KENOSIS
Brooklyn Lyric / drrtgrrl
bavlyric@gmail.com | Seattle, Washington

Before I could speak,
I knew what it felt like
breathing between spiritual genesis
and psychosis.
Psychophants and revelations.
The grip of non-existence
has choked me,
molded me,
called me back like a worried mother,
fed me silence like a scorned lover.

I feel scared
unlike ever before.
So I try to let go
because I don’t care
when really,
I’d kill myself
to get out of here.

The veil is thinnest after the storm.
I’m not meant to exist
just to feel torn
so I feel nothing.
Thank God for it.

I’ve been praying to God,
but my knees are raw,
and the scabs won’t heal.
Am I good enough
to be granted your love?
Guess we won’t know
until.
Previously released as song lyrics by drrtgrrl. Submitted without textual revision.

Anatomy of Negation
Brooklyn Lyric / drrtgrrl
bavlyric@gmail.com | Seattle, Washington

Bare, late, late at night
Before the grace of God go I

Retreat thusly
Thimbleberry

Cut and cover the rust
And what’s left was made for us

A thin lip between
hearsay and heresy
Stirred ships go gently
into that sweet good night

There I, good-bye, alive, all right

(break)

Bellowing and blowing…

Measured virtue dependent on
proximity

Organs fill the interlude
Merciful nothing

Mother, gentle beast
Servile and doting

The conifers of the family tree
Care not for her
Quite contradictory

Caressed and seek

The soft underbelly
Bellowing and blowing
In peace and out pity
Previously released as song lyrics by drrtgrrl. Submitted without textual revision.

MUZZLE
Brooklyn Lyric / drrtgrrl
bavlyric@gmail.com | Seattle, Washington

If you wanna love me,
put a muzzle on me
because I can’t stop
freaking out.
If you say you love me,
get your hands off me
because you know
I’mma let you down.

In God’s hands
I am a child:
sensitive,
loving,
capable.
In my own,
I act out of survival
gnashing, nasty,
and self-obsessed.

Here, lying awake in this emptiness
something climbs up my spine
and starts to set in.
I can’t tell if it’s a feeling,
an omen,
or an ominous presence,
but it presents a querulous quandary:
Is this enough?
Am I enough?
Or is this your fault
why I’m so
fucked up?
I
fucked up,
but I apologized
ten thousand times
so please don’t fight.
I thought you loved me.
I knew you didn’t.
I thought you’d save me
no, I insisted it.
Now I can’t even write you a letter
to prove how I’m better
I just stutter over and over and over and over
every word and thought.
My cyclical confidante.
I’m sorry.
I’m just lost
in my own thoughts.
Previously released