a city map is sewn in the scalp;
looped in the goat-milk, or spit out,
tongued in silky blades of stomped
i’m crowned with high-pitched fingers
clenched in fur.
in octaves only shades can bear, i simmer
in their holy cradles.
i become the roughened corner of a mouth
grinning at its own joke.
there, the receding home in ranch-style polaroid’s of a dirty blond stranger and my mother squinting in the sun; some home not mine or yours.
in a woman’s left grows tiny,
and in a man’s more supple.
i keep alive by milking goats.
some like lifelines, some like ulcers
the city streets are braided in my hair.
Samantha Lucero writes at sixredseeds.
we’re not humans without h e a r t s
but hearts without bodies,
being fed to strange birds
with s t r a n g e r heartbeats-
that nibble on our veins,
and pluck at our skins
until their beaks bleed,
and they h a n g themselves
from a ghost of our r i b s.
-ra’ahe khayat//fallen alone
i write poems like people fall in love- nothing but tragedy is promised.
Ra’ahe Khayat is just another wild person with wilder thoughts, who thinks that writing them down might mean that the people around her won’t realize how out of touch with reality she really is, but she tends to write random gibberish in the randomest of places, so most already know. She likes intimate words, and weirdly surreal metaphors, and sad songs, and has a sick sense of humor (depends completely on how you interpret sick). You can catch up with her on twitter at @ryekayas or just check out her blog fallen alone