Format Quote

If it comes to that, will I be forgiven? My basket doth overflow with trinkets, but my heart is a desert, I still don’t understand good exchange rates.

If someone has to be your dagger, I guess I can be strong enough. Shaped by those same hands, take me to the breast and carve.

The anger was brittle, now it’s crumbled to ashy despair. Smear it across all my fragile skin, is this the look we’re going for?

If I have your joy I also have your fear, two gifts for the price of one. Coping is a learned skill, take what you are given and get better at molding.

If it comes to that, forgive me my limits, my cactus heart, the way I wandered too close to the barren and now fear the drought.

I am fallible and weak, I crack at the thought of never doing enough, swallow the fear of going to sleep and missing the call.

But the truth is also feathered joy, a saccharine sweet honey that seeps into all my wounds and soothes me. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but sometimes it’s just relief.

A.M. Kennedy, “You would say anything, and I would say nothing”

Format Quote

Some time ago she locked the Sun
in her closet, for it had brought her
only beggars and thieves looking for
an easy meal.
(In the dark, the last thing
you want to be
is a source of light.)
So now she’s a Moon.
A reflector, not a source,
a wolf hanging out the bathroom window
at 2AM too sick to howl,
too sad for mourning.
No one will ever try to take what
they do not think you have,
so she pretends she has not.
It’s like harboring a fugitive.
Dangerous, furtive.
The light seeps through the cracks
in the closet, spilling bright stripes
across her breasts and her hands,
marking her magnificent.
Marking her target.
She scrubs away the glow,
grows meager and hungry
at the mouth of wasting sickness.
How do you hide a star
inside a chest cavity?
How much dress-up do you have to do
to make them believe you are a mirror
and not the real thing?
Girl who could blister the earth
if only you stopped playing at shadows
like you are your mother’s daughter.
(Just because you are
doesn’t mean you have to act like it.)
There’s a Sun in the closet
but everything in the room is wilting,
tidal, wasteland.
Can’t you see that all the power
is already inside of you?
Can’t you see that what
everyone is really afraid of is
the truth.

am kennedy, “The Sun in the Room”

Format Quote

When they ask me why I don’t trust,
I want to hand over my birth certificate,
a wrinkled document listing
Who Dun It.
Just because no one saw them licking
their lips, it doesn’t mean they didn’t
attempt to swallow me whole.
My soul, crushed down into a box
small enough to keep under foot,
bang the gavel here, it’s an open and
shut case.
First degree and no plea, because they
killed every version of me that came
along until this one rose up with
enough bang and fang to
avoid the axe swing.
It’s not funny knowing what inside you
had to die to get out alive,
how much soft tissue was skinned off
by barbed wire.
Trust was a snaptrap where
the first to jump was the first to be
broken on jagged cliffs,
laughed at by the howling winds.
Now the thought of heights makes me
shake, quake in expectation of the break,
and I can’t imagine how it is you still
expect me to take an open hand.

am kennedy, “close your eyes, hold hands”
Format Quote

When they ask me why I don’t trust,
I want to hand over my birth certificate,
a wrinkled document listing
Who Dun It.
Just because no one saw them licking
their lips, it doesn’t mean they didn’t
attempt to swallow me whole.
My soul, crushed down into a box
small enough to keep under foot,
bang the gavel here, it’s an open and
shut case.
First degree and no plea, because they
killed every version of me that came
along until this one rose up with
enough bang and fang to
avoid the axe swing.
It’s not funny knowing what inside you
had to die to get out alive,
how much soft tissue was skinned off
by barbed wire.
Trust was a snaptrap where
the first to jump was the first to be
broken on jagged cliffs,
laughed at by the howling winds.
Now the thought of heights makes me
shake, quake in expectation of the break,
and I can’t imagine how it is you still
expect me to take an open hand.

am kennedy, “close your eyes, hold hands”