Blue dress, azure soul
Salvation in your cinders
Dreams desecrated
About the Creator
C.M. Vazquez
She/Her. English Professor. Aspiring Novelist. 30+. Proud Latina.
I'm obsessed with my cat and fantasy fiction.
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My Sister Kills Men
knives litter the floor unfinished whittling, trussed up turkeys, wounds on her knuckles, bruised up knees, quince dress in the closet, red like the blood of future men who will try to sever her from her body, of men who will tell her she doesn’t belong, of men who will spew venom while she tries to forge her own destiny, composing it of moments she is wronged, moments of sinew poking through flesh, bones screeching in her fists, enormous sores seeking breath,
By C.M. Vazquez3 years ago in Poets
Pornographic Venn Diagramming
It's all performative, all damned to death and back. Born we are into this system of crippled development. Portrayed as enlightenment, but the reality is anything but. . I have long rallied against such realities, despite the burial of my past innocence, forgotten sanctity. . I wrote down some thoughts: . Well hallelujah Spread thin Tongue twisting tautogrammic takes of trauma and triumph Male shame and toxicity mixed with a little alienation and Oh oh the resentment Wafer thin . Xenophobia and the hardened husk of hatred and illegitimate anger and distrust we have become . . Desperation . . The secret language of the sextape . . Pornographic Venn diagramming . The shame, oh the . Shame? . Generation after generation closed off and colder . Heart unresponsive as the irresponsible as the moral vocal cords for the majority . . Minorities kerbed, chided . . We become the grotesque we loathe . . All our yesterdays forgotten The abstract replaces the grounded In an instant . . We become the loathsome grotesque . . All our tomorrows forgotten The grounded replaces the pure In an instant . . We become the grotesque we loathe . . I have become that which I hate. As I bring down the hammer of the gods of inconsequence and their wards, the stupid and stationary, I feel the shame. . . Shame? . . Slàinte. . . Merci beaucoup Oui, oui Ventus, ventus. . . Lilith adores. Diana engorges the might of Artemis and the cynicism of Perseus. . . As I look to the mirror and dismay shoots through like a sgian-dubh of truth, claidheamh-mòr, I lift my Lochaber axe and punish the impure because I dare not face my own. Targe laid down. The dirk plunges into my neck by the phantom of reason. . . Fire. Fire. Fire. . . Water. Ice. . . Novocaine. . . Any D&D players available.Start writing...
By Paul Stewarta day ago in Poets
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