Dies Faustus

i.

you spoke of sparrows and their horror
in the corner store’s nightlight
brash neon in your eyes
flitting with delight
my wings in flux on sickening skies
yet i still chose to crawl
and sleep with disease and lies
despite my pleading
my shell simply seethed
while your tears writhed
i swore i came to believe
as i teethed the tourniquet
& my veins unsheathed
i coughed the poison potion
to join the land of the bereaved

ii.

and that’s the crux of it all
this flesh i can’t control
repetition compulsion for a sin easily sold
the blooms stay fresh here as seasons pass
where i committed treason
by praying euphoria would last
is this divine punishment?
i can’t answer that
but i should’ve known my savior
wouldn’t come bearing a gat
what makes us blame ourselves?
what makes you so right?
to define the laws of nature
and be so blind to true sight?

iii.

i saw the world as stained glass beneath
the saints of my youth, now aged and sweet
blinded by beauty, blinded by fate,
that gleaming fire within expresses no constraint
“for the lord loves all that he creates”
buying disciples by the pound, my soul aches
downtown bound, a felon crossing states
for i myself am hell, and i salivate
as my pupils spin round and my vision shakes

iv.

the blade is forgiving if you’ve paid your dues
and blood is always boiling on 1st and Donahue
i’m window-watching from the attic
do you see the half-moon?
tomorrow always comes
and it comes far too soon
i feel it first in epileptic movements
that strike my phantom limbs
it shakes off the haunting
of sobriety’s hymns
it’s daunting to see the sea
when you can’t swim
or maybe you never learned how,
and your power comes from within

v.

we rise from dirty streets like seraphim
spirits exit the pavement as the sun goes dim
pure hands gloved in cellophane and phlegm
clutch the dirt and gasp for air as we
promise not to kill ourselves again
no longer did you feel the birdsong
burrow into your marrow’s core
as we trudged in half-sleep
onto an impossible shore

vi.

a godwink of holocene and hollow thinking
omniscience speaking poetry into your eyes, blue-blinking
magnificence from lashes which cut like a scythe
exit terminal 3 and let bygones go by
no more nausea or sickness unto death
only the hand of god and baby’s breath
it’s not warm here nor is it cold
and sometimes i wonder where i’d be
had i not chosen to be bold

I-Woman, Escapee

Now, I-woman am going to blow up the Law: an explosion henceforth possible and ineluctable; let it be
done, right now, in language.
—Hélène Cixous, Laugh of the Medusa

Sowers of disorder, the dying
no-name: I give you my self as

myself, this is my testimony.
I-woman, escapee: an institution

stares back at me. Gnawing
at fisherman’s twine, rope meant for

bondage, my own skin. I can’t get
clean. Words in ink, white, are tattooed,

inscribed. Naked yet not free, never
free. I-woman, escapee: every chance

I get I break mirrors, sharpen my
teeth with the fragments. What is

left is rebellion, powdered death
stuck deep in my throat, a spirit

crafted for insurrection & betrayal
of tradition. To you I am the dirtiest

girl alive, this is my condition.
There is a fear, there is a truth

here. Where here lives I won’t tell
you. I can say that the two are

intertwined & meet at a crossroads of
flesh. I-woman, escapee: your laws

won’t let me see beyond the scope
of a man’s forearm covering my

mouth, silencing any sound.
I will be heard. I will be heard.

Either that or this time my teeth
will be sharp enough.

This Is The Sharp Thing Inside Me

“In this place there is too much of light,
and with the light too much of shame;
if thou wilt lead to a more retired cave, I’ll follow.”
—Ovid

Told me the truth. That is, the man behind the counter.
He says, You ask & I provide. That’s supposed to be God’s job.
I says, Then you’re my God, hand me the bottle.
Worship poison & the poets, both dead. Beat them

To death with flowers or angel’s wings. Something real
Trite. Both go down smooth, send me elsewhere.
He blinks & off his lashes comes judgment day.
In a blink I go away, in a cycle of disappearing.

Couldn’t tell you where, but they remind me.
Park bathrooms, bus stops, shooting galleries.
Cops come again to take me in for surviving.
You stand there like a ghost, invisible girl.

I don’t get it, can’t get it. Spend my days at
Libraries drinking words & band-aid cures in
Plastic seats. Stare out the glass wild-eyed at
Wilder trees. I, too am a specimen on a slide.

Limbs drawn out for inspection, pockets declared a
Risk. Ravage the stacks for magic, some vision to
Make it all make sense, some potion to incite
Oblivion. Dream of hot baths, quilted beds, & even

Simpler things like a door that locks & a pair of
Eyes that don’t lock onto me with their brutality,
Refusing to let go. You have to go, we’re closed.
In the evenings I paraglide from street signs with a

Target on my back. Use at your own risk. My skin a
Home for rent — splitting stitches, near eviction.
There is something sharp inside me breaking.
I face the maw. The whole wretched city has

Raw tongues, addicted. Light a smoke, half-used.
I, too am packed in tightly & wound. Where is the
Filter to remove my sickness? Glands rife with
Trap doors, feet move without permission.

Nights like these I call my mother, father.
Like Cassandra I babble on, contorting
Prophecy. Is she better yet? How could I be.
I tell myself I never wanted to be part of this world

Anyhow. I tell myself I’m like Raskolnikov.
You’re nothin’. Nothing, with snared teeth & fists ready.
Think about jumping from bridges, throwing myself
Away. Feet are lead, every thought’s a bullet

Inscribed with my name: invisible girl.
Believe, believe, believe that I’m nothing.
That this is my dream, my rabid choice.
Believe what you want, but I exist. I live.

How does a grief die?
Watered with hope.
This is more. This is war.
This is the sharp thing inside me.

Hot Summer

hot summer, one to forget
no home to lie in
or lie to
just streets broken & loud
i hear them cry
i hear you cry
& at the sound of my own broken
voice i turn away & walk
toward the river
toward memory of a motel
a sordid ceremonious place
& w/ flesh burning, enter
through a door covered in soot
mother dressed in rags
breastfeeding a wailing baby,
boyfriend smoking crack,
frantically searching carpets
scrambling for change
shaving once a month
breaking televisions in rages
when no junk is found
a pair of teenage lovers w/ fake IDs
exploring bodies
w/ hope, w/ promise, w/ reckless abandon,
w/ no concept of futility or mortality
hair dye spilling, beer dripping from pores,
locking eyes & seeing beauty in orgasmic decay
20 something junkies discuss plato,
longing to return to the cave
unaware in opioid bliss,
ignorant to their necrotizing organs
calling dealers & tapping toes,
waiting for the other to pass the silver,
to insert some semblance of meaning into
long-gone lives, dreaming of youth,
pondering violence for money,
nothing escapes the room except hot breath
in the parking lot 3 men argue over a $20
2 are shot, leaking red-life, glittering
underneath neon liquor store light
a modern-day white light,
no police come
all witnesses turn off their lights &
tuck themselves into bed to sleep
sweetly, if only for an hour, w/
sitcoms on to keep them company,
to avoid feeling alone
no acknowledgment of their own luck
on the corner 2 pentecostals hand out
pamphlet after unread pamphlet,
screeching their siren song over the cars,
the gunshots, the moans, the fights
praying to a god that never listens,
that couldn’t possibly hear to begin w/
they pray for an end to gay sex
& illicit drug use
& stand idly by while 2 men choke
on their own blood,
taking their last breath,
perhaps closer to god now in death
than they could ever dream of being
in this forsaken life
they don’t call for help
they close their eyes & say
“god’s will be done”

Morgan Matchuny is a student at the University of Kentucky. She is in long-term recovery from addiction and believes in second, third, tenth chances. Her hobbies include studying etymology, crafting playlists, and making disturbing collages. You can find her work at enfrighten.wordpress.com.