TOP SECRET; to my Macbethian love
yonder light breaks through
closed door policy to your aching betrayal
you cast me up upon scathing religion
an idol to the glory of your own recognition
underfoot, seize my consumption
and supposed conformity.
a fever scrambling to take hold, a scourge that passes over your
already martyred body, marked for preemptive death.
you in the deadest of nights
spun my control
far away and so in return
vision red i bound
myself to the legion of your indecision.
in light of your neglect chosen
preference became all i had to combat
are you aware? at the way
your sickness spreads, infiltrates me,
my darkest night hovering over you.
dark heart of exclamation
in the way you relive my own
reviled actions in the raise of your palm
to caress the spot i struck against your cheek …
what am i supposed to do about
your aching body upon mine
aching soul leaving – once again i won’t
it seems we are
covered in love it seems
hesitant with love
crafted of such flesh that we
sway with the moon, seek
from atop highest being true
belief. sentience. i meditate
upon an oral fixation and sob
my holy words into
your bust, sanctified
padre de mis oraciones, amor de los santos,
muerte de mi corazón.
i forgive you, my highest honor
in lieu of sanctified admiration that
i can’t ordain.
thrash and shake through
envious eyes, another notch upon the wall
says you’ve found a kind
not unlike your worst moment
ilk of age. shown your latest
am i supposed to be impressed?
is it impressive
that i am, an admission received
by the inside
of myself where
all good opinions go to rest?
tired of your loaded questions, tired of
the forced assumption, the late
nights i never tire of enough to admit burning a hole in
the cosmic pocket of your desire, wondering
how much of a candle you can burn when it comes down to
ascetic derivatives of pleasure and self-loathing,
a double sided coin quite unfamiliar to you,
shocking, that you wouldn’t see
am i supposed to
die here and just take it
ripping my hair out of my scalp for
you you always wanted more than you
had so i learned to adapt
and take it.
toast to cliches and a dark past
you lock eyes across a room and
lightning strikes, where have i seen you before, what will we do to each other
unspool your brain
segments of film scratched under a microscope
of finding common ground
amongst the assemblage, wreckages
of our self-desecrated bodies alaid
with treasure, deceit. hoarding our own
illness, mechanisms to shape oneself into an appropriate vessel
my soft skin meets yours and under my calluses
i feel your skin prickle, peach fuzz rising to greet me
nervous habits expelling themselves
a dam breaks. a crack in the structure
that never claimed to be secure
peach fuzz of your hands
that touch my back so softly i cannot feel
just you, small against me,
scared like i am
an encouragement to be brave
it hurts to look at you
in the same sense
that it burns the stone column of my throat
to lose my breath in your presence.
it scares me
to feel, —after growing cold, becoming a pillar of salt
so that no one may touch me
without losing their grip
i want someone to sweep me up
so love can destroy me.
// what is unhealthier
idealization: an exaltation
or obsession: domination
both fantasies, one real and one fake
and both obscene, potential to fail
just as there’s potential to thrive.
in purgatory, paradiso
seems sweet enough, like icarus
flight capacity wavering.
avoiding the screams of the inferno, a way
to avoid the memories of past wounds.
(skin doesn’t forget
so soon. my veins bleed
with rage i won’t speak of)
maybe this time
wings won’t rid themselves
of my sallow skin
fine tendrils of muscles
that keep my neck together
still ache from
the way i craned over your back
as my hands reached
sleeping beside you
is a curse when we cannot clasp hands
is when we are leveled out, sprung
from our choices and facing each other.
my hand finds yours
and you allow me brief respite.
is unheard of. disallowed.
a black mark on my palm.
perhaps your lips
burn with the curse of my name,
you’re the sort
to rue the day
of your first bee sting.
you don’t look at me, and i can’t blame you.
maybe i am the next in the cycle, another
caught in a whirlpool.
i can only hope you dream
of such ultraviolence.
Milena Bee is a gender-fluid chicana poet, artist, and mythologist whose work can be found in publications such as One Report, Truly U Review, and Sad Girl Review. They are the co-founder of All Guts No Glory, a zine-style newsletter. They live in Los Angeles alongside their cat Tangerine, and a number of houseplants. Find them on Instagram @beenymph.