The Good Girls Are Always Found

I have broken my own bones,
splintered them
and placed them into bags,
dozens of bags of me,
and I have thrown them
from the windows of speeding cars
in hope that you will find me
after the crash, somewhere
where the good girls would never go,
littered between back alleys
in the dark parts, the places where
the good girls are always found.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Muted Grape and Spiced Wine

I hang suspended,
hot inside the cool tones
of muted grape dreams,
where the reds of a spiced wine
seep past my lips
to dance upon yours.
You are beautiful,
in the hues of my passion,
and I could be beautiful
beneath you, in foreign lands,
and within your secrets,
until I come home reeking
of lavender and my undoing,
and cursing the moon for casting
its heavenly glow a world away.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Mixed With A Hint

It was my words
that spilled
from his lips,
my poetry
that poured
from his soul;
how was I to resist
my own passion,
mixed with a hint
of his own.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Something Achingly Beautiful

Love was never easy
because suffering was
never optional.
But there was something
gorgeous in the act
of arching backs writhing
in anticipation of ripping
hearts from chests,
something achingly beautiful
in the brutality of it all.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

 

Close To Inside

I want you here, almost inside,
but it was his words that reached
below my surface, those fucking words
that crawled inside of me,
and carved our names
into the walls of my secrets.
I’ve almost got you here, close to inside,
and when I close the door behind you,
it will be his darkest words that walk us home.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

No Trespassing

He pitched himself onto me,
inside of me; somehow
his smooth laugh
and the electric blue
of his necktie cut a path
through the underbrush
beneath my skirt,
and I liked the way
his jacket caught the breeze
when he hung it
on your no trespassing sign,
and how he sighed so deeply
when the blues in his pocket
gave way to his shadow,
and wiped me clean again.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

A Collection of Madness and Magic

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My mind is light and dark and always uneven,
a rest stop for a long line of weary travellers
and mischief makers; a home to thousands
of manic spiders spinning sticky webs
of dark delusions against the back of my eyes.
My ears itch with the whispers
of hyper charged bits of paranoia.
My throat burns from the speed
at which I swallow the rants
and raves of transient thoughts,
and I am able to breathe again.
My blood boils with electricity,
ferocious enlightenment kicking
through the walls of a dead heart
and I am alive again.
A collection of madness and magic,
I am a place where art and illness collide.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

The Hill On The Way Home

What an exhausting thing it has become,
being held captive inside your darkest thoughts.
Rocking back and forth, massaging the balls
of my feet on each step up your spine,
wiggling my toes, pushing into
the sweet center of every weakening vertebrae.
It is a tricky climb, your backbone,
steep and full of hidden twists,
but the bend of it beneath my weight
is so beautiful I pause and consider
resting for a moment, right there,
in the hollow of your pride.
I could stretch my limbs and close my eyes,
lulled to sleep upon the echoes
of your deep growls and the rhythmic sway
of your need to release me
from all the places I will never leave.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Vintage Heart

For Tamara, with love.

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She’s an old soul
with young eyes,
a vintage heart,
and a beautiful mind.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Yes, I Remember You

Yes, I remember you.
I remember the hitch
and the gasp before
my veins opened up
into fields upon fields
upon barren wastelands.
I remember how thunder felt
that night when a thousand
wild stallions carried my pulse
around the mountains of my bones
and placed it where I hoped
I would never remember you again.

© Nicole Lyons 2017