Tag: gothic poetry

He Who Cursed Me

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Photo by Onur Can Elma

What do I suffer over now that the curse has lifted?
Who do I call when I’m no longer broken and bitter?
I walked two years with my eyes down, barely open,
Waiting to break a leg, begging to waste a moment.

My pleas did not make it to heaven, but neither did my gods,
And I erased myself from every good battle I fought.
The times have shifted into moments I hold so close.
I can barely unclench my fist from the stem of the rose.

And to you, staring my black rags up and down,
Just know that I broke the curse when my spark drowned,
And I built a new one from charcoal and sandpaper,
While Time prayed for me, hoping I would meet my maker.

With no one to call and no soul left to regret,
I am blurring the face of everyone I have met.
Yet the colors slide back into place, the sharpness persists;
The birds chirp, the sun rises, the mist lifts.

Is this only for a day, or can I trust the green light?
If Warmth starves me again, I will not pick a new fight.
The curse will find me again, but so will the cure.
There is no pleasure in keeping your worst intentions pure.

He who cursed me does not get a seat at the dinner table,
As I emerge from the hearse, twelve gravely months later.
Pain feels different, more like a memory than my fate,
And the smiling faces on my wall tell me
I didn’t need to drown to get saved.

-Jackie

The Archivist

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The diary of your latest test object.

Close-up photo of black and white journal
Photo by Min An

What a curse, what a privilege,

Looking through the director’s cuts in my memory,

Playing videos on my phone in an infinite loop

Until I’m sure of your covert treachery.

Context.

Clues.

Abuse.

Proof.

I dig through the pages until my fingers bleed.

Your gags come back to me in waves until I choke,

Spiraling deeper, sinking toward the ocean floor.

They said it was a joke.

The panic attacks,

Sleepless nights,

Nosebleeds,

Fights,

Rashes,

Emotional downfalls,

Mascara dripping off my lashes.

…a JOKE?

My eyes were soulless, my skin bruised and ashen.

My friends told me we could outrun the death wish,

But we don’t talk about the winter of 2024 anymore,

At least not since demise herself told me to perish.

Humor.

Revenge.

Picking sides.

Dead ends.

I’m not sure how I found my way to the lighthouse.

The fog lifted one day, yet I waited for the waves to return.

Waited for your words to serve as the anchor.

Even silence scared me, quiet made my stomach churn.

Nothing.

Peace.

Sunrise.

Sunset.

Routines kept me alive, ink kept me sane.

The grapevine was quiet until a message came through.

A broken sea creature dropped on my doormat,

And I almost stepped on it before realizing it was you.

Obsessed.

Paralyzed.

Greedy.

Antagonized.

I lock the door to keep you out,

Hoping you don’t turn into a sea monster,

But nothing’s promised.

I’ve escaped dozens of nooses,

Even mine,

But yours was the only one that called me alarmist.

Until the day that you rot,

Until my stomach’s in knots,

We will watch each other in perfect symmetry,

Crowds wondering who deserves the penalty.

Keep wondering.

Guess.

I kept the records.

Kept the mess.

Context.

Clues.

Abuse.

Proof.

-Jackie

Vulture’s Song

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A vulture perching on a tree branch
Photo by Denitsa Kireva

The ice dagger melted hours ago,

The ghost hands holding it slipped off my waist.

Still, blood trickles down my side when I breathe in.

Knees buckle, hips hurt, head spins in most directions.

The lines and shapes blur into gnarly visions.

No.

Not even death is safe for me here.

Is it a murder if a woman dies without someone to hear?

No, not like this.

I just have to drag these bones a little further down the road

Where other people might notice what he’d done to me.

The small pieces of glass in my lungs burn,

And when I cough, I imagine it’s wine on my sleeve.

Pulp, bubbles, and fizz.

Maybe it is.

He got me drunk on some unholy spirit,

Forced twisted romance plots in my mind where he was the god,

And I was a love interest looking for a savior.

My feet got burned at the stake while on my best behavior.

There’s an arrow where my heart should be.

I must’ve forgotten to pull it out,

And, I’m not going to lie, the poison really helps to keep going,

Rowing my soul down a river that might never end.

Miles pass by, days become weeks,

I start wondering—how much blood could there be?

Seems like even my body survives just to spite him.

He cried crocodile tears when I left,

Then put a boot on my neck and wished me good luck.

I can feel his thoughts taunting me like a hyena,

Following me in an old truck,

Haunting my skull like it’s an abandoned arena.

Little did he know I’ve outrun worse.

“A vulture can heal her wing, a vulture can fly again.”

It hurts.

Still hurts.

Even when I step on the road.

When a car picks me up.

When the nurse tells me to take a breath.

“A vulture can wait him out.”

But it stings.

Bones mend slowly, you know.

Sorrow rises, then it falls like snow.

Sun rises, then it sinks like a ship.

And my wing moves.

My wings work.

Talons are sharper than ever.

He taught me how to stay quiet and still.

Blood leaves his cheeks when he spots me on his windowsill.

-Jackie

A Misprinted Poem (The Author Got The Story Wrong)

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When did you know you’ve lost my pen entirely?

Did the snake hiss gently,

Swallow the tail in its entirety,

Or glance with a thousand mile stare like it’s tired of me?

The tiniest acts of defiance were punished.

Yet, my trust knew no bounds.

I told you how the stories of my other villains got published.

So I have to wonder—is that how you got the idea?

You decorated my walls in white ink,

Pushed aside my hope and will and slipped right in,

And when I told the others, they said—it’s all blank.

I was looking for hints as my soul sank,

But I couldn’t find them.

My tongue froze over like the Inferno, one in a billion chance,

As the diary pages lost saturation.

Death was reaching out its coldest hands…

You set the books in my mind on fire,

The library was gone in a heartbeat.

The firefighters were calling me a liar,

A child looking for a hint of some heat.

Stop!

A pause, a breath, and I’m out of the door.

Not sure who dragged me, but there are only my footprints on the floor.

Each day I dive into the blues,

Each day I become paler and fainter, and more unmoored.

Your grasp on my neck is so tight it almost feels real.

Then, a day comes where I don’t hear you.

I look forward to a meal.

Healing, growing, almost healed.

I stay close, yet never too near.

The axe drops on your neck, at least that’s what they say.

Maybe my lips twisted into a smile, don’t quote me though.

I get another good day.

Then another.

If I stay really silent on starry nights, I can hear you pray,

But you know I won’t answer until you do.

When did you lose me entirely?

Did you think I had it in me to go quietly?

-Jackie