In addition to writing incredible poetry, Mela Blust is an accomplished visual artist. Here she shares some selections from her previously published body of work, accompanied by a series of her stunning original artworks.
priorities (originally published in Anti Heroin Chic Magazine)
and days unfolded, life
not stopping
despite all the little deaths. and the deathbed of her hymen was a place
where flowers bloomed;
if only to be plucked again and again
by men on their way
somewhere else.
 |
| storm (acrylic on canvas) |
fairy tales (originally published in Anti Heroin Chic Magazine)
does the king of birds
always love a girl made of glass?
slamming into her invisible wall a thousand times
before blinking marrow tears and
flying away?
the praying mantis fucks
whichever body she wants,
rips his head off and eats it after she
is satiated
 |
| pleading (acrylic on canvas) |
song of winter (originally published in Isacoustic)
let me tell you how I held you in my mouth;
one crushed petal of a
whole flower
in a parlor decorated with sorrow.
let me show you the ways in which womanhood manifests
so that sometimes we can’t tell if we’re infatuated
or held captive.
let me sing you a song of winter coats
with the lining eaten by mice; soles worn thin.
a song of toothaches ignored
for bread,
a song of gunshots and bruises…
of chewing with my mouth closed lest I make a sound.
a song of apples rotting on the counter
while I bleed in the woodshed.
 |
| conjure (acrylic on canvas) |
spit or swallow (originally published in Tilde Literary Journal)
my bones are hollow
I’ve had to let go of so many pieces of myself
to make room for you
little crumbs dropped in fauna
to find my way home but
where
is home?
my arms are fractured
you’ve asked me to carry so much weight and I
have said yes and said yes and said yes and now
you are angry because I, because we, because she is saying
is saying
is screaming
NO.
I am not a rehabilitation program for broken
men.
the weight is too great and
and the anger is a ghost
and the fear is a powdery moth choking my words
so I spit it out.
I don’t swallow anymore.
