Status Updates From From a Land Where Other Peo...

Am I to be cursed forever with becoming
somebody else on the way to myself?

We are elementary forces colliding in free fall

Do not let your head deny
your hands
any memory of what passes through them
nor your eyes
nor your heart
everything can be used
except what is wasteful

Literally just had to mark up three poems in a row because they were so fucking incredible

The ending to "moving out" is one of the best things i ever had the privilege of reading

Well, Lorde is not holding back so far. This starts of with some of her most honest and direct poems on injustice and race

Love, Maybe
Always
In the middle
of our bloodiest battles
you lay down your arms
like flowering mines
to conqueror me home.

I have paid dearly in time for love I hoarded
unseen
summer goes into my words
and comes out reason.

Am I to be cursed forever with becoming
somebody else on the way to myself?
Walking backward I fall
into summers behind me

to her own particular magic
confirmed
believing
she was always alone
believing
the other was always
lying
in wait.

stories
full of tears flushing at midnight

Promise corrupts
what it does not invent.

instead of chocolate we rolled snow
over our tongues
until it melted like sugar
burning the cracks in our lips
and we shook our numbed fingers
all the way home
remembering
summer was coming

Rain falls like tar on my skin

from the core of indifferent days
I have forgotten
the touch of sun
cutting through uncommitted mornings
The night is full of messages
I cannot read
I am too busy forgetting
air like fur on my tongue
and these tears
which do not come from sadness
but from grit in a sometimes wind

The day feels put together hastily
like a gift for grateful beggars
being better than no time at all
but the bells are ringing
in cities I have never visited
and my name is printed over doorways
I have never seen

learning
the doors that do not open easily
and which clocks will not work
he toys with anger like a young cat
testing its edges
slashing through the discarded box

A little boy wears my mistakes
like a favorite pair of shorts

A little boy wears my mistakes
like a favorite pair of shorts

I Am
a dark temple where your true spirit rises
beautiful
and tough as chestnut
stanchion against your nightmare of weakness
and if my eyes conceal
a squadron of conflicting rebellions
I learned from you
to define myself
through your denials.

with your own split flesh
and long suffering eyes
buried in myths of little worth

Sometimes I see myself flash through your eyes
in a moment
caught between history and obedience
that moment grows each day
before you comply
as, when did washing dishes
change from privilege to chore?

when you question me on love
shall I recommend a dictionary
or myself?