Untitled (A white-hot flame...)
"I am too pure for you or anyone./Your body/Hurts me as the world hurts God." --Sylvia Plath, from “Fever 103°”
A white-hot flame
makes up my arm
as you try to
kiss my hand.
Necklaces clash upon my chest--
an unholy rhythm
mesmerizing,
a long hidden memory
emerging from my throat.
Must I become Medusa
so as to enact my own power?
Who could I ward off
when my strawberry lips fluster
and I only learned how to scream?
My nerves glow with impervious light;
no phoenix has burned more times than I.
Feathers fall, but they are nothing
compared to tears of blood--
they tear scars apart
like holy scrolls
burning with palms
and phosphorus alike.
Why do you desire my truths?
From my hands,
I can only conjure smoke
and sandalwood alike.
You hand over a cross to me.
But I am no martyr--
I value beauty most of all.
From that of smoke, I can summon an inferno,
and I relish in its sparks.
From the ice, I watch the daffodils bloom
and the cherry blossoms fall.
From the broken shells I
emerge from the waves--
the sun's rays cresting my back,
the salt falling from my hands...
I emerge from the fever like a dove,
but no, you cannot keep me.
I take flight into a muggy paradise;
one in which the clouds are heavier than lead
and more toxic than radium.
My fate hangs on my neck,
but that's only because I value
these jewels--I cannot barter beauty,
it's as if I cut all my hair.
I shine like a midsummer sun,
but no, you cannot see me.
You cannot lay near me,
and you will not find me.
Posted Mar 27, 2023, 6:47 AM UTC