Jubilee’s Comments (group member since Mar 22, 2025)

Jubilee’s comments from the poetryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy group.

I was lost to the fact that pomegranates can rot.
Foolish to not consider such a thing.
Half eaten from the first day of the season-
Feeling drugged and flowery, inhaling a nectar syrupy; hot.
My hair fell unremarkable past my hips.
We laughed about the poets as if we weren't sad and self-deprecative,
And I suffered not to weep as your hand went to my lips.

Seasons do incline to change,
But never so quickly before,
I cut my hair too short
At the quietest craving for more.
We left adoration silent,
for all a precious December
And you left when it was vibrant;
So infatuation is all we'd remember.

And now, it's cold for the fourth Sunday in a row,
Eden left so rapidly
A conscience more impure than anyone you know,
no truth in dying happily.

A fool again,
My life has come to now
Tormented by the liminal space of time and an excess of cheap coffee grounds.
Consuming Macbeth and pomegranate,
Just to have something substant,
It no longer tastes like drugs or love;
Only a rot of what I wanted.

It should have been expected,
From everything I know true,
Naive like Kore to have forgotten:
Sundays are for citrus fruit.

Better to have choked on something bitter,
Like lemon(like my heart),
Better to expose myself to suffer,
So you don't get to be the person to tear my world apart.

Sundays make me think,
Of God,
Of Lady Macbeth,
Of me and you,
Learn to sink in the mundane,
Sundays being for bitter fruit.


The Hangman's Lover
The same way you did to the others, you will knot the rope around my neck.
I am the only one of youth;
I am not a sinner like the rest.
The other women have had all of their most meaningful sacrilegious encounters.
Preparing rather indulgently for the high of their final breath.
Except- our odd romance was real and breathtaking; something I found not even death to overpower.
I rushed in foolish and will leave cold,
Still fool enough to pray my body into flowers.

A braver executioner tells me to be to be dignified.
Whisper sweet nothings in my ear:
The scared slowly die.
You loved me to the point of death.
What of the point of life?
Consume me, hurt me, hold me,
I don’t ask for a gentler knife.
Give me one more chance to die,
Poetically.

I had questions about living,
You unforgivingly taught me how,
How bewitchingly, grossly intimate-
You teach me to be a martyr now.

Your hand finds my neck once again,
keep me until gentler times,
I vow I will be good, a saint,
Saint enough to repay both of our crimes.
Our final words were nothing but your gaze searches to repent,
Your torment will be forever.
I’m dying,
It makes you sick.


The Sacrilegious1967!!

tea spills at the sobering realization that life can be beautiful.
black black coffee in the way that some say.
and the spree of mad words as night shifts to day.
life can be beautiful,
at the price of stories staying unsold.
i will someday be able to find sleep peaceful,
and bathing a religious metaphor.
a fawn like me cannot fathom a lack of wanting more.
someday, life will be beautiful-like me.
ill be perceived without biting my cheeks until they bleed.
you will advocate to make art from me with your knife-like teeth.
And someday, i won’t be scared to love and leave.
i wont love at the hefty price of being daughterly.
ill want this body, first, and ill sing to the sea.
bloody red lipstick stained on a cup of coffee and cream.