demeter >> the harvest
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all i dream about
on these dangerously cold november
mornings
is the organ-like flowers of the earth
pulsing vibrantly under my skin
my wet liver replaced
with the sweaty summer scent
of a hundred lilac petals
burning in a sultry cluster
my arteries groan as
the meticulous xylem shoots
like heroin from arm to heart
this sunlight drenching
the furniture in yellow
brings my back to a
voracious arch as the chloroplasts
writhing beneath scream throatily
for light energy
all the while, my body twists
feverishly through my ocean of sheets,
my ankles rub against each other
like raw green stems, filling the
empty morning air with the
pungent scent of a florist's shop
i'm photosynthesizing
i'm drinking soporific nectar
so i'll never wake again
i like how these turned out. i only wish that i had someone other than myself to photograph, as i tire of my face in my photographs sometimes. my mouth tastes like black eyeliner, now. tonight; a round kitchen table in dim peach light surrounded by forty-somethings swallowing vodka and beer. i drank a few cherry vodka & diet cokes in a crystal glass, and felt dizzy and heavy soon after. three nights ago; i was bedridden with emotion sickness, creating a cocoon of blankets and wrapping my hands around hot cups of herbal tea. to calm my fragile nerves, i watched fifty first dates, notting hill, and ella enchanted. fifty first dates was my favourite, as i've developed quite a fondness for mr. sandler since i saw punch drunk love. ella enchanted made me smile; it was a strange concoction of old and new. i want to go on winter carriage rides with anne hathaway because she is lovely. notting hill just kind of made me want to kick hugh grant in the elbow. other activities from last week include; cooking burritos, beginning a super star wars marathon, painting things on wood with acrylic paint, singing the second soprano part of old chorus songs to myself, and scrawling away in my journal. also, i watched titanic for the first time since i was about twelve and was pleasantly surprised to find myself enjoying it immensely. that is, until the deaths began and i found myself sobbing violently into piles of tissues. i did, however, discover that my old motherly tendencies for men have not entirely disappeared. when william murdoch, in his dark blue naval jacket, stood pressing a cold handgun against his temple, i wanted more than anything to crawl inside the film to cradle him in my arms until the ship slid under the surface. my skin prickles too much, my insides twist excessively, my blood chills too rapidly at so much death for me to properly enjoy these types of films. it's too much when all that's left at the end is a heaving chest, red eyes. this intense cyclical mourning.