poem: a dreamer’s dream, alive

what am i thinking of ? / your everything. what i would be

with you nearer,

 

how we would sound

together / rhythms matching, something

pounding in the blood ; words, silences, and then they come again – i knew it would be

good but i didn’t think i

could feel like this

i knew i could be more

but i did not think that i could rise this far

without a fall ;

a hand in a hand in the bedsheets, but nothing’s rocking. my fantasies are cherry sweet, sugar-sugar thinking on

things to be, questioning :

 

will it change the way

we grow? / fire on flame / my dreamer’s skin, melting right off the bone / whispers on thighs,

skin over skin, lips on fingertips, hip to hip

to this :

 

the dreamer’s dream,

alive.

t.b. ; @raggedhearts

poem: exotica erotica

so i painted myself scarlet
red / walked to you on limpid legs, shaky knees,
shivering where you cut
bleeding out in secret / in secrecy
i held the parts unpretty.

the way i split & spread
for you
something black & beautiful on white sheets / unblooming, anti-growth,
anti-all-you’ve-ever-known / and
if you close your eyes it doesn’t seem so different. if you close your
mouth around me i don’t taste
of something coloured. if you
don’t see my colour
you don’t see me / if you put a hand over my mouth you forget i talk black girl speak
with a little more lip
and a little less teeth –

he’s holding me
silence in the hollows of his cheeks
but i hear it loud, hear it clear:

ebony only looks this pretty
when it stays where it belongs
underneath
& between me.

exotica erotica | t.b ; @raggedhearts

pressed flowersimportant context alert: this is something I wrote after listening to “Your Best American Girl”, by the incredibly talented mitski (an Asian American singer, and one i’d recommend to anyone with a passing interest in good music)!!

it prompted a l o t of thinking on the song’s meaning – on the experiences of people of colour (specifically, black people, here) in interracial relationships, with white partners. i wanted to explore some of the emotional effects that has on them – trying to conform to the limitations and inherent eroticism of the white view of non-white bodies; how that pushes the black/etc. partner to be something they never can be, but strain to be, even as it pains them to do so.

i’d love to know what you think of this – this is, topic-wise, very different from anything i’ve posted on here yet, so far, and complex in itself.

love,

talia

poem: honeysuckle

oh ! but she 

shines. ocean eyes / riptide /

a tsunami of what she never gave to the last one ; honey and sunlight and lavender and her secrets / fragrant little prisoners.
oh ! but she

lied. that’s the way of

the ones without a home in their stomachs

selling Love on the black market ;
it will make

a good story – if 15 years from today you still remember her name / not, just, and only just

the way she tasted. 

(the new ones will leave

you, knowing more about her than you ever remember sharing.)

t. bennett ; @raggedhearts

on : what happens to people who put their lovers up on pedestals, and forget that they’re human.

poem: here’s my name / moan it into the mouth of someone lesser

didn’t you want my

hips when they fit just so in your hands

and this body when it folded up under yours;

origami love / fistfuls of me, handfuls

of your flesh / now i overflow / now i outgrow

your plans, momma boy’s worst nightmare – a girl-woman – prose in motion; much too much / pleasures divine, pleasures untold, feasting on

the Garden’s fruits. we’re never gonna be Adam and Eve because i’m always the Lilith,

spitting curses instead of dirty talk

and lullabies.

t. bennett ; @raggedhearts

an additional note: I’ve always been fascinated by the concept of Lilith, especially in contrast to Eve (spiritual/non-religious ubpringing + church school education = odd interest in a world I’m a part of, but isolated within).

Both of them are vilified in our modern eyes, though one is lesser-know, and womanhood/femininity is something that’s been worshipped, feared, attacked and dissected for eons ; and all of that makes for some truly interesting poetry.

poem: a starving girl splits herself in half for the masses

he walks through

your voice up the walls of your throat – his breath smells of blood

and your mouth tastes of his words

every memory salt and pepper and

iron in one.

 

trauma is a meal, served on your

heaving stomach. you roll out the

finery and tell me to eat,

eat while i can

while you’re still breathing, weeping

apologies onto the bloated wood of this dinner table where we sit

like prisoners and laugh

as if it does not hurt to smell the rot at your core.

 

playing pretend / playing at know-it-all almost grown-ups / eyes, averted, words rolling from a script i do not remember learning.

 

(i promise: i do not see your fingers shake as you feed me the pieces

he left of you.)

– t. bennett ; @raggedhearts

star divider

 

an important note: this is a piece written after a lot of conversation on abuse, and hours of introspection – speaking to friends who have been victims of abuse (sexual, and emotional), and being one myself, it’s become increasingly (painfully) clear that the effects of it can be found in places you wouldn’t expect, that recovery does not and will never comply to the supposed rules we’d like to impose on it. trauma is messy, bloody, bruising. trauma crops up at the times we’d most like – love – peace. it’s there, on our shoulders and backs, curled up in the latest hours of the night. it’s in the aftertaste of a meal that reminds you, inexplicably, of their face (because, you ate it together, once / it was your shared favourite / it was their favourite). you shake and shiver, fearful, watchful, paranoid, nightmare-ridden; you laugh, study, work and play. you’re a person of odds, evens, catch-22’s and contradictions – you’re very much a survivor, long-term, constantly.

this is a poem capturing a sliver of what it means to be a survivor of abuse – from the perspective of a victim, communicating with another. I hope the intimacy of it, the pain and intensity of the emotions we experience are ones you feel, for even a moment, while reading.

poem: make love, and leave nothing behind

i remember first lust

framed in secrets

drowning from the heat of a hidden touch / glances over soft shoulders, creamy gazes ripe, wet, wild.

 

we were not wrong

but all-good, all-knowing

ecstasy running through swelling veins / shining on our tongues

staining each kiss with a scent you know

and crave, whimpering

between the legs of your god-master:

 

you are made of secrets

and i am made dumb

by their brilliance.

– t. bennett ; @raggedhearts

 

 

poem: prayer – hekate

and darkness walks

where darkness falls; splitting

light from horizon, and horizon from sky.

 

speak, mothers, speak to daughters loved

and lost, leering at Death from their wicker-cradles / or keep, to silence.

 

on our bowed heads, be it.
– t. bennett ; @raggedhearts

poem: forget me / i will never forgive you

i am everything and nothing and nobody and alone / that is what you wanted, yes – ? / and no. what you wanted was me

to be yours

and yours alone though i am only myself when you are not looking at me.

i hope it burns

when i smile / when i laugh

as if you never

knew me at all.

by : t. bennett ; @raggedhearts

 trans planet.png

a very important note, for the person/people reading this.

i wrote this a day, or maybe three, after breaking off a 7-year abusive relationship (a “friendship”, if you can call it that, at all, where my best friend had been “in love” with me). i currently attend school with this person. i have to see him in the corridors and watch the people i thought were some of my closest friends – the people who know the repulsive, rotten details of the way he controlled me and abused me, physically and emotionally – laugh and joke with him, as if it’s nothing.

it took me 3 years and 10 rounds of CBT to even begin recovering from the last abusive dynamic i found myself, at fifteen years old, trapped within for a miserable, traumatising period of time – the frustration i feel, now, having to learn to recover from this, to have to work so hard to learn who i am, what i am and want and to reconnect with the people around me, who truly love and care for me… it’s immense. i’m stronger than i was at fifteen, that’s true; and stronger still, after working through years of trauma with that therapist (sarah, a lovely, if oddly petty, and intelligent woman). i’m strong, and my hands shake when i see him. i am healing, and i’ve broken out in a hot, sweaty flush of sheer panic when i can’t see him in the cafeteria because if i don’t know where he is, exactly, anxiety hits me like a truck.

he isn’t my abuser anymore, but what he did to me has left its marks. they’ll turn into scars, and those scars will fade, but for now, i wanted to make sure – without going into the details in this note – that anyone who read this understands that he’ll be present in my poetry, and the stories i want to post here, too. him, and the ones who broke me, almost, while i

him, and the ones who broke me, almost, while i still knew him, but not what the term emotional abuse was, before i understood any of what he was doing or knew what he would do – they’re in it, too.

so, here’s to you knowing some of me a little better, and to understanding even more of me through my writing, in the future.

most sincerely,

talia.

poem: tell me i am your Desire and your downfall

time stretching

every minute long and short and

irrelevant. undoing me –

 

undoing us.

i speak the words and they turn to liquid lust around your fingers / i want you to

tell me i was not wrong / i want you to lie

into my mouth around a kiss, a sharpened smile, the edges of your tongue.

– t. bennett ; @raggedhearts