Poetry by Alexandria Heath

Two

what good is a day
when I see absence
of everything and nothing
of covered eyes and ears when I feel skin
cold and hard
warm and soft
when i feel the black rub
my legs
and light shatter on my chest
an ocean and dirt
what good is a day
when I stay still
and silent
when I stay silky
and poisonous
hitting and celebrating
what good is a day
when I am back and forward
when I have no fingerprints
and my hands over my mouth




Disillusion

And how can I ever be sure that
a hand is what I want
I flip questions over and over
in my mind until nothing
but dirt remains but one question
sticks over and over
in my head like tiny pieces of
rice on my skin-how can I be sure?
That this is what I want.
I want the sun and the moon and the stars
and all I get is sweating skin in return.
It seems so up in the air to stick to one thing
when I consider myself to be a million.
A million of nothing.
A million of everything
and how can a million of something stick to one thing?
I think I've ruined certain parts of me
like my mind, my hands, and my hips.
They don't belong to me anymore.
I've given them away to everyone
like little gift boxes I'd give to my
friends on Christmas when I was twelve.
Twelve reminds of white and
clear transparent colors.
It reminds me of definition.
I remember when I used to divide
my body into sections for myself.
But now I cut myself into little pieces
to give away to anyone who mutters my name
who whispers back to what I say.
I've held too many people.
I've touched too many fingertips.

​

​A Memory

I wish I had known that my tears would eventually pool in the same place
no matter where I am and never fail to baptize my body of your words and hands
I wish I had known that purity isn't subjective
and that because you placed your fingertips on my thighs
I’d eventually grow a love for water
and its ability to make me forget who I am
and to cleanse me of the things I've allowed to shatter me
like the windows of an abandoned house
I wish I had known that touches leave no stains that can't be expunged
and if they do it's just like a tattoo that fades with every moment that I move
and every arm that I embrace that doesn't ask me for something
that I can choose to rip the skin from the parts of me that you've caressed
even if those parts of me are pieces of my brain
That pain comes and goes like the clouds above my head
and that you can look out for storms
but you should really watch out for the ones that offer you gentle rain
If I could I'd tell me that you’ll learn to love from lack and hunger and thirst
And because of this you'll learn to appreciate every morsel
and drop of hydrogen and oxygen that you receive
That you'll learn to sustain yourself
and forage for every piece of sustenance that's dropped on the ground
How to smell it from a drunken stare across the room
To open your mouth for a body when someone's ripped out your throat
And even though I never imposed my own silence
that I can still make people feel me like the holiness I never seemed to have
but with every opportunity you had you'd rub it against my chest
to remind me that I allowed my hips to be a vacant hotel
for anyone who knocked at 3 in the morning
but only bc I needed the image of myself that you stole
But I wish I had known that I can also find that image
if I stare in the mirror long enough
that by just being right where I am I'm embracing the flames of hell
that only exist in the form of memories
And that the real devils aren’t even found in the pages of the Bible
but you can find them on the trails their feet have hammered out on your mind
In the faces you see in your dreams
And on the palms of every hand you place in yours after theirs leaves

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Bio: Alexandria is a writer and student from the South. She began writing as a way to come to terms with mental illness and trauma. She loves museums, cats, and psychology.

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