all that’s necessary is a couple of crayons if you’d like for me to color you a whole galaxy a white milky pen for the pin pricks of stars in the velvet mass of vanta empty the space between all people can see how we limit so much, and believe we know everything.
how arrogant we must be to say there is no creator. all he needed was a couple of crayons, and a hand full of mud, some thoughts in his head, and breath in his lungs. –six pm
1. “To the woman he said, “I will surely multiply your pain.”
i believe up until || God cracked Adam’s rib, that man had not yet considered the fact that he was breathing. * i believe some would call this a gift. * we are not born beautifully… everyone must blossom and bud. i am a natural mother, i understand the price paid for life with blood. * || * if there were an element that we should base life upon: it would be carbon, i assume. so why do i base the life i have been gifted on the likes of you? * is it because you are a kiss; a cellular conception multiplied by folds of four balanced betwixt my hips? * a perfect prophecy of proud ancestry proclaimed from the mouth of the royal He … ? * || is it how “now” is an infinity; now is when He speaks. now is where we meet.
2. “Your desire shall be contrary to your husband, but he shall rule over you.”
black, dull, and un•gleaming: life without you. || blackness of bare earth at the tale end of winter. no promise of green except for the old knowledge: knowing storms always run dry of rain; * knowing cold months of winter bring forth warm nights of summer and spring. * || * understanding pain forecasts growth; and love foreshadows pain. * how men and women were never made the same. * || my memories play back like the red glow in the rearview mirror, if you and i were a one-way street. red light in the dead of night dimming every imperfection. these brightest spots where the fabric of black rip open, while “we” faded to black like dusk. * || i believe in black holes. black eyes big as pansies, so big they could swallow me up. bold and italicized by ethnic ambiguity. dense in gravity. * behold: you are original man, you are so ambitious, i am was your woman. we felt so endless; infinity masquerading as security. || i found myself staring intent while you flew west, watching your eyes offset the sunset until they were just two specks of dust. * ∗
3. “There too Lilith shall repose, and find a place to rest.”
∗* i believe the apocalypse is a midlife crisis, and an untimely split. ∗ Earth opening beneath the feet of Eden and swallowing every•thing up. || oh and, yes, i believe Lilith was there; her moonbeam smile, her long raven hair. she slithered a pale crocodile into Adam’s bed. Her unblemished curves of childless girth. her cotton thighs coiled around his head. || oh, yes, i do believe Lilith exists. and i believe her burning kiss burned because Adam was fucking selfish.
i am but a dearling, a darling Capricorn; with his tenderlings not yet budding. year of the yearling, year-long yearning for space walks. rendering the DNA, raveled into ringlets dangled in frozen fragility of pearl bracelets. intertwined like a necklace; the love my parents shared. at least one time. destined to be well traveled; nestled in a blanket of pine needles & honey i reach out from earth’s cradle; longing to find a super nova more special than any we have gleaned before. one that will last past the collapse of our æther. chestnut shell rocking. this station of the universe is too small now, we must go, now . ∶ ⁞ Stephen Hawking hypothesized in one of his usual bouts of miraculous syllabic tongue twisters that the universe has an end, just as all living creations have a beginning. blazing bravery we are living beings. we will scoff in the face of clocks & hypothetical hypochondriacs will quiver. photogenic phylogenetics captured by the lenses of dying Keppler, zipping like ice skates past Jupiter. Dance around the rings of Saturn, & suicide our weak in honor of Cassini ⁞ ∶ . Or stay day dreaming here upon the heavenly rains that rapture the African savannas. But i, i will try to forge paths for distances as far out as forevers. May the future generations of humans make it farther… . . .may they be the answer to my ever burning question: Is
When cast upon the barren terrain of loneliness I’ve crafted many castles and shrines to give shape to this flat land. Worshiping Him who merely crossed but did not root.
Every smirk; a sunrise scattering blue light and casting a golden warmth upon my empty sand. I was a sponge; I absorbed every ray of His light and when His star set, I began to pray facing West. I was left alone in the dark with shadows and shapes of the towers looming unoccupied.
To preoccupy myself from the daunting empty and the always alone I painted murals and gilded each shrine with gold. I went hungry to leave rice cakes and fruits at His altar— hoping to lure Him into the home I’d created and love me again for the art I’d devoted to His likenesses and name.
Each note upon which I’d wrote became a poem, became a notebook, became a grimoire full of morbid canticles. Much like space my loneliness spreads infinitely, as vibration and blue songs, as if willing its way towards forever seeking the edge and an end.
Every red candle burned brightly not to satiate the darkness; but as prayers to cast beacons across the liquid night and beckon back His ghostly glow.
If He’d rose again and become my sun, daring only I stare into His deadly radiation I’d have gladly looked boldly until falling blind; so blindly did I seek to feel the embrace of love when I was empty and there was none. –six pm
I have spent the last 3 years or so unfocused to allow my interests to wander so that my passions might be revealed. It was a leap of faith, as I am not a trusting person by nature, anymore. I wouldn’t say that I’ve “found myself” so much as I found that I put myself last.
I’m sure I’m not alone in this. I see now where there are gaping holes in my discipline, where I am intimidated to push forward. Chasing your dreams is no whimsical task. Building the strength to push into a future of unknown hardships is intimidating.
I’ve sacrificed so much and failed before. But at the same time, while I might have bruises on my ego, or less than I’d hoped to have gathered, I have few regrets and have made progress all the same.
Honestly, so much turmoil could have been avoided if I wasn’t caught up in making steps and allowed myself to mull over my desires. In 2019 I vowed to ‘remain’, to be still, and in 2021 I am just starting to reap the benefits of that mantra.
I still don’t know what exactly I want. That’s the crazy thing. But I do know that there are parts of me that need to be creative. I need to write. I need to paint. I hope that my path forward has room for these pieces of me, & I hope the world has a desire to embrace my talents.
I fear what so many creatives fear; that my work put to word or canvas is not “good enough” for praise. Perhaps social media was the wrong place to be sharing my work all along. What I no longer wonder, however, is if I have talent. And that’s a heavy burden lifted off my chest.
I’ve always struggled with making friends. I’m not sure what I do wrong, but the computer has proven just as challenging a place to forge connections as any playground ever was. I think my poetry itself was born out of needing to express myself to someone else. Anyone. Literally. But I can’t tell when a person is just who they are or when I’m interacting with a person set on making their given name a ‘brand’. Not that a fault them either way. It’s the nature of what these places have become. And that’s not entirely any one person’s fault.
I’ve become a bit of a walnut, however, because of it. I don’t want to share my new work, and I’m intimidated by the process of publishing. I’m at a crossroads because I’ve loved the freedom of my own space but can’t bridge the gap to making it lucrative in any capacity.
This rat-race mentality is why I deleted a successful poetry IG and left game journalism/blogging. Even though I was able to make a small income, it was never enough to justify the time and money necessary to invest in making myself simply *visible.
For a long time this made me feel so bitter. I couldn’t afford the time or $$ to invest in a program at any of the colleges or retreats my favorite modern poets are involved in. & the friendships I’d try to build in these communities would fade just as quickly as they blossomed. And my art being ripped-off on Poetizer by my discord “friends” in the unofficial group really pierced my heart. Not to mention that the admin hardly crediting me for the group prompt felt like bad form and makes me feel like we’re not friends at all. Which considering that we’d been talking online for years hurt my feelings.
The time to remain seems to have come to an end for me, but where to go now? If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much! If you feel the same way I feel, let’s talk. If you have advice, I am humbly all ears. I want to shatter the looking glass & make your acquaintance. -♥ Paige
found images of you moving on a scuffed vhs tape. i heard your voice sing sweetly something i never thought i’d hear again. the coffee buzzes my brainwaves and allows me to think clearly.
spotify playlist where i saved the serenades you wrote for me. every melody from the songs we *♡’ed from that concert we drove to Baltimore to see. we spent the night together in that fancy suite. we ate the world’s worst pizza and smoked the world’s finest weed.
i noticed how the girl in your songs had red hair before she had mine. how you thought your favorite color was green before you realized how dangerous were my eyes. i think you’re a liar. because you texted me last Thursday just to say.you didn’t wanna *♡ me anymore. °
. Vv. ○
i don’t think it’s too funny how every time i try to write about you, all my poems ends the same way. you’re a cycle of never ending torment. an apocalypse where my ♡ seeks rest and the grief lasts for eternity. i would believe the gift of having you once, and the feeling of losing you, akin to losing everything is the punishment i get for believing god exists somewhere inside of me. in a place within my psyche i long for it to not be.° .. . .:
. . * ,
i’d stop writing about your café au lait eyes all together if the fondness of our encounters didn’t purr like the white noise of needles scratching vinyl records. i’d stop dreaming of you in color if you didn’t look just like a sunset. i would rue the day i crossed your path and askew the day you. crossed me. although you were the one to do me wrong, i am burdened with your memories. as you live a life that seems like paradise without me.. .
are you lonely? is this why every now and then you call me? do you long for my warmth the same way i long for your, ‘i’m sorry’. if you could go back to last ○ would you take back all the horrible ways you hurt me? would you have come to my house at all? begged for a last *♡ and the back of my throat? would you have fought for me? would you have let him have me so easily if you knew then what is reality this instant?
Every trinket which had existed while you were still alive has become a holy thing. A relic of a time when angels walked the planet and smoke ring haloes were only broken by your endless laughter. I almost forgot about the cigarette burns creating holes in every blanket and every robe. I almost forgot about the smell of thousand year smoke. There are devils that followed you like shadows and behind your happiness was deep pain. I lament I could not take it away. Sometimes behind my back those devils you would chase. In your wake, I find joy in seeing them choke. Your soul is free, and there is no room for their selfishness to take what is left of you in me. I want to dedicate my life to being stronger. You will live on. –six pm | *holy things
I believe in Nothing, after This is all over, before Everything began,
So if This is Something, even just a little bit… it matters who I spend my time with.
You’re so in love it sets your eyes on fire. See, I need to feel that too. I’m simply not falling in love with you.
So take back your gifts of golden bracelets. I don’t feel comfortable giving them away. Though soft and made of finer things…
They are chains all the same.
Paige Six | 2021
*a draft I’ve been aspiring to finish since I’ve sought to build off of the final stanza since 2017. It’s still sitting on my chest. One of the mornings I’m going to rise and sing the right companion verses. Until then, we have this.