By: Janna Vought

The world is wrong about me
I’m a genius, broken girl
sprung from Hell. Hell,
where nectar flows from stone
flowers and blackened apples shine.
There are no humans here, only
ghosts and shadows.
Descend slowly, dark angel, wing nubs
carry you just beyond Eden, burning.

I’m imperfect, no God in me.
Born woman, from woman, for woman, born
talking death.
I want to be like Jesus,
filled with virtue and undying love, but
I find darkness too appealing.
Call me Monster, girl on fire, Hydra
half woman/half snake, my thousand heads
shriek, swivel in unison.   (beautifully hypnotic)
The stink of sewage and cyanide
follow me wherever I go, fresh hearts
in my pocket.

I am the wind you hear at night,
wakes you from sleep, the soul
transformed into beast, together united
where time begins and ends.
Lonely as a cloud, catch sight of me
from the corner of your eye,
prisoner of my melancholic mind.
I’m afraid, so I don’t say a word
(don’t move, stay quiet, still),
drowning in butterflies.
The dead moan, but no one
listens. A doll’s decapitated head
never cries, is sad or sleepy, feels no pain,
one glass eye peering, extinction certain.
Dying is a deep well. Plummet
into the image of God and Hell.

Jesus, return my sins,
I want them back. Set loose
my squirming bones. Fling my corpse
beyond the sky into endless
endless night. Fill my soul
with the heavy hum of yellow jackets,
nest torn wide. Light a flame,
eat shadows. I stand on my grandmother/mother/sister’s
grave, trace the pentagram, brown-eyed hexen,
bear the stigmata, cemetery floor
bursts into flames.
When I no longer can speak,
I’ll dream.