Creating the world

I’ve been searching for my ghosts.

The ones that have been waiting
in the curtains for me to notice.
Flood lights missing shadows
of frail fingers gripping velvet
pummels of all that is hidden.
Hollow bodies of cruel poems
with deep goodbyes and even
deeper pleads to stay.
I dance with them all now.
They are, of course all me,
beautifully fragmented.
They way a person should be.

I stand up straight.
I devour. My eyes stare back.
These sustained tremors
keep me home, because
they are mine and that male
gaze has gone blind to hot blood.
The shaking keeps me quiet,
in the way that everything beautiful
is created from true silence.

Words and color climb walls once
the screaming runs hoarse.

My silent gapping mouth blooms
flower taste and bubble hiccups –
things I don’t notice
or remember until I slow
dance with the hidden
pink petunias on an evening walk.
Three disconnected lines
on a blank page in the
morning before coffee.

My ghost chorus is singing
“you can always start right now”.
More blue birthdays
and party frosting dresses
are sure to come – weeks away.
It’s okay to be chaos drunk
when you’re a galaxy girl holding
your breath until he reminds you
that gasping hasn’t made
you a dead fish.
Yet.

Listen to me.
We are both the opening
and closing ceremonies.
Listen to me.
It is ok to ask if it is all a
psychedelic trip.
(Pay no mind that I’ve never
done psychedelics).
I write poems instead.
Listen to me.
What feels good in my body —
are words made of air.
Air shaped to the sound
of your song sentences.

But let’s be honest,
I am a Pisces baby —
a moon riddled with Cancer.
I trust that I learned
to walk centuries ago.
Now, my legs only know run.
Now, I can only glide like slickrock oil.
Grounding is for new stars,
and I am a sprinting span of birth.
A quiet, quick engulfing.

Be my black hole.
Be my incomprehensible expanse.