Yellow Comfort
These days, I'm all out of sticky sweet burnout.
She finds me alone somewhere, arid and unaware.
There is only so much my brain can shut out --
bones bent askew across a broken chair.
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Some days, I'm lain out across summer air,
tongue tasting midnight the dusty drought.
She finds me alone somewhere, arid and unaware.
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Sometimes, she splits her mind outside the window. I hear
yellowed hyacinth might soon sprout
bones bent askew across a broken chair.
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She compares my mind to honeydew aftercare,
like I dipped myself in and drew warmth back out —
She finds me alone somewhere, arid and unaware.
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Other days, dust hangs all over like a jagged prayer,
a metaphor for my body wilting, my self-doubt, undevout
bones bent askew across a broken chair.
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These days, its all I can do to not sit and stare.
I'm all out of sticky sweet burnout.
She finds me alone somewhere, arid and unaware.
Bones bent askew across a broken chair.
About the Creator
Corvus
Corvus is a kaleidoscope of Gothic word-craft, stuck somewhere within the hurricanes of prose and poetry and wrung out on each page. Find more fragments of the love letter on their website, corvuslove.


Comments (3)
Love this villanelle. I was three stanzas in before I realized it was a villanelle (that’s high praise from me).
Naice
You portrayed, in a gothic way, the figure of a being that lives yet does not live, absorbing the life around it because it wants to be resurrected again. :)