Sink/Swim

Posted on June 16, 2014 by Catastrophe Jones

Pull me out from under
the weight of myself;
I’m sinking
and I can’t breathe.

Don’t leave me here
to drown.
Don’t leave me here

alone.

I am terrified,
and I know that I am
worthless
without you.

The only way
I will ever fly
is if you lay yourself down
beneath me,
and hold up
my wings.

Wait.

Don’t take my place
in the water.
Never mind.
I didn’t mean it.

You can’t swim, anyway.

I love you.

I’d rather drown and let you go
than make you take another breath of

this dark ocean

in my stead.

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If you ever

Posted on June 15, 2014 by Catastrophe Jones

Don’t you love the way your hands fit
to my throat?
Don’t you love how you can
reduce me to nothing?
I am nothing,
everything. Yours,
and gone.
If you ever loved me,
if you ever knew me,
if I was ever anything to you
other than broken,
tighten your grip,
so you can let me go.

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They would never know

Posted on June 14, 2014 by Catastrophe Jones

They would never know the things that he had done to make sure they were safe. They would never know the things that he had done to make sure they had a place to stay. They would never know all of the ways that he had to be cunning, scheming. They would never know because he gave himself willingly and selflessly. They would never know because he would not speak of these things. They would never know because that was the point.

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I am made of

Posted on June 13, 2014 by Catastrophe Jones

I was thinking about
taking the time to
peel the petals
from the sun,

speaking the words,
saying all of the delight
that has ever been
milk and blood

and honey nails.

I am made
of poppy,
full of forgetting

and the darkest of dreams.
I give them to you.
I open myself
and give them all

to you.

Drink in my words,
and fall into the worlds
within worlds,

and finally understand.

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Breathtaking

Posted on June 12, 2014 by Catastrophe Jones

She sits down at the bottom of the pool and stares up through the clear waves, the sunlight dappling down through goldgreen willow leaves.

This is a memory of childhood.

This moment will never come again.

She stares up — separated from the heat and light and sound by the thinnest ocean of clearest blue — blinking slowly, the last exhale helping her rest against the patterned liner.

This is a memory of beauty.

This moment will never come again.

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