grishawritesprose

[grishawritesprose]

If there ever was a god

he's abandoned us

like a grade nine science fair project

buried at the back of the closet

gathering dust.

That's alright.

We make our own light.

#grishawrites #prose #poetry #I need y'all to know that I woke up out of a dead sleep to write this and IMMEDIATELY fell back asleep #I thought I dreamt waking up #Straight from the subconscious I guess yolo

[grishawritesprose]

there's a secret inside of me

buried deep in my chest,

hidden so thoroughly that

even I didn't know

his name until recently,

and even then, only the

whisper of it.

there's too much noise,

and his voice is so soft that I can

hardly hear him over

the jealous wailing of my

upbringing.

it's a good name,

and every time he says it,

it lands on the pavement

in a chalk outline of my

body

--- (my body knew my name before I did | j.c.)

#grishawrites #prose #poetry #Mine #drabble

[grishawritesprose]

our bodies are never really

our own,

flesh open for the taking;

a token for any but the ones

implicit in its making--

but no, even then

daughter becomes mother's

wilted daydreams,

would-have-beens

and son becomes

a man, young, but his

father didn't raise no

quitter

and neither will he

because he knows what

happens to quitters.

eat out my still-beating

heart, taste each

ventricle, all of the fear burned

into every cell:

a tradition passed down

from centuries of bodies

with everyone's hands on them but

their own.

Your body is a temple, they say

but they are the

foreigners snapping selfies in front

of the pillars of your

heartache and opening every

locked door like they were

invited in.

after all, you're a woman,

and your curves are art in a

museum being constantly curated by every

lingering stare and sharp grin.

your body is a vanishing frontier

and they're never shy about

telling you all the ways they'd

vanquish it.

your skin does not belong to you.

And what is a prison, really, if you paint it up

nice and hang a few curtains?

- - (an ode to femininity | k.j.c.)

[grishawritesprose]

if I surround myself with my own creations, I can drown out the thoughts in my head. I can say "look here is my impact. I’m cocooned in my legacy" I can't quite detach from the idea that my value is synonymous with my output that if I can't produce something worthy I am not worthy but I can do this. I can do this.

#grishawrites #prose #having a hard time creating under quarantine

[grishawritesprose]

all of my stories are second lives, embodiments of traits I want to foster in myself

I make a man, I beat him down again again again and I teach him to love again, as I want to love and love and love despite how often it brings me pain

I make a man and he is vulnerable in a way that I could never be, that I want to be, and he suffers for it but he loves again and again and again he is soft despite his hardships and I do not want the world to take it from him

I make a man and he is kind even with a gun to his head he wouldn't pull the trigger and if faced with the choice I'd want to be able to say I'd taste the lead before I could ever give in to cruelty, and I am afraid and he is afraid

but he stands so I will learn to stand.

#grishawrites #prose #poetry

[grishawritesprose]

everything’s on fire - no, frost, clinging exhaled, livid, from the glittering yew, from the tire-swing half-buried in the yard, weary of its years of service. cold coalescing into one great breath a sigh, heat lingers at the breast of passers-by sweeping cold clavicles and frail figures in sidewalk-chalk tombs. sleep is sweet for the weary here, gracious and welcoming. (come,) it breathes (the pines are tall and needles thick, perfect for little blonde heads. gather, glittering, frosted in a white winter bed and dream, my love. rest, and do not stir; for the sun is distant but the stars are right here and they are waiting.)                                                      — (do not tarry here, love, for the cold is hungry and will claim many bodies. are you listening? she will sing so sweetly, but whatever you do, do not sleep. do not sleep. do not sleep. ) | k.j.c.

#prose #poetry #grishawrites

[grishawritesprose]

stop. breathe. (in. out. in. out.) you’ve been dreamy-eyed too often, dear wishing like longing glances could cure you (it’s always been like this) waiting for your white picket fence to sweep away all the mess and   bury it under matching bookends

it isn’t your fault you long for it – (please, god) for a home. for arms to crawl into. for polished cutlery and plants in the windows and for well-worn furniture with rips lovingly stitched shut. (you’re almost there, you’re almost there) it’s stability. you know? you didn’t have a lot of it growing up but then again, who did? you can’t even imagine a life like that.

still, you’ve been strong (sometimes it feels like your ribs are breaking) while the other kids were at church you were punching holes in the wall with ten-year-old knuckles, (sometimes you can’t get your hands to stop shaking) holes in the knees of your new jeans and wishing you could bury all of your mistakes in mud-pies. (like all your stories, lies) instead you bury them in your chest and hope they don’t grow. (you were learning how to hide) you were learning how to hide.

you do not have to cycle through twenty different versions of yourself until you find one he likes. (he wasn’t good enough for you) you do not have to spend twenty years nursing a broken breast-bone and wiping lipstick off the rims of your coffee cups. (it was never meant to be) it doesn’t always have to end badly. you can be happy. you can be happy.

you don’t need matching cups, or plants in the windows (but you want them. you want them.) you don’t have to say the words for her to know you love her (but you want to, god, you want to.) you can know peace without breaking off all of your edges, and folding your seams just right– (you will not be made of stardust) you can exist with bruised shins elbows, knees and toes (and ripped seams and crooked stitches) for you’ve got a strong heart (with an unsteady beat)

you can make it. you’ll make it. we’ll make it.                           —– (things i wish i had told myself sooner) | k.j.c.

#prose #poetry #grishawrites

[grishawritesprose]

(i was made to sleep, to eat) little fingers brushing crumbs from teeth and ivory ankles, elbows knees and toes. they told you not to worry, the gods were on your side - but the gods have long since left this place.

(to prey, to creep while mortals sleep;)

smiles like quicksilver and goosebumps creeping along the ridges of your rib-cage. you swear your roommate talks in her sleep, but she’s been on vacation for weeks and you still feel hot breath on the back of your neck while you’re showering. too many late nights, you think.

(when stars point north and the nights are long, pray, do not listen to the killing songs.)

you’ve been finding feathers in all of your coat pockets. you throw them all in the trash until the bins are overflowing. there’s another dead bird in the chimney and you aren’t sure how it got there. its eyes are angry.

(the lakes are black, and the birds are gone; pray, do not listen to the killing songs.)

you watch the stars at night hoping for a sign- something. anything. the old man at the thrift store says you’ve got god in you. you want to tell him how wrong he is, but the words won’t leave your throat.

(the pines are thick, and the hunt is on; pray, do not listen to the killing songs.)

thursday night you wake up in the trees behind your house. there’s dirt under your fingernails and blood in your teeth. you’ve asked so many times for salvation and maybe this is it. maybe this is all you get. 

somehow it feels right. (I was made to sleep, to eat to prey, to creep while mortals sleep;when stars point north and the nights are long, pray, do not listen to the killing songs.the lakes are black, and the birds are gone; pray, do not listen to the killing songs.the pines are thick, and the hunt is on; pray, do not listen to the killing songs.)                                                                           —(love, you used to sing so sweetly. what happened?) k.c.

#poetry #prose #grishawrites

[grishawritesprose]

i read it in a horoscope once, "scorpio: doomed to intense, tragic romances" it was funny at the time, like some romeo and juliet shit but at 3am heart pounding and ribs sore and throat tight i can say for certain that we're the perfect match i’m scared, like i haven’t been in years that i'll fall for you again but no, that's bullshit, i’ve already fallen, i never stopped. we both know it, we both hover at the edges of it, but im fucking scared i cant do it again. i can't handle the emotional turmoil the frustration, the hurt, the walking on eggshells. you broke me into a million pieces and i used them against you and now we've both got scars and haunted looks and rings to match. i cant do it again but i cant fucking help the way i look at you like you put the stars in the sky because you put the stars in my sky, and i still crave the way you grin, crooked teeth and all, and i still want to kiss you breathless every time, even though it'll end badly because we both know this shit always ends badly because we're both too bright, too loud, too familiar with each other. i can't make you feel better when you're angry. i can't give you what you want and you cant keep glossing over it like it isn't an issue because every time you snap my back goes up and i want to hide from you and the guilt and the bitter taste in my mouth. you terrify me and the way my heart lurches when i see you terrifies me and i'll inevitably be drawn to you like a moth to the flame, but we're flight-not-fight girls until we're fight-and-fight-and-fight girls and what happens then?                                                        --- (we can’t keep doing this//not this time) | k.j.c.

#prose #poetry #grishawrites

[grishawritesprose]

i’ve been trying to remember lately when it happened; was it when i stopped wanting to go out at 4am sit on a beach and build sand castles out of the bones of fish? we were always closest then just you and me against the world. or was it when i decided she wasn’t so bad anymore? after all there’s only so long you can go on hating someody for things you never understood. i wonder if you hated her as much as you always pretended to or if you were just angry at yourself; for what, i don’t know. maybe you still hate her. i hope not. she’s human too. i miss saturdays. i miss crawlspaces and crawling over rat bones and damp dirt. i miss making coffee in the morning. no; i miss being on the same page. i miss when we connected. i miss conversations with you. i miss when you smiled more but i hope you know that i’ll always be here for you even when you can’t. i miss not knowing what it was like to argue with you but i hope you know that i’ve always forgiven you even though you never forgive yourself. i miss thinking we would always be a team but i hope you can trust me when i say that it’s okay if we aren’t. i stopped being angry at the world let go of my hate and my fear and my grudges and started living again but i don’t think you ever did. i think you could if you wanted to.

#prose #poetry #grishawrites #gotta blow the dust off this one

[grishawritesprose]

its time to put on your war paint smear it over the bridge of your nose and over the dread under your eyelids breathe it in like another day of victory he hasn’t won yet pour him into your coffee like the promises he made you and stir you can live with the mosaic of bruises on your skin and the way your lips pull back in self defense; or maybe a smile you can live with the smell of cheap cologne and heartache one day someone will notice the way you stopped pulling your hair back and the way you talk - like you left your life in that old motel room like a tip on the dresser even heroes bleed sometimes

#poetry #prose #grishawrites

[grishawritesprose]

art is the eye of the storm you cant be an artist until you’ve felt the rush of the wind in your ears and felt the passages in your heart quiver and crumble like coal you cant be an artist until you’ve heard the blood in your veins and the eerie mourning of whales under the waves and the little boats fluttering like dragonflies on the water art is bleeding out on the paper and signing your name with salt water art is dipping your fingers in the paint and breathing in the scent of canvas and living in the space between art is drowning

#prose #poetry #grishawrites

[grishawritesprose]

how many stars are there in the sky? enough to conquer the crazy rhythm of your heart? no, never enough the stars will never conquer you but you will never conquer them. how many lights are there in the city? not enough to make you feel a damn thing. they smear themselves sluttishly across the skyline put on their cheap artificial smiles and pretend to be stars but the night sky falls flat in comparison to a night in your arms you can walk the walk and talk the talk but you cant take a thing and break it and then expect it to hold a single iota of majesty; a category of beauty reserved for wild things and beating hearts, but they aren’t wild anymore are they? the world is a thing of wonder but the mind is a fickle thing, compartmentalizing every freckle on your skin every curve of muscle every secret whisper trapped between our lips until nothing is left to discover i’d rather let the stars be stars and the lights can be lights and to hell with the mind and its tendency to emulate

for i am not a god to take fire and twist him until he serves my purpose; he had his own purpose and his own whims and his own freckles to count and lips to steal in the dead of night just as i do i see him and my heart pities the Moses who mistook him for god i see him and my heart pities the ones who mistook us for angels

#prose #poetry #grishawrites

[grishawritesprose]

Even as a kid, I knew what it meant;

to lose someone, I mean.

Watching my parents interact like

unwilling acquaintances;

tense words and slander

flying around

like that act you see

at the circus-

what is it?

Oh, trapeze.

Only instead of

the measured, practiced swing,

they’re flying

all over the place

screaming something about

holidays and court dates.

Visiting grandpa and

watching his skin

slowly fade to grey,

the telltale sign that

he’d probably be

dead soon.

It took him about a year to

forget my name,

but I didn’t mind.

He still liked looking at

picture books with me,

even if he never really understood

why we were doing it.

To be honest, I’m not sure that I did either.

#prose #poetry #grishawrites #another old one

[grishawritesprose]

Where is your heart today?

Mine is by the ocean,

flying on the backs of seagulls;

And in the sky,

kissing the clouds with my fingertips.

Do you think of me often?

I think of you,

Earth-bound, honor-bound

trapped like limpets in a tempest,

tested by wind and water,

but I know you’ll be alright.

You always are.

.

I would take you with me if I could,

show you what it’s like to fall

with no chute to catch you.

Terrifying and thrilling,

I finally feel alive,

finally feel like I’ve got a purpose;

Direction without hurry,

a need to travel and no schedule to obey.

.

I want to climb the Rockies with you one day;

perch like a bird on the top of a mountain

and just breathe.

You can’t buy this kind of awareness.

.

Where is your heart today, my love?

Mine is on the backs of seagulls and

soaring through the sky;

and with you in a dark tent

in front of a fire,

carving dragons out of firewood

and laughing over a game of cards.

Mine is bathing in the sun

along a river bed,

face open and love bare to the world.

Mine is in the past,

and in the future;

riding bikes and chasing hawks,

dancing through fields

and digging up arrows,

prancing and leaping,

singing and crying,

laughing and murmuring

and arching and breathing and

gasping and just feeling.

.

Where is your heart today?

I hope it’s with mine,

in that special place we share,

because mine is.

#prose #poetry #grishawrites #this one's an old one

[grishawritesprose]

it’s only a dream, you tell yourself

and for the third time that week you’re stitching up the holes she left in your skin with words like bullets and hands like silk

it doesnt mean anything, you breathe into your pillow

carefully, like if you say it too loud she might press back into your chest at 3am murmuring something about how one day you’ll have a house with a bathroom on the second floor

go back to sleep,

but you’re clutching at the sheets like you’re drowning because sleep is the only time you see her these days, and every time you wake up it’s like you’re losing her again

you handled the pain, you swallowed the guilt like knives in your belly and you were fine but the rings broke you, left you with a hole in your chest a mile wide and you can’t stitch it shut because you’re all out of thread

and three years later when you see her it’s like the sun started shining again, like you’re falling in love all over again but the ring, like a peace offering held out in the hand that touched your lips like you were better than bone and flesh, better than the scars on your shins and the dirt under your fingernails

you’re going to buy a house with the bathroom on the main floor and scrub yourself raw in the shower that’s too big for one person to fill

and you’ll whisper into your sheets and remind yourself that the mouth you crave is the same mouth that took you apart and left you in pieces once and there’s already too many holes to count and you couldn’t possibly cradle her to your chest again because if you do you might fall apart for good

you couldn’t possibly because you’re still out of thread and really you’re starting to think that it’s for the better

scream into your pillows like a plea, like an excuse, like forgiveness: i can’t lose her again

and still, numb - no, bursting at the fucking seams with s o m e t h i n g because you both know, you know it in the way she says “we” that the two of you will never be.

#prose #poetry #grishawrites

[grishawritesprose]

“Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns? I have been changed to a hound with one red ear; I have been in the Path of Stones and the Wood of Thorns, for somebody hit hatred and hope and desire and fear under my feet that they follow you night and day.

A man with a hazel wand came without a sound. He changed me suddenly; I was looking another way, and now my calling is but the calling of a hound and Time and Birth and Change are hurrying by.

I would that the boar without bristles had come from the West and had rooted the sun and moon and stars out of the sky and lay in the darkness, grunting and turning to his rest.”

Do you not see me coming, white deer with no dreams? I have been West and East and West again, called by the scent of the wind; ever North, ever North, into a land of needles thick that bed the ground in fragrant hope and light the night sky with all the colors of loss.

The flame of desire licked a path along my spine, bidding me to sound by the distant thundering of mighty roots; to make my home in the dip of the white moon’s shadow and to find my salvation in the stars as they died.

I would that the rest of the world spun as I did, turning over in damp soil and the breath of the earth; ever pure, ever pure. Alas, my freedom is but the freedom of a hound, no more.

- a response to a poem by W.B. Yeats.

#prose #poetry #grishawrites #yeats