scratches like diamonds, feathers, swords and star dust falling from our newborn eyes.

// lady in waiting //

12 Replies

I sit down to write but the only thing that comes to me is everything I’d rather not say. Writing is just like anything else, the hardest part is finding a way in. Shadowy advances, wet wide eyes, shattered hearts, lovers stalking alley ways, all come in jars they hope you can’t see, but writing is tougher to open even on a good day. A drink and a half later, I’m undressing in the doorway, watching you as you absorb the fading evening light that drapes itself around my body. I wish you thought of me as a temple, intricate tunnels adorned in golden dragons with emerald eyes, ferocious winged mystical things, but delusions like these are just a way of shadowboxing with the truth. Even in this heady haze I know what we want to be and what we are is split by glass of a thick and distorted kind. You ask me to spread myself over you and my skin is hot pricks head to toe, the way you barely touch me makes the beginning taste like spiced flecks of the afterglow, just the way I like it.

Under your command I am a dove, an alien, a robbery, a beast because I have learned to stay awake even in my sleep. Once you become aware of the ground beneath you in dreams, the rest is simply sleight of hand. We try to shift ourselves wide enough to take more than we ever thought possible but it’s hard when you’re certain there’s a message tucked behind the eyelids of everything, and you’d swear on your headstone that the rain smells of swollen lips and secrets you thought were buried inside someone else. Seven minutes in heaven, spin the bottle, the time you skinned your knees on ice, slammed back to life by the sting. Your first kiss stabs me in the back, spills blood across the time before all the times you can’t stop sifting through now.

Be patient with me, angel, even in expert hands like yours this doesn’t get any easier. Winter seems to follow winter, all the seasons of dying and frost take place at once like a crystalline nest of frozen trees that crush your tender throat. Time is a gift and a thief and a scream and I promise to collapse the minute you leave. You wrap my hair in braids tight around your strongest arm, the pain is just enough to catch my breath on a single hook. This bizarre strain of release, a decadent thorn. There will be rug burns and bathtubs but my mind is walking on the street counting black birds on a wire over the railroads tracks I was framing for photos; five, six, seven of them in a crooked row and one far off, alone. This doesn’t mean anything, of course, except that I am not in the world the way I’m supposed to be; I’m in the one I resurrected from cut-out dolls, cardboard panoramic scenes, living in the cream-colored curl of imaginary pages.

Pain comes to me daily but I trust it, I let it lead if it wants to, it teaches me not to hide as much. The way you slide into me is a forked tongue, one side torture, the other ecstasy; I have to take them both or deprivation. As night takes over the moon, the salt in my veins sparks and flashes all around us like colors from the dark side of rainbows. You need not cry for this strange love, I like to watch the pieces of me fall, it’s the only way they catch the light. I’m stronger now. And even though generations of misguided wars rupture themselves through me before you can even say my name, it’s beautiful madness to hear you try.

// iron boxes //

10 Replies

You reach for me but I am a void, I am a hellish collision of dying worlds inside. These cruel words hang me on the wall and leave me there, exposed, afraid, unraveling, alone. And I’ve been writing, baby love, writing, writing, awful, awful, terrible writing, it ought to be a crime these unforgivable lines slashed in defiance against borrowed time, wretched incoherent manic overflow like bleeding an animal of poison, I’ve written one hundred journals in a mouthful of days, page after page, one more useless than the one before, stacking them, digging them, dragging them through the mud and the rage with me. Please don’t touch me anywhere, I am fever. My eyes finally adjusted to the darkness of this strange religion, where wings are clipped and spread at will.

Still as a cradle robbed of death, but for the smooth motion of the weapon in my hand, and the raking in my brain, and the slamming in my chest to the beat of city after city dropping to their weakened knees, I’ve kept on like the possessed searching for something. Moon rise, moon set, I have not aged since birth and I have never been so sure I’ve died too many times, I am only a pale reflection of myself, the blue fade of a forgotten lust for beautiful sins. The days have been rusted white cages, feathered ink, lace candy legs, something is dark and tethered inside me, darting its many faces in and out of the brush. Something nameless in me that I can’t seem to clutch, needs a love beyond anything the world can produce; a flower opens itself to an empty room.

And I am trying and I am failing, and this thing, this need that swallows itself into me – it is still waiting. All the world is wasted panting breath and me on the wall, and these words like ears on such abysmal pages, we are all waiting.

// black sparrow //

12 Replies

We are all midnight animals groping for a beautiful starlit chaos we can never grasp. Searching through lifetimes, little galaxies born and reborn within our tangled mouths, fingers, bodies, words, smiles, lies. In dreams we speak the anatomy of hearts roaming like wild herds of instinctual beasts across an African plain as the mist rolls in. We smell the coming darkness in the air and move forward in collective silence, listening for the shifting of the earth.

Music plays in gentle cascades of silken sound as I kneel before you on the lawn in the rain, ready, willing, hungry for the darkening storm of you. You get me so close I can taste the salt waves of a thousand oceans crashing underneath my skin, again, again, again. The way you search me like the beak of a gull prying shells to expose his prey reminds me that since childhood we have wanted to be free of the injuries of who they told us we would turn into if we turned the corner, swam away, sunk within. The flesh is soft inside, and sweet, and the more we seduce the more we unleash. You bring to radiant life my bare desire and my eternal struggle.

But after the lullabies, after the bruises, after the climax, after the desecration, after the warmth and vacancy of centuries of setting suns across a desolate planet with a name long forgotten, in our calculated madness we still crave the kind of love that is not a lush pink tongue, not a milky white pearl, not a nimble body, not a portrait, not a poem. What we want to find scrawled across the pages of the secret ancient diaries of the gods, hidden underneath broken stacks of golden beds on fire, is the secret to spreading ourselves inside a love that is unrelenting in its heat. Be slit up the core by the clutch of a thing more peculiar than death; a thing that will not let us go, a thing that cannot be held or captured or touched.

Love is not a person, people were made to let go and let go of. These human faces are masks, the haunted hunt for deliverance in painted disguise. Clever but untrue. Don’t be so easily fooled, so easily amused, so easily distracted, love, it’s unbecoming. Love is not the phantom; it’s what is beautiful about the phantom. What you really want to taste I cannot give to you, for what you truly worship is that she’s left you and she’s coming back for you and she’s trembling before you now all in the same glistening moment; not for long but forever. Love is staring back at the ghosts behind you in the mirror, speaking in wordless angelic verse. Love is your shadow dancing on these walls, and you don’t live here anymore.

// evidence of bodies //

8 Replies

I don’t want your body, I want your secrets. I know the games you play and why you play them but you’re so lovely it makes my mind bleed. Even the dreams in me have dreams and yet I can’t manage to extract a single one. Of course, no one ever said love makes sense. I pour a glass of Merlot and my insides are a relentless penetrating bloom of thick red roses groping their thorny vines around the veins that push my blood toward a heart that knows no boundaries.

When the last sliver of daylight finally fades across the grass, I can feel the setting sun unbuttoning my inhibitions. The way you wait so patiently for me binds me with threaded ropes, framing erotic images that deepen my darkening mood. You want to touch me but I’m not where you thought I’d be; my mind is seductive but it’s always somewhere else.

Using only the memory of your hands, you wrap me in crimson ribbons of delicious heat. The swift movement of your body sets me free to water midnight gardens of savage desire in beautiful rings around the moon. I’m ugly in ways only you can make an aphrodisiac as the twisted things I long for hang suspended from the ceiling, purple faces tongue the agony of my ecstatic soul. Everyone seems to think they know how your life will end up if you’d just sit still and listen but most try very hard not to understand anything that could make a difference.

Sliding past everyone else’s better judgment, I light three rows of candles and drop into a darkness that is not sleep. It’s more like a strange way of awakening in order to hold hands with death and own him before he owns me. We all worry about being invisible; that’s why we hide. I devour volumes of ancient spiritual texts and Bukowski, they seem to break me apart and deliver me back to who I am in a package I almost recognize. Deciphering their codes is the plot of every gutting love story ever written. The Tree of Knowledge and the Tree of Life grow like inverted mirror images, side by side. To be human is to have a grasp on neither.

I drip hot lavender oil into a steaming bath and sink in as I envision you with cake in your hands. I’m kneeling at your feet licking icing from a dozen silver spoons between your fingers; the sweet life is not always what it seems, but we do try. At the center of something more encompassing and brilliant than we can possibly fathom, everything is submerged. Right here. Everything is different and the same. Every safe choice should make us more and more afraid.

It’s warm underwater and even though I drown my head in thoughts of self-defeat to keep from slipping into the vacant sky where I might finally be free, I trust being alone more than I trust anything else. I don’t know if God is alone but I know this world is mass murder on painted screens that cover up the truth.

In my makeshift blackout room, spinning pins and needles on the windowsill of the universe, all I ever wanted was to make a spark that would catch the hills on fire.

It’s not hard to breathe in the dark, it’s just that you see so little of who you really are.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// of thy flesh //

11 Replies

aren’t we only here for so long, angel,
aren’t we only a lonely nighttime street
stacked high with patterned silhouettes
of celestial bodies wearing blindfold eyes
no words left to speak.
do you taste me like traces of fire blood on lips
pressed against the looking glass
strung up above intimate scenes.
aren’t we only a mouth full of whispers
panting on the feathered tips of forbidden things
while other people
scream.
aren’t we only the siren curves of an hourglass
sifting through phases of the moon
from the grave to the skies
i wear you like an echo of time
when the soft in the skin
that drove you mad
was mine.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// black holes //

8 Replies

Lining my eyes with charcoal and the scorch of tears, I can’t escape the immovable truth that whatever your twisted secrets, you are the one who makes me glow.

The human mask ruptures by its own flawed design and I am reminded that the flesh was created to crumble; for our own protection, we are not shatterproof. I am as fragile as I am supple, I am the fading trace of whispered delusions, echoing through the dead of nights hanging from trees, their slender roots planted firmly in the sky. The cracks in the vessel of my soft skin are beginning to show. I do not cover them. I do not fill them in. I am coming apart; I am lost. I am without a single answer of any kind. I know not where I have been, how it is I have come to be here, where I will emerge again, or if.

I am muted and surrendered to the rising flood waters of my own weakness. My hesitant steps are taken in timid stumbles, but mostly not at all. I am still, motionless, patient, obedient, rebellious, as the windows of every castle we ever built come crashing in.

Becoming the sound of the explosion itself, I watch for the light, the way it catches, the way it reflects.

What right have I even to be here in this obscene manner, in the way my gray animal eyes flash in the headlights, grow angry, distressed, and combative in their hunger? Who am I in my shivering thoughtlessness, in my primal confusion, in my wide and defiant uselessness?

I search the halls of ancient cities buried under the ash of a thousand graves upon ten thousand years with a heavy heart and burdened mind for a thing I cannot grasp. My soul makes its truest offerings of itself in the shelter of this darkness. Shadowy figures are at play, the way my exotic spirit dances in the flames of the fires she feeds mercilessly within. My satin hands touch themselves to my throat and I am ecstatic for the mystery I am suspended within. Consumed to the core with liberation and unworthiness, I am a dewy web of prismatic shine at the center of your calculated chaos.

I am alone, defenseless, in this ruined room with trembling walls; stripped bare of arrogance, pretense, and facade. Here I am tested, made to look upon my own frustrating limits; I tug with my teeth at the threads of a thick cascade of drenching compassion for a woman on the precipice of life and death, staring out into the Great Abyss.

Here I am made ready. Here I am destroyed and rebuilt as I confess that I do not know the way, I do not have the answers, I would not know how to open my mouth if not for Love’s insatiable desire to burn me with Her beautiful, healing grace.

From the depths of this blind wilderness, I am grateful. I am richer for the shadows, for that which is hidden must have its way with me.

In my nakedness I am the ritual. In my emptiness I am the gift.

// blood of the innocent //

4 Replies

The steel bars of the past are only shadows now, still I close my eyes, press myself against them and romanticize the sting. When I’m alone inside a mind that too often slips out of her black leather cuffs and escapes me, I fantasize about the way you were the first to bite my lips. How every bone in my new body loosened from its hinges and fell away, how I watched from screened in porches by the light of glass jars filled with fireflies and marveled at the ravenous creatures we were becoming. Awakening together an iron taste for worship of a similar strangeness. Pain forever threaded with pleasure, licks of orgasmic death cradled inside a private nebulous universe just ripening.

The world burns itself for entertainment but blessed are we the holy ones who are bred without lungs and breathe steady underwater until eternity collapses. Bodies marching to the sound of distant trains running off their wooden tracks offer themselves up in sacrifice that we may be born to wander an alien earth. I’m tired, beloved, tied to a tree and your stomach in knots over watching me, so close in dreams you become aroused as the ropes and my wrists struggle to break free. Lace nightgowns, black ink roses on fevered skin, instruments of blind release and trading your safe place for a stab at the ghost of the way we used to be.

You were a fetish I couldn’t put down until every bedtime story began folding us into the pages of eternal dust. You and I, we were born thirsty.

The relentless plunge of your expert fingers is just another hypnotic link in these chains that pull me back to who I was before cruelty ever touched me the way you never did. Who are you that owns the body in my mind? Where have you been leading me in darkness all this time?

As I walk through the days after, every empty street slides up and away under my bare feet. Beneath a concrete urban moon I hold still before you as ten thousand broken cups shatter against the wind. I sip like an abandoned animal the tears from the lines in your hands.

I remember the way we grew up seeking fire and it illuminates the ancient codes carved deep within my cells: skinning our naked knees, crossing my heart and hoping to fly, running, running, running through fields of falling stars across an endless sky.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// masterpiece //

// exposure //

7 Replies

I want to violate you
spend lifetimes invading the sharp blades of the lightning
mind of you,
feel the snowy nights rising in the quiet undressed
shadow
of
you,
consume the last discarded scraps of the hopes
of
you,
reach for you in your pale moon skin
as you float away in a midnight ocean,
rupture the veins in the madness of your
beautiful crooked thought patterns as they
throb at your fingertips,
feed you word after word after word on every
page of my foolish
poetry
as the wolves lie in wait all around the
muscle, bone, and blood
of
you.
I want to
collect you, spread you wild the way storm clouds curl and rage
and divide themselves again and again
overtaking a desperate
desolate landscape, the thirst
for
you
reflected in my blue almond
desert eyes.
I want to capture you
captivate you;
make you feel
at home
inside this tiny
little rib
cage
that hangs in the creature of my
body
at the center of the
endless falling sky
of
you.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// misfit //

4 Replies

We live in a world that treats the quiet ones like misfits, mutants, outcasts, freaks. Most people talk because they don’t have any idea what to say. Don’t disgrace the words by spilling them before they’ve impregnated you, been a heavy ridiculous burden inside the pulsing womb that is the mad torture of your own mind, grown into monsters with seven heads and screaming, until you are disturbed enough to feel them like thick vines tracking around your spine.

So often the world mistakes silence for ignorance, weakness, powerlessness, thoughtlessness, carelessness. But silence is how I write, how I grow rich, how I build my own bones and breed my own skin. The magic of the artist lies in the soundless, in the molten fluid pools of her willing and complete submission to the fullness of her every delicate experience.

How often to speak is to destroy the stimulus, to ruin the provocative overwhelm. The only hope I have of continuing to work is to remain alert, open to all of it. That everyday I may push further upon the unfolding of my own expanse.

There are infinite glorious worlds of pleasure and agony in my cup of silence.

And as they all misunderstand, I stay still and wait patiently like the wild hidden in the blood of the animal. I am quiet like an elegant death even as I watch you with the electricity of my entire being. I listen with my whole body as you speak. Like a thousand knives gutting the heavens are the beautiful invisible tremors I channel through me.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love, gratitude, and mad affection. x

// tongues //

2 Replies

the sun hides itself behind the candles on the walls
as i wait within my ritual silence
and close my starlit alien
eyes.
i am electric with the systems you
spin within me like
webs of silken skin, glistening
wet with the thoughts that
work at my
twisted mind.
i am still
as you touch me
in places i was taught
were beautiful,
soft
and
forbidden.
out the window sliding with rain over my head,
chained to the monster
i might have been
i can taste the metal clouds
rushing in.
the air is amber honey in a primitive
version of heaven
pouring down everywhere
and yet
redemption escapes
me.
i know the heat in your eyes
i know the hollow in the words like black birds falling from the
crumbling skies
curtains torn up from the floor become
a circle of white dresses dancing headless
out on the lawn, laughing.
something in the way you move reminds me
that we can no longer afford to live
the way it was
before the storm.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// wet //

4 Replies

every move I make is deliberate and
exaggerated:
we can’t afford
mistakes.
I know you see through my x-ray body
and this
puts you
at ease.
I dip my liquid fingers deep
in crimson
paint
it drips to the floor –
maniacal waves relentless
in every
drop.
it stains my elbows and
my knees
rushes at your feet
as I sketch giant lusty images
on the ceiling.
I need you inside me
so that
I can
breathe
(forget everything they told you
to pray for,
angel,
the gods need us aching
like
this).
you read the tension in this
our silent vibrating communication with
an unhinged grace,
I watch your focus heavy
with animal eyes
as you absorb me
and
all
the
painted
figures
bleed.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// break //

5 Replies

Some days punish and stimulate like cascades of warm rain sliding in hot crystal streams over bare summer skin. Like a lover’s willing mouth open, plush and ready, locked in a room you can’t find, in a building with walls that mirror each other.

Some days you are the artist and her muse, in a strange and masterful chaos you become the one you seek to observe: an illicit object, a distorted galaxy, a rotating world of tempt and threat, undressing.

I have felt Love on me like hands so crushingly gentle they shatter and collect me with every handsome, brutal intrusion; so commanding that even as I am falling apart, I am falling back together.

I have seen myself as beautiful even as I am drowning in self-abuse and self-sabotage. Something bigger than suffering exists. It watches without exhaust, it waits for millennia without tire or question.

Something so infinitely vast that it can cradle any amount of suffering and love all of it, as if nothing exists that is not Its own.

// nude //

12 Replies

Take my nimble eager hands, lead me down the darkened halls of your mad and thickening fantasy. Show me on this body that I’m the crime of a past lover’s unrest and the keeper of codes long buried under shipwrecks at the soundless bottom of an ancient sea.

Tug at the edges and refuse to stop. Drape the concrete midnight sun and snake your expert hands around my wrists, offer me everything. Spread my imagination wide as starless navy skies, pierce my soul with the beautiful sting of a dying winter.

Creation is the way we close our eyes, new life is danger in my bones fully drawn. I have risen from the clutch of a thousand graves, I have been bled of my mistakes by the shadow of streetlamps on pavements in the splitting rain.

The sharp blades of light on your chest remind me how many times I’ve shattered to be rebuilt like this. Spill your mess onto me; I will cleanse you, feed you, wrap you in the searing fires you had been ashamed to touch.

Spin the moons in my mind with your gravity, rake your fingers steady across my desire as I drop my defenses down.

Make me surrender all the words I no longer need as you suspend my ragged breath between your teeth. Bring me to your secret, sacred room and turn the key.

// trouble //

12 Replies

I am, even to myself, a strange and beautiful trouble.

Even in stark stillness I am a relentless expansion, a curiosity, a sin.

I am an indulgence, a soft and ripening ache.

I am a mystery, a wild collection of deranged contradictions to the things you want to see in yourself as you look at me.

I like to stroke a thing until it derails.

Pummel it to the ground and search its insides for clues.

I am the heady aftertaste of the way you are afraid to feel, and I feel deeply, probe hungrily, into those shadowy places you neglect, dismiss, judge, ignore, reject.

Your disturbance electrifies something in my bones, the oddity of you, the unlikelihood of any of this, wets and fills even the driest rivers, sends them rushing back from the dead through me.

I am not a problem. I do not need to be fixed or corrected.

This life – my life – is an ecstatic, rugged, savage territory and I feast upon it all.

Heaven and hell tangle within me, both are teachers, both are guides, both are Love.

Trouble is evolution is freedom is treasure. The most tragic of all are not those who struggle but those who concede.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// crush //

// knots //

// watch //

2 Replies

Writers are spooky creatures. We concern ourselves too often with every sinister, seductive, tragic thing, pin our skin to brutal sensations and wait.

Watch.

We seem to imagine there’s a puzzle inside of us that fits into the puzzle inside of everything. Such arrogance, such faith. Everyone is a clue. Every touch is annihilation. Every face is the possibility of salvation or the grave.

Writers are demons, gods, angels, train tracks, machines, tricksters, mobsters, bombs, wristwatches, lovers, strippers, criminals, skyscrapers, bugs.

But then maybe we’re all writers.

Maybe everyone is just terrified they’ll run out of words.