ideologies of a cathartic lover by Naomi Ling (14, USA)*

I.        strike a match against swollen flesh, inhale 
there is something melodic about the way she sips lethargies like wine : sanctimony & sorrow & serendipity never did go hand in hand but tonight you spread them on your body with burning fingers. there is something holy about her flushed fervor, her knotted forehead. you tell yourself you've won the lottery, claimed tickets at the gate of hell, and is this is this a fever dream? amongst dissonance, ebony sheets taste of the forbidden, rasp at your bare collarbones, paw at curled toes at ungodly hours. there is a certain something that keeps you alive at night, perspiring & praying. it is her. it is her.

---

II.        creations of god, oh take me home
you are but blank canvas, and she : artist : smears blushing hues on this flesh painting with careless strokes. you like it, don't you? there is something about the way she cups fragility & femininity in her palms, the way her body waxes and wanes like a weeping candle. you find her reflection in the backs of your eyelids & in the scars of your knees. your dreams dissolve into static: there is enough that is dreamlike in your days with her. you grip sanity between your legs during the day, strike a match bare against dark eves of the sky: is it because fire is prettier & purer at night? fingertips swollen with lust : there is a certain thrill in dragging palms like cigarettes across flesh. (more & more & more.)
 
III.        drink this melancholy until intoxication, exhale 
is this repentance, the way you cradle the throes of humanity in your arms? apartment still smells of lavender & lethargy long forgotten : unsung melodies hang, suspended arc in static air. eardrums still thrum with swollen promises, ankle joints still bloom with ripe epiphany and yet you have long ripped tendons out of your throat to sing this tune. oh, this city weeps for unclaimed angels, but does it forgive its sinners so easily? cicadas add a skin to self-preservation, ceiling fan chews on your proud plasticity. you scream in liberation & bleeding vocal cords. you exhale in tacet. 
 
IV.         swallow this epiphany, rinse, repeat 
years ago, you might've wondered if this song was existential : now, cross the street with burning lungs and smell your mother's roses. they are the only substances that are sweet.