tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66277679099329953732024-02-21T07:51:57.566+09:00In Sunlight Golden"...But to me the darkness was red-gold and crocus-coloured,
With your brightness,
And the words you whispered to me,
Sprang up and flamed—orange torches against the rain.
Torches against the wall of cool, silver rain!" ---Summer Rain, Amy LowellArgentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.comBlogger585125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-24154501542453377702023-10-16T22:26:00.002+09:002023-10-16T22:26:41.998+09:00Gum DdakjiI've still got the piece of gum<div>I rolled up in it's wrapper</div><div>Tossed in my bag</div><div>I never brought my bag when we met,</div><div>But that time I did</div><div>And it served as a trash can </div><div>For all the things you said to me</div><div>I'm sorry for being your gum ddakji,</div><div>The sticky wad stuck on your shoe</div><div>Stubborn and merciless</div><div>Recklessly in love with dirt and grime</div><div>Pavement slapping against my cheek,</div><div>Wrap me up in your arms</div><div>Crush me into you, into your pain</div><div>And when you're done, toss me away</div><div>Otherwise, I'll stick. </div><div><br /></div>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-28001203178037482172023-10-14T05:14:00.002+09:002023-10-14T05:38:50.783+09:00Shame (Rabid Ramblings)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6xkMZpqM7V6jovRivbk3ZBJjWdoY90wgKfxXmzTFfh1dwLVO-6dBcaTCJ1n6oc20hM8yNVUdjXFI1ohXAo4Tg-aJQT1Ec467yby0Y8nh2Cmvd1mmVPdc40FvDCBAfJd5l475URnbiOITtVpsET4tCSjd7Tqg_bL3Vyqa_zNZ4oEeafx4InKiYdmzOPHbc/s725/img_1_1697214933340.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="725" data-original-width="725" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6xkMZpqM7V6jovRivbk3ZBJjWdoY90wgKfxXmzTFfh1dwLVO-6dBcaTCJ1n6oc20hM8yNVUdjXFI1ohXAo4Tg-aJQT1Ec467yby0Y8nh2Cmvd1mmVPdc40FvDCBAfJd5l475URnbiOITtVpsET4tCSjd7Tqg_bL3Vyqa_zNZ4oEeafx4InKiYdmzOPHbc/s320/img_1_1697214933340.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>This somehow reminded me of the lyrics of Nell's song, A.S. </p><p><br /></p><p>"You paint, my pain</p><p>With your vacant rain,</p><p>And make all these worthless fears go away."</p><p><br /></p><p>A.S stands for "After Sex", if I'm remembering correctly, and at the tender age of 17 when I discovered this song, it was the most beautiful portrayal of something which not only entirely terrified me, but I had no interest in ever experiencing. </p><p>Meanwhile, those around me were pursuing whatever it was which caught their teenage fantasy in the most blood-rushing, chemical-producing way possible. I chose to stay unaware of the conquests which fascinated my peers, and I spent the energy of those years on academics, believing a poet who also sang of such tender admiration and vulnerability existed somewhere on this earthly sphere.</p><p>I'll be twenty eight years old in a month. I have been in therapy, actual, serious therapy, for a year. I have not learned to distinguish between shame and guilt, but I have learned to ask myself to try. I have not conquered my anxiety or my people-pleasing, but I've learned I will survive my next panic attack over someone's criticism. I have not forgiven myself for all of my mistakes, but I have felt God forgive me for all of them, and He has taken the shame calculator and smashed it with His fist. </p><p>I try on different labels like a kid tries on shoes; meaning, I lay on the ground kicking and screaming because my sock seam is in my toes and the sides are pinching and this isn't it. </p><p>My brain is whirring and I am not producing my best explanations at the moment, but basically I still have no idea how to explain myself to someone else, and I long for someone else to care about that explanation, and I wish to be given hours to discuss it, without the nagging fear that he will realize my brain was very pretty but the fat bulging right under my bra strap (where he places his hand) is ultimately disgusting, and the size of my thigh (where he places his hand) is the greatest turnoff he has ever experienced. I will never be able to wipe his skin cells off those parts of my body, and they will be outlined in white chalk on the murder scene of my life until forensics is done examining them. </p><p>I reached the scathingly boring conclusion, after coming home, that the people who have known me the longest don't necessarily know me the best. This is partially because my reaction to being different was to make myself more obviously different. Pretty much everyone hated how they looked back then, but my solution was to be as extravagant, outlandish, and loud as my mother would allow. If everyone is looking at you because your clothes are weird, no one is looking at you because of your stomach, or your acne, or your height. Those are secondary concerns to them- their initial confusion is as to why you're dressed that way. </p><p>It feels like everyone concluded I was perfectly, incredibly fine, and only their house was breaking beneath their two feet, and mine was intact. </p><p>But as we drove home and I asked a deeply inappropriate question outside the Family Dollar, I also revealed that one day in 2007 I was convinced I'd just been abandoned. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>I wonder why that comes as such a shock. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-3412322998391064762023-09-28T22:05:00.002+09:002023-09-28T22:05:38.603+09:00GravesA familiar voice and<div>The scent of blankets </div><div>From a place that felt safe</div><div>Now a danger is flickering</div><div>Small taps</div><div>In the darkness, my</div><div>Feet go into the ground</div><div>And my soul into the soil,</div><div>I am buried somewhere</div><div>Between the wet earth,</div><div>Death looms at my feet</div><div>Its beady eyes peer at me</div><div>It has been following</div><div>With a dull blade, a gray stone</div><div>A heavy and cumbersome drone,</div><div>Your alabaster smile</div><div>Begins fading, pain brings</div><div>Sneaking sins into your eyes</div><div>Snakelike they crawl on</div><div>Doomed bellies,</div><div>Goodbye to the little innocent child!</div><div>Slowly, slowly</div><div>Screens go dark, the moon</div><div>Rises higher and highest</div><div>Into the damp sky</div><div>Let me just this once </div><div>Close off my mind, let me recall</div><div>Memories of love and </div><div>The illusions of safer times. </div><div><br /></div><div>9/5/2023</div>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-15561830623575791562023-08-24T22:13:00.001+09:002023-08-24T22:13:33.914+09:00Should Be Doing XYZ<p> I should be seeing the news</p><p>Alien life forms, room temperature </p><p>Super conductors, and the agenda</p><p>Seeping from my childhood toys </p><p>Bleeding hot pink,</p><p>But I'm standing in the dining room</p><p>Holding my tongue, the greatest truth</p><p>Right on my lips, right on your lips</p><p>You kissed me</p><p>It hurt and helped and exploded</p><p>From the top of my head to my soul</p><p>A thousand dreams became reality</p><p>In a brilliant rush</p><p>I care not for anything else</p><p>I would rather enjoy my time on this rock</p><p>Curled in the safest and scariest arms</p><p>I have ever known. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-22749923917074574832023-04-19T03:41:00.005+09:002023-04-19T03:41:24.339+09:00Spring Fever in 2013<p>Everything is now green,<br />like Kishi Bashi in the spring<br />on an afternoon of bright<br />lights and sweet delights<br />melona ice cream<br />and red bean bread<br />please don't tell me that these<br />beautiful things, their magic and<br />this singing, <br />don't tell me it will end</p><p>...<br />well,<br />can we make it again?<br /><br />NaPoWriMo #8</p>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-91654931587094393402023-04-19T02:54:00.005+09:002023-04-19T02:55:33.017+09:00Brown<p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">Brown eyes in the sunlight<br /></span><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">And all those silver hairs<br /></span><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">Wrinkles at my smile lines<br /></span><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">And between my brows<br /></span><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">My face freckled more each year<br /></span><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">The sun's kisses rarely fade<br /></span><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">I don't think there's anything<br /></span><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">I'd really like to change </span></p><p><br /></p><p>NaPoWriMo #5</p>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-19103564223168062382023-04-19T02:52:00.008+09:002023-04-19T02:52:56.984+09:00Candy Hearts<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">You make me a little girl again<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A princess dancing in her<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Purple floral dress<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">With my hair in pretty curls,<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">My hands in dainty white gloves<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">You give me candy hearts<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">They speak of love</span></p><p><br /></p><p>NaPoWriMo #4</p>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-81092473459188515662023-04-14T10:12:00.003+09:002023-04-14T10:12:44.877+09:00peaches"pa's peach", my grandfather's voice<br />a deep bass that always sounded<br />playful and funny,<br />I'd imagine the peach tree in our yard<br />with sweet orange sap, and hundreds<br />of big, ripe fruits<br />their bright, sweet flavor like <br />the warm hug of summer,<br />then one year during the rains of May<br />I bought a book by Yangsook Choi<br />about peach heaven,<br />and my boss bought me those, the<br /><div>peaches that are pink and white<br />they were crunchy and not very sweet<br />and I cried,<br /></div><div>yesterday your father said <br />last summer, you were in peach heaven<br />and one of the trees had so much fruit<br />it split clean down the middle </div><div>I imagined jars and jars of peaches, </div><div>orange and soft, suspended in syrup<br />as if frozen in time, </div><div>sweeter than honey. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>NaPoWriMo #3</div>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-25326223684069458632023-04-13T00:17:00.001+09:002023-04-13T00:17:09.174+09:00You Hurt Me<p>"You're just obsessive", </p><p>You spat it out like a second hand curse,</p><p>How come I'm not worthy of </p><p>Your worn out trust, like her converse </p><p>Filled with holes, the glue coming undone </p><p>You think I haven't worked for love,</p><p>But I'm the one holding onto us </p><p>Grasping in the dark to tell you everything </p><p>Watching your eyes go soft, then angry </p><p>Because when you touched me </p><p>I was reduced to weakness </p><p>A puddle of blood on the floor,</p><p>Knife in my side, your hand inches away </p><p>Shifting into a higher gear, plunging </p><p>Deeper into my fear, twisting the blade around </p><p>Until I can't breathe; what did you want from me? </p><p><br /></p><p>NaPoWriMo #2, 2023</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-35449861464607846142023-04-13T00:08:00.005+09:002023-08-24T22:14:04.715+09:00Musing on Forbidden Things <p>the soft kiss of </p><p>your clothing to my cheek </p><p>smell of burning sugar </p><p>like this sweetness, ablaze </p><p>we are flames, and you are </p><p>infatuated with firelight</p><p>tell me one morning </p><p>my breakfast coffee won't be </p><p>filled with reflections </p><p>of my dreams, your face </p><p>dancing on the dark surface,</p><p>eyes of morning light </p><p>the cool sky of an early sunrise </p><p>the kaleidoscope of the night </p><p>turning to day. </p><p><br /></p><p>NaPoWriMo #1, 2023</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-67926630589976561112023-03-24T01:22:00.002+09:002023-04-09T08:44:19.516+09:00The Jump {Bookcases}<p>Falls of 90-100 feet<br />Are associated with 100%<br />Mortality, and I <br />Know a place, but the guy <br />Who comes in a few days a week,<br />Keith, he's too nice to <br />Clean my body off the rocks, <br />I don't want to hurt the <br />Hands that held me back from <br />Skin too sharp and blades too soft,<br />Blood coagulating in my <br />Stomach, didn't you feel the <br />Way my entire being caught fire<br />When you touched me? <br />The collapsing of each boundary<br />Built from old pine and lincoln logs<br />And bookcases,<br />Burning like signals on <br />Old mountains, seven <br />Sisters and seven seconds to decide <br />Am I gonna dive <br />Or watch myself die? </p>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-46363492154884565332023-03-20T04:46:00.004+09:002023-03-20T09:43:45.075+09:00Conferences for Kids<p>The sound of declarations,<br />proclamation, at dawn <br />scent of coffee on my tongue,<br />red-faced, shouting about Calvin,</p><p>But I'm thinking of Hobbes,<br />and the way of gentle holds<br />June moons and inappropriate songs,<br />sleeping in the back pew,<br /><br />She said she knew you,<br />and my stomach froze, <br />on the night of a June moon,<br />her arms and her neck<br />and your lips all over that,<br /><br />I buried my head in the sand<br />on the Carolina coast,<br />All have sinned and lost<br />I use vodka shots<br /><br />to erase the pictures<br />of her hot breath and pretty nose<br />and your caresses,<br />most of those. </p>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-24476205396871729992023-03-20T04:43:00.005+09:002023-03-20T04:43:41.862+09:00Verdant II<p>Green fields and valleys<br />where I lay down my head,<br />Green, green grass upon my cheek<br />And the sound of a sigh<br />as you breathe,<br />The skylight lingers on freckled skin<br />the brands of summers already spent,<br />The meadow where we sleep<br />and the air which you breathe,<br />And your hands folding,<br />fingers folding,<br />the universe folding<br />in on me, skylight twinkling,<br />Green, green, green. </p><p><br /></p>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-1061866315681750002023-03-20T04:41:00.000+09:002023-03-20T04:41:00.448+09:00BoysI'm not putting anything on the table,<br /><br />But you just make me laugh<br /><br />Too much<br /><br />Whenever I feel like<br /><br />I might drown<br /><br />And it's so sweet, I get high on all that<br /><br />Sugar and spice and all things nice<br /><br />That you've hidden behind your<br /><br />Frogs and mud,<br /><br />Little boys are made of<br /><br />Big love and big hugs and a little bit<br /><br />Of dirt and bugs<br /><br />With sparkling eyes of wonder,<br /><br />Look at this lovely world, look and see<br /><br />I found this flower for you,<br /><br />With the roots still dangling, tangled with<br /><br />Fresh earth,<br /><br />I'm not putting anything on the table,<br /><br />But thanks<br /><br />For saving me.<br />Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-71461331393759921442023-01-25T12:32:00.001+09:002023-01-25T12:32:33.809+09:00Alien<p> Will we always be aliens? </p><p>Pieces of me, my essence </p><p>Left behind everywhere I go </p><p>A satellite losing parts </p><p>As it orbits, this galaxy </p><p>Is too vast for me to ever find my identity</p><p>Serial number out floating </p><p>In the Kuiper Belt.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-57191920049936677942023-01-19T05:12:00.001+09:002023-01-19T05:12:08.781+09:00Bedsheets Pt 3 <p> I'd like to climb into </p><p>The bottom shelf </p><p>Curl up and take deep </p><p>Breaths of flannel comfort</p><p>Sometimes I fall into the basement </p><p>And need to hold the ghost of you </p><p>So I read your books </p><p>And burn the candles, watching </p><p>The wax drip and pool</p><p>On your dresser</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-47954369670904097432023-01-05T12:01:00.003+09:002023-01-05T22:55:11.303+09:00Prose #2 [Bookcase Trilogy]<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ah. I suppose I must unpack and disconnect each of these facets, too. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-8e2960b5-7fff-ae6e-72b2-d5182227adef"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I did not realize that. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One day when I was gone, the world continued on without me. To you, nothing of me has been changed; I remain the same woman I was ten years ago. But to me, everything has been warped with time. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I will never forget rainy nights and the warmth of the scuffed wood floors in your home. The way your father spoke as if each letter were more important than the last; you enunciate that way when you get angry or upset or very focused on something you believe in. The way your mother was quiet and cold; you mumble when you speak sometimes and you push everyone away at random and we worry about you. Or, I worry about you. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have to unpack and dissect things down to the log cabin fort in your front yard when we were seven and eight; you had that impish look on your face like you were better than me because YOUR mother didn’t tell you that you’d break your leg up there. The fact you never got your tetanus shots. The texture and feeling of the toys in the upstairs hallway; the little games your sisters would play with me to entertain me when I was bored. We’d dress up dolls and make pages upon pages of dot-pen masterpieces, and then your mother would call up through the grate that dinner was ready. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The way each face looked in the photobooks that would be dwelled upon for hours; the way my eyes always drew themselves directly to yours on the page. The fuzzy images no longer hold any place in my mind, but I can still remember the sound of the train coming at four a.m. and your dog’s shrill barking through the night. I can still remember the taste of forbidden ice cream and special raspberries and grape nuts cereal. The rain filled up the giant puddles in your front yard. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I like memory foam pillows because that was what your sister used. I like fresh bell peppers because that was what your mother gave us to eat. I like patchouli because to me, it smells like your house.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I miss washing dishes with you and your sister. I miss you coming inside from mowing the lawn, and I also, reluctantly, miss the secret thrill of watching you mow the lawn from her window. I miss the sound of your mother practicing piano before Sundays, and the obnoxious Christmas tree lights that made your whole living room look like a weird disco. I miss your dog and his dog-smell, and I miss how your oldest sister used to be the coolest person I knew. I miss the first copy of National Velvet that she gave me. The cover fell off. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I miss waking up one morning and finding it was just you and I and your father upstairs in his room (so basically not even there), and not knowing what I should do so just standing in the kitchen peering into your bedroom like a terrified cat. And then I went in and woke you up and sat in your chair in my blue and yellow striped pajama pants while you blinked sleep from your eyes, and we decided to make breakfast. I think we made pancakes. I don’t remember. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t miss her. I don’t miss the way she made drawings just for you and casually gave them to you. I don't miss that you taped them to your door. I don’t miss the fact she found it very easy to walk into your room and never seemed like a terrified cat whatsoever. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t miss the dances. The yellow dresses and black pants and uncomfortable haircuts and the acne on our faces. I don’t miss the way everyone else came storming into my little world and suddenly, there was a duplicity to all of us, and we were double-agents in a civil war. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t miss that summer. The one when I decided to stop writing stupid poems and listening to Kathleen Edwards and let you glimpse the universe of lemon verbena-scented memories begging me to cling to the past, cling to you, cling to the known and the comfortable. I cut off the parts of me that were clinging because I see all of myself as weakness. I see the fact that you are inextricably a part of me as a weakness. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But we did make breakfast together. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I still have your kitchen layout memorized.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ask me where the silverware is.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You’re not interested? Sure.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not interested? Lies. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am in fact completely interested in time travel. I would be very willing to jump into the next car nicknamed The TARDIS and let it drive me off of a bridge if it promised a return to photo albums and maple syrup festivals and the time I choked on an icecube in the church bathroom. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I am grown up now, and there are no more of any of these things. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I cannot promise to provide these things for anyone. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And you cannot promise anything at all. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So I will miss and not miss, compare and not compare, cry without tears on rainy evenings and June nights, and somehow come out of it all alive because I still have you. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My one intact memory. </span></p><br /></span>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-85019549938080141772022-12-20T13:29:00.003+09:002022-12-20T13:29:42.812+09:00Delusions of Inferno<p> Your lips, burning with</p><p>Whiskey fire</p><p>Like a brand on my neck</p><p>Sweet and searing</p><p>My little darlin'</p><p>You know not what</p><p>You do to me</p><p>So close your glittering</p><p>Eyes, drunk and sighing</p><p>You should sleep away</p><p>This memory </p><p>As I should slip, awake, </p><p>Into it's dissolution.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-33710087965547829762022-12-15T09:12:00.004+09:002022-12-15T09:15:54.423+09:00Dollhouse<p> I fall asleep again<br />Under cold winter breaths<br />In your ex girlfriend's bed<br />I can hear the interstate<br />A quiet silver shrill<br />Echoing like choral bells<br />I am a traitor<br />And I prohibit you<br />To see me as glitter<br />Or the blink of Christmas lights<br />If I become something to you<br />I would rather die<br />Than face your rejection<br />Shame coursing my veins<br />You are neither knife nor fist<br />Something deeper like<br />Surgical stitches<br />To give and to take away<br />Blood and life and<br />I want to remain <br />Dollhouse playmates<br />Until my brain rots and<br />Red fades to white and<br />Bones can recite<br />Our poetry. </p>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-225745788968764332022-12-15T09:11:00.004+09:002022-12-15T09:18:29.448+09:00[Prose] Fog Light<p> The rain. The fog. Londonish. </p><div dir="auto"><div dir="auto">It's only nice if you have someone to snuggle with, someone to hold, someone to love, and it's somewhat nice if you have a book and a big cup of homemade cocoa and marshmallows. And it is perfect if I have nothing but my bare skin on the pavement, the rain covering me in cold, the chill seeping into my bones. It will possess me until I am nothing but icy lashes and grayish skies, no spirit on the line, no blood to spill over your black trench coat. </div><div dir="auto">You'll be a yellow light in the mist, washing over my form, bathing me in artificial warmth. A paisley shirt. Summer scents of grass and dirt. The tar stuck to my socks that never really stopped smelling of moth balls. And listerine smells like that. So if I washed my mouth out, it would fill back up with you. </div></div>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-78751031110854998782022-11-22T03:40:00.005+09:002022-11-22T12:19:28.790+09:00Tourmaline<p> He becomes warmth and the smell of </p><div dir="auto">Fireplace, wafting up the staircase, </div><div dir="auto">I used to wrap up in his sweater </div><div dir="auto">When the winters got too cold</div><div dir="auto">Now I wrap him in the air</div><div dir="auto">The heat, the silence; whatever I can give</div><div dir="auto">To say thank you like a prayer</div><div dir="auto">And I stake a fence around him until</div><div dir="auto">I am a post, quiet and still</div><div dir="auto">Cold in the frozen night, a sentry outside</div><div dir="auto">His bedroom window, </div><div dir="auto">I want to be your peace and I'm sorry</div><div dir="auto">Because I am not a fencepost</div><div dir="auto">I am not a bookcase</div><div dir="auto">I am a woman</div><div dir="auto">Blood running dark with deep desires</div><div dir="auto">Cold in my fingertips and </div><div dir="auto">Visions of tourmaline eyes</div><div dir="auto">Let not the stars bear witness</div><div dir="auto">My criminality is my own sentence </div><div dir="auto">To serve, I am </div><div dir="auto">Want and need and nostalgia's </div><div dir="auto">Favorite haunt, a guileless fiend. </div><div dir="auto"><br style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: large;" /></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Got very inspired by the Macbeth line and went at it. </div>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-87075852221917890702022-11-08T12:10:00.001+09:002022-11-08T12:10:42.474+09:00Orange LightsChypre church pews<br />And celery seeds,<br />Little boy on the hill<br />Rolling in the grass,<br />You grab my hand<br />In the smoke of caps,<br />Slam on the hardwood<div>Till it's permanently scratched, <br />Orange light posts<br />Breathe in the night,<br />You'll be the death of me,<br />You'll cut like a knife. </div>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-17721016031010449882022-11-08T12:07:00.005+09:002022-11-08T12:07:20.722+09:00Sa'yo<br />Oh my love,<br />Why did you break me<br />Into thousands of pieces?<br />We are telenovela dreams<br />Kissing and crying and<br />I just want you to<br />Hold me and stop screaming,<br />Tell me all these hurts and fights<br />Were but a nightmare<br />And the real you is waiting<br />Under Manila streetlights<br />With dozens of roses and<br />A bottle of red wine, <br />The moon over your mother's<br />Home sears silver sadness <br />Into my sunburned skin <br />The waves rock and starlight<br />Caresses their crests <br />Like your hands brushed my<br />Bare and pale chest,<br />Now you shove me away<br />Your dark eyes burn with hate<br />I am locked from the place<br />I believed to be my escape,<br />When the darkness breaks<br />I will go, pinakamamahal ko,<br />I think I would have<br />Loved you until<br />It killed me. Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-69677816643588482692022-11-08T12:06:00.003+09:002023-01-25T12:38:04.716+09:00Fourth of JulyYou stood tall in all black<br />Mourning among the<br />Fireflies, the girl we<br />Both loved behind our eyes,<br />Plummet down the<br />Gravel road and into your<br />Open wounds, I wanted to<br />Kiss you silly until<br />Every tear stain was rinsed clean<br />Lying in the bathroom<br />Phone pressed so tight only<br />you would listen,<br />Would you blame me for<br />Being jealous of the heartbeat<br />I could hear yet<br />Never possess?<br />I've watched you since forever<br />Did I not invest? <br />Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6627767909932995373.post-82944405020546148322022-10-31T14:59:00.001+09:002022-10-31T14:59:27.084+09:00Bedsheets Pt. 2can i just curl up in<br />flannel sheets by the<br />cold blue window<br />and feel at home in <br />the silent serenity <br />of your love<div><br /></div><div>tonight i am sick and i <br />am overdosed on affection<br />but those foggy nights<br />of wood pipes and <br />pretty eyes, they haunt<br />my delusions<br /><br />you are normalcy and comfort<br />simplicity, clarity, the love<br />which never changes<br />you are a bookcase<br />and i am a little girl<br />standing in front of it. </div>Argentia Krystofelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03917548834585067487noreply@blogger.com0