Achilles, I hear they're mending
your heel on Monday.
What's next? Will they send
you back to pointless war
once you're lively
enough to wield your sword?
Will they let you rest?
Do they know you are undead?
Hades chokes on overgrown asphodel.
Tartarus cannot burn it away,
and the Styx cannot flood its roots.
Persephone has weaponized Spring.
No one touches her,
and no one bothers the souls
she gathers to her.
I yearn to leave this fight behind,
but every night,
I wrestle my shadow.
I try to elevate the conflict
with acrobatic moves,
but she her holds are savage
and soon I respond in kind.
Neither of us wins–
we collapse from exhaustion
in the middle of the fight.
When I wake to meet the day,
she shambles behind me
until the light leaves
and the fight begins again.
Trade your wings of shadow
for wings of fire, my love.
Step from the silver light
of the moon into the blazing light
of the sun. Glow with me.
Don't worry that it burns.
I wait at the counter
of the celestial cafe.
The barista looks a little tired,
but she glows.
Everyone glows here.
What do you need?
Nothing too complicated.
Just glass full of light.
Can humans drink light?
I need to cancel out
the shadows in my chest.
Here, then. Good luck.
Join us for Kate Nyx’s Anniversary Show! We have an amazing variety show planned for you all tonight. It’s a live music show plus a retrospective of the show’s skits and lore and I think you’ll love it!
Inscribe my ribs
with golden ink.
Adorn me
with the poetry
I wrote and the flowers
your mind created.
They might be balm
or poison,
as my words
are balm and poison,
but they will glitter
golden.
They will shine
in the daylight
with traces of us.
If someone touches the back of my arm,
I'm scared it will give way like a soft orange peel
gone green with rot. We love a fresh orange,
easily shed of its armor, easily shared,
but nothing rotted is loved.
We love the mushroom and ignore the log,
and I'm not so charming anymore,
so I must be the log--
the rotted and not rot's results.
Well, I've always loved the logs on my long walks,
not just the mushroom and the moss
and what crawls beneath, the log too,
but I struggle to take my walks
and it's rare that I get to look. Does anyone
look at me and see me?
Or do they only see what I make?
If someone touches me on the back of the arm,
maybe they'll find penicillin and be cured by my rot.
So what if that means I give way?
My other post lost traction, but Brittany Delaney, a young Black single mother from Minnesota, is fighting for her life against cancer and lupus. Her first two rounds of treatment were unsuccessful and she has spent a lot of time in and out of the hospital, all while suffering from medical racism. Her need for support grows more dire with each day that passes. Her c@sh@pp is $survivinglupus30 and v3nm0 is Brittany-Delaney-3. Her gofundme is linked in the article, and you can also find more details about her situation. Please spread. Thank you!
In my childhood dreams, the fairies
stole me away from my own death,
time and time again.
Their forest became a haven
from the flames the mob
created for me, the traditional
penalty for magic.
I can’t remember when I started
to shy away from fairy rings,
when I started to adorn myself
in iron and play with matches,
when I embraced the crowd
with open arms.
The forest was made by
more ancient hands than theirs,
kinder hands, and
I have no magic,
only broken words
that take to the air.