So much truth….

My musings on the Magnolia, my favorite tree at the moment. Inspired by the beautiful spring weather.

lebonmardigras:

For my English class this semester I had to write a poem about an experience that changed my life. I’ve spent one and one-half months on this piece. Most of that time was used generating the material. I wrote the actual poem over the course of three Thursday evenings. It was immensely difficult to dwell in that space for so long — the moments I discuss were painful — but I’m glad it’s where it is. It’s pretty long, and I don’t know how much I like it, but I have a whole summer to fix it.

Anyway, here it is, in all of its [overdone] glory. (Also, Tumblr won’t let me do stanza breaks, so sorry.)

The Tiger

It’s spring again.

Warbler chicks tumble

from roosts, down feathers shot

from pillows. They pipe their saddest

songs through the wet fish

air and I breathe.

It’s spring again, and I am still

a coward.

Dew-droop lids, bullfrog

eyes: all Dad wants is whiskey

on rocks and the Dead up full-

blast and for anyone young to hush

up, but I can’t.

I promised myself

I’d say it.

I’d yell it.

But now I’m the snake’s slow bulge

and I shake like a bubble-gum

bully bashed for the first

time, and the fat clock clicks

to his elephant limp

and I know

I’m far from the riot

I was my last Halloween

in the school by the tracks,

where I needed no whys.

Fire-fuming, gut-slashing,

terrible beast — I was

the tiger.

Teacher sat me down,

told me to draw. Fist-to-fist,

jaw-to-jaw, I jabbed thigh-

white ‘til it wept red

and will, ‘til I gaped

like a scrubbed-in new dad

at a bleeding ink heart, the blue-

footed fruit of my fire.

In front of the boys, primped

as a prize, Snow White cooed

like a loose French screw.

Tu, tu. Tu, tu —

choosing them all, and I knew

she’d bite the tiger

in two, and give no whys,

so I said it.

She furrowed her brow

like I’d dropped a rotting

rabbit at her feet, and said girls

weren’t meant for other girls.

And my gut sunk

and my hands shook, and I knew

I was no snarling savage,

just some sham rebel reformed,

the copy of a copy of a copy

that could never become real.

I was never the tiger.

And now he plods in, foot

before foot, as if laboring, always

laboring, and I say

I’ve got something to tell

and he’s listening. And my gut

sinks and my hands shake and I think

I must not be the tiger.

I imagine his cutting gaze,

the swine-eyed trapper in lurking,

waiting for some quick flick

of the tail or glint of white gloss,

the fatal exposure. I imagine

his favorite venomous words

rolled thick for years and slung

from lips like wasps

ditching nest — the swift injection

before any awareness

of needle or skin —

and I say it.

His brow furrows, gaze

glued to some atom

of floor tile and he says,

“Why are you telling me this?”

I dream of busting his snout

just for asking, but I know

no wrecker’s ball to the nose

could show him I bleed

as red as he. So I swallow

a creeping plea —

I am no bound victim —

and mutter an ”I love you”

false as a deathbed conversion.

He knows my whys.

Out in the stinky pink

trees the warblers have stopped

their sad singing. I observe

in some oily splash in the sag

of an old boat tire that I am

small again. Ask me what I want

and I will tell you. Ask me what I am

and I will roar.

onedirectionallove:

When cuddles go wrong. (x)

I believe you mean when cuddles go absolutely perfectly <3