:thechrysalis:

She spins her cocoon

Weaves the layers thick around her

Inch by inch

Fostering a cushy thickness

Loosely at first

Building a delicate shell

Layer upon layer

She who hungers

Who ploughs and sows and reaps and bides

She who bears the glacial brunt of bodily rime

And withstands the capricious change of season

Who reserves the right

To be three parts hot

And six parts cold

She who plays animal kingdom

In the glorified and giddy human realm

Turns bilious beast upon threat

The tightened strain of her falsetto shrill

Disarming in alacrity

She who lay in wait

She who is

With seasonality comes change

Firm footed in the conviction of her own love

Yet blithely unaware

Of the magnetism of her newly engorged marrow

Be it a hegemonic push

Or an overtly oppressive pull

Influenced by stimuli one way on first glance

And another on reinspection

She is doggedly plagued

Finally assuaged

My heart isn't always consistent

But it's always right

It never fails me

And that's more than I can say for you

Because you've failed me enough

And fuck you if you can't abide that

Because I no longer abide you

image : ying ang

:shacklesandstitches:

Some mornings I have weights on my ankles and other days wings on my back. Tumbling, bumbling, stumbling over words, I rumble.

Knit one, purl one, hold tight that yarn, never drop a stitch.

I catch my shin with the razor and watch mutely on as my entire vessel is choked of all blood, seeping indolently across a naked bathroom floor.

Engulfed by a congealing pool of dropped stitches I lay, weighted by the shackles of lost dreams and waylaid hope. Wallowing in a remorseful tide of bloodied regret I droop, tempering my once flaxen locks with the darkly hollowed hues of pain.

Setting my intention, I brace against the terminal vertigo of eons spent itinerant. Atop shaky legs I stand. My trailing red fingertips smear the curvature of the porcelain rail, evoking in the splintered veneer a newly crimson finish.

The famine of love has broken; I torpidly feel my way. Rise, I start. I circle once, twice, clocking the fading misery of the witching hours. Retreat, I must. On the floor below, the gushing red deluge dissipates into nihility. Repent, I have. The door stands open and defiant, aghast at the scene. Resurrected, I am.

     image : ying ang