1. beginnings are quiet things, hastily wrapped & orphaned at your doorstep in the dreamy light of midnight. they come without letter or promise
2. (dear mountain wind, teach me to look into mirrors, into the cracks in the walls, into little lonely puddles of gasoline rainbows, & not & not & not be terrified by what i find lurking there for me)
3. there is a universe of lost things. it is the dark forest of your childhood, where birdsong bleeds like mourning & sad moss creeps up on your skin like a desperate shadow. do not fear your returning there
4. when you yearn to scream but cannot, realize your mouth is a cave, swallowing dark water. remember all the lessons you learnt in your past life as a mermaid with coral-red hair & seashell skin (who dreamed the sun a pearl & a prince with legs) & swim & swim & swim against the tide & that manic moon woman & this spell you’ve woven into yourself-
5. in the old house at the end of the lane, there’s a dusty room where a painting of a princess still hangs. set fire to it, yes & kiss your soot-stained fingers. if they still feel like paint or the past, lick them clean
6. a planet thrown off orbit is still a planet. ask any solar system & you’ll know. imaginary friends (even the dead ones) are still friends. ask any ghost & you’ll know
7. every ending comes with a door. you (i) may choose not to enter;
a poem for you, for new year
previously published in Anti-Heroin Chic.
happy new year, folks!