Literaryspill

Apr 20

SOMETIMES IT ONLY TASTES LIKE SUGAR

I hit the bottom of the glass 

and its all warmth 

and its all emptiness

and its all you

and its only

shame turned to 

whiskey turned to 

rum soaking

on bleeding lips.

You fed me 

tawdry drinks 

mixed 

with cheap promises 

and easy conversation.

Yesterday

I thought I tasted sugar. 

Today 

it tastes like bullshit. 

tastes like you

© Nathalie M. Viorato

Apr 14

Of The Things You Dream

Sometimes 

I pray

for a

sign.

Then I 

dream

of strange

faces

with 

biblical names

and 

it is all

just

nonsense

and

then I 

realize 

none

of the 

names 

or 

faces

were of  you. 

© Nathalie M. Viorato

Apr 05

Love Letters

Dear Tristan, 

Tragic endings make for great love stories.

But our story wasn’t a love story….it was just tragic

Love, 

Isolde 

©Nathalie M. Viorato

Apr 01

OF THE THINGS THAT COME BACK TO YOU

if you are coming  home

please leave any trails that bring you 

directly to my doorstep

you are no longer wanted here. 

or needed. 

© Nathalie M. Viorato

BLIND EYED WOUNDED

( my skin knows acid-

do your hands remember how the glass felt

cold like the frost of thin black ice

and later burning, drenched with kerosene

no hesitation as you flipped the glass over

i am sure you knew what you were doing.)

i told you once, that damage

should be rewarded with death

( the wounded can only rest, 

when the blind begin to see, 

oedipus in a sling)

how incestuous nights make 

for long days

and even longer goodbyes 

still we laugh 

coiled carefully

beneath smiles 

shedding skin

i feel you in my burns and blisters

on the backs of my legs, my thighs 

raw with  bitter mirth

and recall

how I waited suspended for you

in the haunted passageways 

of my naive imagination

waiting to be brought back to life

healed.

i want to write you a letter

that you can stain and smear 

with tainted tears

as I yell to you that forced

penetration of the body

pales next to penetration

of the heart

we the wounded know the difference

between skin thats been burned on 

the outside 

and soft cheeks and lips 

set aflame from the inside out

only our empty screams know

the importance of being earnest

darling, 

you are still in my dreams, 

your voice softer than the

silk of your grazing touch

your eyes more honest

when the night goes dark, 

but the moon stops shining, 

washed out against the shadow

of your meaningless words

I know more about stretched skin 

and scabs than I can ever manage

but I still fight for a new one

delicate, almost too soft for the world to touch

but rough edges on scraped knees 

is what I have thanks to the man who assaulted me

and you poured salt on old wounds

tell me how does it feel 

dancing out there with the wounded

do your fingers interlock with his?

do you revel in your shared offenses?

do you know?

you are worse than him. 

© Nathalie M. Viorato

An Ode to a Hero

the horde moved around you;

they were the giants 

and the whores, 

and 

you were 

David

with five stones , 

you were 

my favorite novel,

and the last 

scene in a tragic movie

i hope 

you find 

your wings

so you can fly

and

crash

then 

burn. 

When Cathedrals Crack 

I’ve been stacking things up against each other 

laying unstable steps on frail footings to reach the truth 

I stifle the words and heavy voices and watch unanswered prayers

unravel into the night. Can science explain the beating of a frozen 

heart and tears trapped in summer’s withering winds

stabbing the ground and parting the red sea and swirling the waters 

where the earth is weakest?

How long can we talk or not talk about celestial promises 

whispering like a firefly in the autumn night?

Is it enough to say that you never leave any doubts in my mind

and that I only know what I know because of the things you don’t say?

And if you know anything it’s that I overanalyzed everything in our space

and it grew into a moment that turned you into experience. 

©Nathalie M. Viorato

Belle’s Romance 

these things are like

delicate, frail tea cups

and they

fall apart like petals, drenched 

with sultry winter air

you haven’t looked for me yet

in all the places I thought you would

i have yet to move anywhere else

i have yet to move. 

© Nathalie M. Viorato

Jan 01

THE ASHES AND WHATS LEFT OF NIGHT

There is always something peaceful 

about the night. Slumber is woven 

into its shade (eternally knocking on its door),

And in darkness you find twilight.

Always waning, 

Always expanding, 

and still the moon gives light 

of the dawn to follow. 

© Nathalie M. Viorato

Dec 29

UNTITLED