Such arrogance found in the hands of lovers
who dare unwrap each other
despite their knife nails.
You cut me with your forked tongue so often
I keep a first aid kit tucked behind my excess rib.
We love like gods
and not yet used to these fragile bodies.
We don’t expect this to hurt as much as it does.
we just can’t help ourselves.
Tag Archives: cecilie k
Such arrogance found in the hands of lovers
I’ve ground our love affair into bone dust that people will use to get their own heart beating.
Like that of ancient mythology dumbed down, simplified, made feral.
Drink this tea to break your own heart, sprinkle this over your meal to be better.
Your hands are on someone else’s breakfast table and I
and see how I make us into the fluttering of someone else’s eyelids,
heavy and heady are the words,
so unlike my own trembling lips and panting breath.
I will give them the bones of us,
but I will keep the flesh between my own teeth.
I tuck my words for him behind my uvula, where even you can’t reach them.
I am an over boiling pot of love poems,
I’ll tell you about every boy and girl I’ve wanted to plunge my fingertips into,
to see if I could dig out a reason to keep going.
But you can’t have this one.
I’ll wrap him so tightly in metaphors you won’t be able to tell where he starts,
and I begin.
My lips are sealed around his memory and you
can’t have him.
My flat mate knocked on my door last night,
told me to keep it down,
his voice leaks out from underneath my hands when I hold them on my body.
Come here you.
So now I sleep with my hands wrapped into my lovers hair and cross my fingers,
hope to die,
this isn’t a love story.
This is the story of the small hissing thing in me,
which hoards hearts
The witch’s pantry contains small bottles of every shape,
it’s a certain type of woman who bottles up her emotions and puts them on display.
Red and knobbly sits a bottle in the middle shelf.
actually it sings when you run a finger over it.
“You, you, you.” like words ripped from a lovers throat.
Another bottle is blue like harebells and twinkles like you thought they would,
actually it sobs when you knock it over to the floor.
“There are places we can’t go back to, we’ll board the ship and find no harbour.
We’ll walk the path and find no gate.
Oh, oh, the harebells bloom without you now.”
She leaves it on the floor,
nudges a toe at it so it rolls under the pantry.
She wakes in the middle of the night, coughing up a storm.
She brews thyme tea with honey,
At 4:29 she coughs up a small bottle, the shape of a frog and the colour of mud
that shines green when the light hits it.
And it reads,
no, it croaks when she lifts it up.
“Peace be with the girls who are forest wanderers,
do you remember the smell of pine needles? The feelings of sap on your hands?
A small frog in your pocket. Keep walking, keep walking.
I call this a mythology,
because it feels safer to name beasts
than to tattoo medicine labels onto myself
I call myself priestess, goddess, lynx;
Holy trinity of “Holy hell” and questionable decisions.
I swear I have claws instead of nails and there is
of all my bad habits
I’m all heavy handed symbolism
and suppressed flinches.
I keep a tally between the weather and me,
who breaks first,
and how often.
I think I’m winning but it’s been raining a lot lately,
like the weather wants to remind me where I am,
that I’m still mostly water.
If my garden has taught me anything,
it’s that I will swallow anything I cultivate myself.
Even badly thought out creation myths.
I say magic is the way of perceiving
what consequences and chance have in common,
the outcome of what we put out,
and a willing mind
what comes back.
You remind me of the failed love potions I made when I was 13,
the smell of rotting rose petals everywhere.
So when I say
kiss me like you mean it,
when I say
I am magic;
I hope you can taste my whole mythology.
When I grow old I want my kitchen to be a heart.
I don’t want rooms like open wounds, I don’t want blood on the walls but I want the steady,
noise of being alive.
The racing of too much coffee, the warmth of two big hands around two smaller hands rolling bread dough.
When I grow old, when I grow tired I want my kitchen table to be a harbour.
Where all the ships make it home and all the prayers sent out to sea will come down on us,
like sugar being poured in a tea cup,
making everything so sweet.
I want this kitchen to be so sweet it sticks to you when you leave.
The sound of laughter and colliding of cups and saucers whilst a small girl falls asleep,
curled up on the sheepskin on the floor,
taking this moment with her into the future.
So when she grows up, she’ll know the heart of the house is the room where we come together to make and break bread.
Everything is easier in the summer and I’m getting my legs waxed while smoking my first cigarette of the day.
Three women are laughing the slow,
sunburned, dizzy laughter of June.
The cheap pink strips of sticky wax leave strips down our legs and then we’re two women
rubbing oil down ourselves in the kitchen.
I say to one of them I like her like, it reminds me of home like,
I’m trying not to be crass or rude
Just say it!
No, but I mean…
Just say it!
Like the nice side of white trash.
She laughs and I laugh and I tell her of bathing toddlers in cut up oil cans and my aunts perming their hair on the step.
She tells me of building the emerald city in the living room out of green bottles.
Easy like my strawberries are finally growing and everything we need is 99p at the corner shop,
except for the giant bottles of ice tea that are 1.39,
but worth every cold, sugary, sticky drop.
We smell like grass, olive oil and sun cream and it’s easy like this.