September 5th: Poetry by Calia Jane Mayfield

Editor’s note: we will be delivering individual works from our first issue to your inbox daily, until we run out! If you want to view the full first issue of bloodbathhate, click here.

Thank you Calia Jane Mayfield for these visceral and incredibly emotive poems. They are absolutely gorgeous and were a total treat to read.

philosophy on violence

knife to sharpen teeth into fangs and nails into talons. gold shoved into ears clipping the skin. becoming the monster of nightmares and nights lit wholly in green that leave a sick feeling in your gut that’s never been fear but only recognition. and you’ve started seeing yourself in opposition to divine judgement. the lone soldier in a war for your body forged to be a weapon. and you will become fire to cleanse the feeling of being watched even if it means become something worse. and you will do what needs to be done if it means you are no longer only complicit. is it better to destroy or be destroyed, you were never one for philosophy on violence. and you will let the bruises heal even if you push into them with your thumbs for days first. and you will rename yourself vengeance in the name of retribution. and so what if your skin splits if your soul stays intact this time. nothing has ever been free and it’s easier to pay in blood if you’re doing it willingly. and you can never unknow how relentless this process of cutting out your heart is replacing it with another set of eyes an unearned consequence of your own design. and no one ever said this wouldn’t hurt and they never said it would be worth it but you never asked. but now you have the answers in hunting the things you’ve seen in the dark and there’s no more questions you’d want to ask.

thoughts on batman and power in the comment section

i watch them argue that guns would solve the problems faster and is it really better to leave them with broken noses and bruises that will heal and arms out of socket and is death that bad compared to fear? 													1/

i keep my mouth shut now. and the power that comes with the knowledge of how much easier it would be to open my mouth teeth sharp and hungry and waiting to inflict permanent damage. and maybe i’m not 													2/

seeing the point. the tip of the gun or the tip of my teeth pressing themselves into words out of shrapnel. and sure, he uses rubber bullets and sure they’re dangerous and sure sometimes i say those things out loud. 												                  3/

and maybe the fear of what could have happened is enough for us. the fear that they’re the reason we became this; fear is turning into that which we said we’d destroy. fear that once won’t be enough. and maybe we’re 												4/

weak and scared and stupid. maybe everyone else is right we don’t know that it’ll spark something insatiable and savage and addicting in our bones. maybe it’s just the fear and if we laugh enough we can stop it. 													5/ 

is death that bad compared to the fear of what could be? power comes with limits and maybe we’ve been too limiting in what we could achieve. stepping over bodies that can’t feel the fear anymore might be	 												6/

worth our sanity. stepping over our own tears might be worth the greater good. what are our promises if justice cannot kill for us?

in which death should not grant you penance 

i am making my arguments at the gates with the boy with wings and flaming sword. he’s trying to keep me from leaving him. i can see your body every time i close my eyes. your chest unmoving, your mouth finally stilled. i’ve been begging the boy to come down the stairs with me all large eyes and pleading and compulsion prayer. i’m begging my body to move without him. i’m begging my screen filled head to stop reimagining that night with more pain. i’m begging my hands to stop remembering holy and righteous power coursing through their blood. virtuous eyes watching tainted venom tears leak onto your face willing me to have faith you can course correct the failing body in front of me. willing ignorance was swept from the heart you branded with broken glass confessions in my church pew ears. the boy is preaching to the sleeping choir tears trailing my cheeks. forgiveness sermons seeping into the drug laced liver soul i was provided as armor. i’m begging for divine judgement to grant me communion of your heart in my mouth to be chewed and spit up like stale bread for eternity. passion and religion clawed its way to the knife in your back that night and its job isn’t finished until i paint the lines of my eulogy with your blood. the holy boy drags my hands back inside the gates promising the hounds your bones. we stop begging and sing the hymnals of your judgment for the cherubs sleeping innocence and wine drunk. 

Calia Jane Mayfield (she/her) is a Black poet from Georgia is always looking for new music. You can find more of her writing in Wrongdoing Mag, Not Deer Mag and Ample Remains. You can find her on twitter @yetiwaterbottle.