Saint Juliet with Starry Eyes 1. Maybe my poems come out of the veins of my neck and one day it will explode. Sometimes I share too much. Sometimes I don't share enough, but doesn't that all depend upon what one considers to be the deep end
or the blood bath?
Whether or not they want to
dive all the way into me
and whether or not I'll let them? 2.
From a distance, saints
look like vaginas
on the back of trucks.
If I had a vagina the size of that saint,
then nothing would fit inside,
unless they were willing
to adhere to one lunch box
for the rest of their lives in order to use it as an old fashioned child safe container.
3. But nothing fits inside me anyway or at least nothing stays and I
would rather birth my own poems
instead of trying to train other human beings to stay close to me and my own
strained expectations. I want you
and me to feel unlimited, to feel free to be ourselves for as long as we can
even if that gets me nowhere.
The truth of the matter is that nobody wants to dive all the way inside me and I wouldn't let them anyway. Because everywhere is nowhere and eventually everyone disappears
or dies or explodes into the sky.
Juliet Cook is a grotesque glitter witch medusa hybrid brimming with black, grey, silver, purple, and dark red explosions. Her poetry has appeared in a peculiar multitude of literary publications. You can find out more at www.JulietCook.weebly.com.