Dear Anima


This is my first poetic composition. It contains 29 pieces; all of which I wrote during the first year of my transition.

I started E a year ago on 14Feb2022. To celebrate this momentous occasion of second puberty, I wanted to compile, edit and publish the pieces which embodied complex emotions, and the Absurd thoughts, whose breach irreversibly changed the trajectory of whichever path I thought I had followed. I have grown stronger just as the world has seemingly darkened—that is okay though.

I don’t really know a lot, and I get anxious talking about stuff; writing keeps the vibes from getting too blurry, so I appreciate the support.


With Love,

Sylvie Rheia Bernhardt


Lulu Paperback/E-book ~


A Shadow’s Dance


The sun, through his cyclical leaving,
Beneath a flaking horizon lies.
A sullen shift in tone deepens restless breathing.
How gentle the moon’s eye brushes wayward fireflies;
The silver light dangles pearls
Betwixt thickets of pines, whose darkness
Otherwise would have my mind consumed.

A hand, gentler than Mary’s yet warmer than Lucifer’s,
Lies atop mine. Blood boils within my veins.
Fires burst suddenly in dry brush ravines.
A rhythmic tremor, begotten of our crescent majesty,
Calls upon a symphony of silhouettes falling in step.
My shadow revels amidst the otherworldly chaos.

Her eyes project an endless void, speckled with
Spiraling stars, burning within twin chasms.
Steal this fleeting display.
Neither snapping twig nor
Crackling leaf will lead others
To our buttressed union of flame.

A nightly ritual has me possessed.
Her hands, which had seared my flesh,
Now touch me as friend—as sister.
Her marks melt with the sun’s rising rays.
Welcome sun; all is as it has been.
The moon wishes you a fine day.

To Live With Truth


The Gods may yet live to see
My spirit Overwhelmed
By their foul deeds.
Pewter shines true as silver.
I remain free to spite
The edict of our Lords.
Adorn my scarred wrist
With pink-dyed ribbons—
Soaked in oil,
Bound with iron,
Then set alight.

Hubris concerns the opinions of Gods,
Which I hold no desire to hear.
Acceptance wrought isolation
Waiting for the guardians
To grant me
To live.

I thought enough had been given;
Though I understand, blood
Isn’t the best gift—
There is always more
Until there isn’t.
We are injured. Our wounds
Are bound with the same fetters,
Which spoiled Fenrir’s innocence,
Hiding a betrayal of kin. Now
They bandage the lacerations
Of a different pantheon,
Sustained without faith,
For they never pretended
To love us.

Fear not this found warmth, friend.
Do not succumb,
When the light inevitably fades,
When your meds
Are deemed
Illicit, or
When our existence
Is judged

Body of Water


Each morning I take form,
Shaking loose the worms in my brain.
My consciousness decides the vestibule,
Which I am to commandeer.
I am alive? I question
To God or no one;
All while
Habitual force consumes
Any semblance of a soul
Prodded with pointed stick.
I always found amusement
With the strange and the foul.

My essence has not changed;
She remains soft, vulnerable and weak.
Try as I might to strengthen resolve—
Oil the tongue; crank the shaft—
Nothing dispels my ineptitude
For living in a world such as ours.
To appear is that which I am.
My glass affords neither safety,
Nor luxury. I am chipped,
And when I crack—which I do
Often and well—the pieces
Never seem to return.
I am tired of pain.
I am tired of losing
Parts of myself
I never knew I had.

The paint chips;
The cracks deepen.
I sprung a leak,
Fearing the side
Time had taken.
Soon, I surmise, little
Will be left of me.

I will find growth
Through gritty acceptance.
My faith holds firm and true,
For my lord of Smoke,
And my lord of Mirror.
Loosen the grip.
Embrace the fall
With whatever demeanor
Best suits the occasion.
Abandon vessel; I will find
Identity through anguish.



Why do they stare
As I walk past?
As if doing some wrong I
Stumbled outside my befitted station.
I admit to the foul deeds
Committed in ignorance or scorn.
But not this—this is good—
This is noble; this reflection
Seeks only to show a connection
Between the understandable
And the irredeemable.

The eyes of Argus gaze
From the ink-scratched journal,
Where I keep their judgements—
An accumulation of experience,
Education, temperament and chance,
Captured within the moment
Eyes as ours embrace.

I can tell you of them—
Their shapes and colors,
Hues and sparkles,
Moving about as acrobats,
Flying in contortions.
Reminders of beautiful,
Deep, oceanic blues,
And sweeping, grassy hills,
And speckles of hazel
Dripping through Autumn Leaves.
These contrast my twin dark receptors,
Whose beauty lies only
As a comparison to a better.

I can tell you what these eyes say,
Or what my mind insinuates from
The hasty glances and awkward contact.
The fixture of a smirk and a twinkle,
Whose relationship extends
No further than a false estimate
Toward the nature linking us.
Take it for what it is;
The desert offers as much comfort
As deemed we deserved.

I imagine my face
Appeared as yours does now
Only a year-or-so prior.
A grim stare, chiseled upon
Hollow bones, clawing
With shredded fingers
At an opportunity
To be seen.

The Sweeper


Dust-smeared bell jars sit
Upon plywood shelves, which I
Had constructed only this week.
Unsanded, unmeasured, and unstable
Are these beams, yet they hold
The weights of unlovable scenes.
Comets of passing time are sealed
Behind the ancient, glass frames.

Shadowy urges prey at sleepless,
Drunk hours. Let us pray for the
Mundane moments to bring us the pleasure
We sought elsewhere. Send me currents
Of scenes I have yet to witness.
Designed desire foreshadows
A life of prodigality.

The brain-rot
Has taken a new form.
This dreadful song
Released from
A bludgeoned chest, as
Crashing glass shattering
To a sea of hostile grains
Carried away by the fading
Of a silver-lining, then
Carved with sharpened steel.
Take pleasure in the process.

Maggots delight making
Feast from flaking flesh. As the
Cold cloaks upon our carcass,
An auspicious agreement,
Leaning against inevitable failure
Will feel the press of a bureaucratic seal.
Jokes drag upon the drape of a jester

For these shelves too will
Crush glass upon concave stone—
Swept, packaged, and returned.
Bottled stars are 86’ed.
But, I know the bartender,
And she owes me a favor.

I Hereby Present Myself Before The World’s Judgment


A shadow veils two worlds.
A touch trades
Security for freedom.
Fall’s foliage fades grey with passing days.
Winter’s eye looks upon me expectantly—
Promises were made.

An artist may indulge upon green hope.
A vain voice urges
Sending the product of madness
Astray in the world.
Directionless we wander
Purposefully toward chasms
Of unmeasured depth.

Seldom does kindness
Meet blind intent. Marks
Are interpreted. Gashing brush
Strokes are critiqued.
The skill was never truly there.
The style was off,
And the attitude
Did not conduce
With recollection.

Yet time moves as she wishes,
Hobbling ahead with
Hands intertwined.
Mingles with blind faith.
The young are swept away
By hands of God or King.

I submit
If you insist.
Never was
It my choice.
Call it a moral victory;
I am beat.

Stalwart boulders
Steadily erode as
Passing remarks.
Curious stares
And pitiful squeals
Wiggle between the cracks
And weakened points.
Torn fingers struggle
To grip onto the ground.
My mind could float
Off with a stream
Poisoned from the red paint
Brushed upon our doors.

So here I find myself,
Presenting for the first time
My naked, distorted and scarred
Body, thrown forth for all to see.
No longer will my voice echo protest.

Defense is futile.
Silence will not guard me,
But it is less effort.
All come to touch
And to gaze
Upon a creature
Such as myself.

Masks obscure their faces;
A deterrence in case
I am contagious.
Children laugh.
Whispers compound
With my mind’s depreciation.

The moon’s tears create
New constellations,
As she watches
The light
Burn another
Of her children.

The paint has escaped;
It runs dry and cracked.
The canvas, once struck
A shade of crimson, has since
Faded to shit brown.

No good will come
From my escape.
Never have I seen
A second chance
Thrown aside till now.
This time,
There will be no tears,
For pain and pleasure
Will cease offering comfort.

The world need not embrace me.
I walk confidently
With eyes unwavering
From the sun’s splintering rays.

Never again will man look upon me.
My fangs bare curses.
My spit froths.
My armor has long deteriorated.
Yet, feral feelings persist.

We live in an irrational time
For irrational souls to fear
Nothing but abdication.

Friend of Woe


Stay true, friend,
This compass points ever North.
Gentle paths rarely last.
Our seeking eyes never were
Fated to find false-promised gold.
“If my wandering feet
Don’t take me on dangerous ways,
Then, these days were wasted.”
So you said.

Mistakes were marked
With rocks and twigs,
Or scratched in trees.
We couldn’t find a bin,
So we stuck our trash in
Pockets, packs, and shoes.
Be wary.
Stray too far from this line;
Stroke curious fingers alongside
The silhouette of the forest’s edge;
Then, you will find your struggle.
Prudence dictates we warm cold hearts
Against the cooked iron-rails.
Free twisted souls
Such as ours from sorrow.

Dolorous droplets drip cyclically
Like noon church bells.
How easy, you must think,
It is to withstand
Such an ill-mannered leak.
Salt-stricken water soaks the earth
Beneath your bare feet.
A thousands twigs snap like fireworks.
What are a few nights of blurry sleep
Compared to the strength
A struggle as this will bring?
Your thumb prunes to the bone and a voice
You once had known dries to dust.

Step away from this madness.
See what sorrow breeds.
How small a crimson tide swirls,
Shifting and consuming all havens,
Having once thought safe.
Those drips did turn rogue.

A moment will come,
In which your breath
Weighs itself in the abyss
Of a stranger’s throat,
As memories repressed return
With a sinister conclusion.

A cool breeze of an Autumn night
Will snap you back to the world.
You will ask yourself then,
As life’s noose tightens,
If your mind was ever truly sound—
No answer will come to your lips.

Friend of woe explain nothing.
Silence speaks loud enough.
There is nothing you owe to those
Untested by uncharted courses.

Take my hand.
You merely must ask.
I think this struggle
Has gotten
Too real.
I can’t do much,
But sit here
With you—
If only for
A little while.

Crescent Cuts


Look there—
The moon has sharpened a khopesh.
Her silvery features flicker invitingly.

“Reach up,” she begs, “grasp
My handle. Pull me forth.”
I crawl along a sword’s crimson edge.

The slow streaking burn marks
My skin. Only the day’s glow
Stifles her will. At night
The whispers echo within-
A nightly butcher,
A dark thirst.

Look here—
The moon has made her mark.
Luna’s light seared my flesh;
Burnt from the kiss of
An ethereal blade.



If Caliban were to gaze upon its own flesh what would it think?
Monstrous legs, twisting like the tendrils of a mangrove, swathed with matted hair.
The skin beneath coarse and pale as if the sun herself were ashamed to look.
Scarred and damaged, its arms share a story of pain and self-inflicted misery;
Marks that ooze and spill and bubble at the lack of care given.
Its hands, in their grotesque form, fumble and break all that they touch.
The worst offense to God and nature occurs at the shoulders,
Broad and thick, hunched over and desolate of any beauty;
Clothes barely fit upon the back of the beast,
Never able to hide the features well enough to rid it of a stranger’s glare.
Its face—hideous, malformed and aged by years of self-hatred—harbors
Crude fibers, which sprout no matter how often a blade is taken.
Hair, coated in grime, falls scrappy and short.
Doomed never to feel the forgiving kiss of Spring’s breeze.
How does such an abomination live with itself,
Knowing that its soul and body will never be one?

Whom I Love


I thought it you, when all else had failed.
Yet, faith shatters, while examined
Through cynical eyes. Never would I have hailed
Lords greater than I. Service those marked sin

To find our perverted minds a new friend.
So, we may know the touch of pure kindness
On a shadowy night, while off the mend,
While feigning a newfound, holy blindness

To all our faults. To all I pushed away.
A pale, gaunt creature starves within my soul.
The morsels, scraped together, did decay.
Should she fail; then shall our twin fate’s lie cold.

Tearfully asking, who would love me now?
Love failed to relieve. Her will I avow.



Barbed blessings twist threaded
Truth. Cherry stains virgin lips,
As hope harbors our hearts still.

Carved cave remains unburdened
Underfoot. I would scribe runic texts
To cast understanding and rid hurt;
To place fellowship over demand
Of the body—of the heart,
If only to make myself clear.

Never again shall I fear.
Awaken fiends, we children of Hades.
Foul-stench dribbles from spoiled cassocks.
Tie violence to God to State to Us.
Shattered flint rock falls from blind fools
Attempts at reaching horded gold.

Never again shall I bleed.
Should ever this skin
Thin to shades of ghostly white.
No blade will I blame—none.
Sweet strawberry wine would rot
A motley mold to entrench false tongues.
Venomous froth to cry out for all death.

Seek forgiveness no more.
Corruption marks all eyes once familiar.

Glass Paradise


Do differences discomfort your delicate
Existence like a tiny crack in glassed paradise?
Worry not child of green pastures.
Discrepancies self correct.

My future harbors splatters of dusty-blood
Caked upon a sidewalk. Ownership
Falls upon the surface like Autumn’s barrage,
Weightlessly offering nothing more than a ripple.
The tool holds no life, so blame evades.

Children of the internet create companionship
In dark cells and cramped edges.
Sparks of electricity begotten before birth offer
Lies, lies, lies.
Always accountability dissipates.
Old money takes shelter behind institutions,
And uniforms with tools harboring no blame.
Life lives not behind the eyes of a hammer.
Life lives not behind static, screen-washed bowls
Brimming with salty, dark water.

Keep your family of glossy skin.
Porcelain dolls shatter with a drop,
I will take my chances of those cast
In brimstone and burning pitch. We few,
Who took the role of God and captain.

Ours are fate-weavers and warrior-kin;
A desecrated guild with nothing,
Save a desire for the taste of
Glassed paradise.

Frenzied Flock


Pestilence erupts
Violently through
Our judge’s throats.
Gleefully they declared
Downpours of acidic excretion
To bathe pale, sagging skin.

Intermixes with grease-
-Bubbling sludge
Through a shit-stained
Intestinal track.

Hands are bound,
Devoutly in prayer.
Coarse rope lies knotted.
Comfort corrupts.
So kneel. Bow low
With worship as duty.
Grape-squished knees
Conform to marbled
Pressure. Holy halls
Burst with angelic trumpets.

Bask in righteous light.
Sacrificial streams lead
The battle-wearied home.
Promised pastures bear fruit.
They take as they would.

“Others,” they said, “lacked conviction,
Spreading seed as fodder.
Never could mindless eyes,
Animals or vermin understand.
This truth bears weight.
Such burdens lie with
The victorious.”

Even now rain
Wipes stoned etchings.
Whore tongues
Splatter pleasantries;
Shepherds don medals,
Ribbons, rifle, and flame.
Butchers are extolled by the flock.

Beware foxes, beware.
Your cubs forfeit Summer hides.
Your hidey-holes no longer
Serve you sanctuary.
Perish ancient grove;
Perish brittle flicker
Of greying vessel.

Should venom mark
Rage through New Disciples,
Dip their hearts within Styx water.
Hell will therein follow.
Salvation scribbles
Across sinful veins
Never to bear loved fruit.

Anger justifies merciless theft.
Heaven’s Horn waits as mine to call.

A New Morning


Hear my plea, Oh timeless Queen,
For I had fallen into a feverish sleep.
Delirious state paired with futile means
Of days crashing like passing winds that weep.
I had drunk the serpent’s vile poison.
To cleanse the empty skin unchosen.

A twisting, dark dagger taken to heart
With tattered skin stripped from ivory bone.
A chance, perhaps, to shed this withered part?
Alas, gaunt faced and ghastly, Truth did show.
With calming song she nearly grasped my arm.
No. Quickly I woke away from harm.

Once, these sundering seas were to be my home,
Yet scarred was my path lying upon seeds I’d sown.
The temple beyond the forest is empty of worship.
A Firefly lit field littered of Druid’s ancient julep
Spurned within me a spark I once knew.
Atop an altar, beneath countless flickering eyes, I flew.

One last time, a blasphemous blade I will wield.
The blood I pour shall nourish this field.
Alone as a wight wailing within their barrow.
Only through pain can I awake from shadow.
No longer I wander through darkness and decay.
Light take me. Anew will be the day.



A wisp of air puffs from rosy-red cheeks to help
A devious strand of hair reunite with her
Sisters; each perfectly in step with the bounce
Of plastic heels through cobblestone alleys.

Thoughts of death slosh through her veins in slow,
chaotic bursts of fire—extinguished by bags
Burnt from streaks of salt. If Icarus had felt
The rush of gravity, would he have pointed at Heaven’s eye?

She no longer wished to see the Sun—
Perish from sight. Welcome Moon.
A sliver of light is all sinister work requires;
A silver partner steadies twitching nerves.

Shadowy thoughts show no outline in the darkness,
Save for a single dim glow beyond this cage.
The street lights have all, but one, gone out—
To be replaced every election cycle.

If hands had once slowed;
If tongues had once spoken freely,
Spoken true. “If’s” will catch
Hooks in our wings—never again.

A spark of light is all it takes
To show the moon her other.
As light to dark. As life to death.
So too will we meet ours.
Fade my silver saboteur
Allow ringing ears to simmer.



I stripped rugged imperfections
From four blocks of cherry and
Two of Spruce. Angles were impatiently sawed
Then glued, fitting awkwardly into place.
My brain repulses geometrical thoughts.
Never will these sides glide from corners.
The red-washed dust from sanding hands
Brushes away to find a fresh coat.

The stained surface is rubbed clean—
Stripped so not to hurt any other
With upended splinters and rough parts.
The parts that will never find love;
The parts that hurt her creator’s hand.
A stranger I must be to remnants
Of life older than I am destined.
Yet, it is these hands, which give
As much flesh as she.

So, I sand her down.
The gaps left from amateur eyes
Find fulfillment in glue-wrapped floor dust.
Patience paired with raw-rubbed fingers
Hide the obscenities well. None would
Be wiser of its imperfect creation.
This box, I’ve made, holds firm;
Beautiful and mine, a testament it is to
A steady hand and creative mind.

The motley contrast is to be ignored.
Different scraps tossed, glued, and
Worn thin till nothing but beauty
Would perception receive.
Polite compliments born of dull sight.
Never will they love the sting of splinters
Wedged between untested skin.
Crimson drops stain the edges.

I see her falseness.
She marked my hand
As much as I marked her.
Creation requires sacrificial serenity.
Scratched edges and imperfect cracks
Tells tales of tracks left behind.

It remains a box,
Holding my pages.

Do Not Take Comfort In Sorrow


My razor sits rusting,
Awaiting the Day with apathetic patience,
Beside a freshly made bed, within an
Unoccupied room. It is not the Day.
The other days dissipate in the mind,
Until their inevitable return rushes
Upon the senses as an unforeseen tidal wave;
Arisen from an otherworldly deity, whose
Wrath I incurred from a mindless existence.

I could never give myself to anything.
Their slogans and signs made me cringe;
Their cheers and jokes never hit.
I am not bitter. The best of them
Have done more for this world
Than I ever will care to do.
The glorious struggle
For meritorious assurance
Didn’t fill me with the wonder
I had prayed a higher purpose would.

I have committed myself
To doing the time—
No more, No less.
No guilt will weigh,
For I’m not sure if
I am capable of deeds—
Great or small.
But, I can do no evil,
And that is enough.
The razor reminds me
Of present options.

Do not confuse this for apathy.
The numbing of the soul takes
As a disease, rotting the heart
From a burrowing virus.
First, clarity was stolen;
Then, the math shifted uncomfortably
With percentages increasing as
The ticking of an internal clock.

Do not take comfort in Sorrow.
The binds are warm and safe,
But cold are the sheets
Protecting an obsessed spirit, who
Craves nothing more than the melody
Of a soft, despairing tune.

She is not a foe,
But she is not your love,
And Sorrow can only move
With your permission.
Her heart is in the right place,
But too much of her company,
Like weeks of enduring rain,
Will only drown your growth.
Allow her to pass
With an assurance
She will return
As a friend—
A confidante.

Dear Anima


Dear Anima,
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I’ve been depressed before;
I have hurt myself in the past,
But this pain is numbing.
I dream of running away.
To move is to struggle.
The weight threatens collapse
As I attempt to present in class.
My life has shattered
In the briefest of moments.
Brittle are these pieces,
Which lie scattered across
The darkening depths of a mind
Intent on self-destruction.
I think I’ve lost a part of myself.
My chest hurts, and I hate everything.
I don’t believe I will manage to repair.

Dear Anima,
Your words took ahold.
I fear assholes will use you
To hurt me.
There is no defense,
Other than apathy, so
Fuck them.
There is no escape here.
Wasted Potential.
I had known pain, but
I thought I was strong.
Yet, I withered against
A persistent mental decline.
I near pulling that lever,
Plummeting my body to the ether.
Thought is difficult.
Writing—fucking impossible.

Dear Anima,
How does the sun perform
In such routine perfection?
Every morning, his visage hangs,
Taunting my contrasting defeat.
All, which I had loved, is devoured;
The earth reveals its jaws,
Swallowing them,
Is it me?
It has to be.
Volatile reflections cater
To sinister delusions.
Shame showed her hand,
Yet it was too late.
My pride was long overwritten.
Words will never touch
Upon the truth.
I only impersonate those
Of much higher quality;
Otherwise, I am only me.
A subtle flame of insanity
Scorches the platform’s edge.
If only I were dead, then,
It wouldn’t matter.
I dined on abundance,
Growing soft, where
Others lean and calloused.
No friends exist to risk
Life and debt for a saga
Inscribed with my name.
By the time I realized
How much I hated
Being alone—
It was too late.
Homemade isolation
Created a creature of
Faithful self-hatred.
Disgust grapples with
Unbolstered pleas for
I want to be better,
But I’ll never find out.

Dear Anima,
Emotionally speaking,
I am struggling.
I’ve been in the darkness so long
I don’t think I remember the
Warmth of the sun.
I portray a different person,
Than I am, to the outside world.
My chest hurts.
I hate everything;
I don’t want to hate anything.

Dear Anima,
Alcohol binds my mind to my failures.
A dark spirit now grips my heart,
Intending to crush my chest each-and-every day.
Divine justice has come for some bygone sin
As forgotten and trivial as I.
I would really like to be happy.
I don’t recall being blissfully
Ignorant of my flaws.
The ‘gift’ of life is the most
Selfish act of mankind.
No child asks for this world
Of darkness, sin, and Facebook,
Yet here we are.
The rot in our system
Flakes into the minds
Of our parents, seeping
Into their blood
For us and our descendants
To inherit. I did not ask to be here.
But, I am bound to this world.
If others must suffer then what
Right do I have to call it quits?
Each day is a blessing,
For each day brings me one rotation
Closer to my last, where nonexistence
May finally return to me.
I wish I didn’t feel this way…
A lingering cold constricts my chest.
I have nothing.
I feel nothing.
I belong to nothing.

Dear Anima,
I need to write more.
I need to write, when
The days are better,
Else people will think
I’m insane, and leaning
Toward an inevitable
Self-inflicted death.
I came close once—
Or twice.
But, the wheel continues
To spin.
I’m learning new things.
I ordered an embroidery kit,
And wasted some money
On stocks.
I’m learning the guitar
It is okay.
I’m prepared
For it to blow up.

Dear Anima,
I hate my body.
The image others see
Is false. The sound
Of my name scrapes as nails
Upon a rotten, exposed tooth.
I had thought I hated being seen or
Recognized as a person to exist.
Now I see how I hated the flesh
Others bore witness.
It is so weird
Holy shit.
Fuck. Fuck.
My mind hurts.
My body hurts.
Any chance of coping
Has failed.
My mind is on the fritz.
I don’t know how I’ve made
It this far.
Clarity abandoned me;
Not that she was around
Much to begin with.

Dear Anima,
I wish things were simpler.
I do like myself.
I like my soul, or
Whatever that means.
I like music and
I love my friends but,
Things fall apart,
And rejection shakes any soul.
I just want to be the person
I envisioned myself becoming, but I
Don’t know how to change.
Thoughts of suicide,
But I’m going to keep going.
I want to be happy.

Dear Anima,
I deserve a medal for lasting this long
With only minor injuries sustained.
I’ve fought the urge
To shove a pen through my eye
Like a dart to the center.
I know people will see my cuts.
This is inevitable; hopefully,
They are too uncomfortable to say anything.
As they should, It’s none of their business.
Death asks us to work harder than life,
Yet I’ve torn my skin to the bone,
And it was courage I lacked all along.
I don’t see a future for myself.
Visions change to noose-knots and razor blades.
This week will go quick.
I Just need
To get through.

Dear Anima,
Therapy calls like morning song.
I feel gross.
I hate hiding my scars.
Existing is hard,
And the weight has gotten heavier.
I want to scream.
There’s nothing left.
It is easier to transfer
The sorrow through disassociation.

Dear Anima,
I went to grippy sock jail.
I met a bunch of cool people,
Who called me Jane.

Dear Anima,
I started;
I feel mostly normal,
But I’m going
Along with the motions.

Dear Anima,
I feel you
When I’m with her.
I love her,
But I’m jealous
Of what she wears,
And what she looks like,
And the people, who approach
With flashing smiles,
In bars and clubs.
It’s shitty of me.
I dwell on my faults.
I shouldn’t put too many
Expectations on myself,
Or my baggage
On my friends.
I am doing better.
Another month.

Dear Anima,
Strange to think
How we ended here.
The war has slowed,
Yet I am left anxious and shaky
As to what to make of things now.
I gave myself a tattoo.

Dear Anima,
I had my first shift.
I was asked
How much I paid for my ass.
It was free, just a few years
Of running to do the trick.
Work makes me anxious
In a good way.
I feel fine.
The future is untold and fogged.
May I find my dreams in this world.

Dear Anima,
Is how I expected.
It’s ok. Jacqueline says
This is how it is.
The anxiety has turned
To lead in my chest.
The world was always
Too fast for me;
Now, I have jumped into
The blurry motion of living.
Calm down.
You are beautiful.
You are smart;
You are kind,
And you are better now.
Fuck the greed-sodden fiends,
And their false-nobilities.

Dear Anima,
Why do people terrify me?
It doesn’t matter.
I quit.
The waves of pleasure
That come from a life
Of authenticity, accompany
A separate set of trials
And burdens. Only in this state
Of painful growth may we learn
To embrace the parts of our past
From which so much pain had stemmed.
The cost is exposure.
The fires of legislation
Will baptize this passage.

Dear Anima,
Look how beautiful we are.
Fingers—freshly painted pink—
Stretched out across our breasts
As Venus seeing the sight of land
For her very first time.
I too gaze ahead toward
A foggy shoreline.
I know not which way to tread.
If I did, then, I would never
Ruin the experience for another.
How beautiful we are
To lay our body bare before the world.

Wayward Moth


Did you discover comfort
In the sun’s loving light?
So long has night ruled;
Did darkness dull delights?
Come, I find the warmth strange,
Yet I dare not look back.

Light Spots


Blind courage
Has moved me once more.
Scabbed, yet gently painted,

My toes brush the dirt aside
To check for glass or unknown
Hurts. Others,

Blind in their own nature,
Shatter shards of pain
On the path I follow.

Pilgrims, passing through, will
Look upon me with jealous,
Tired eyes. Beneath my

Brown iris, fervent fear
Streaks through like
Darkened ink stains.

The universe must look
Upon me in pity.
Cast this doubt away.

I do not.
Not yet.
Tightened to my waist

A flimsy measure
To hold me in case this
Path turns traitorous.

In spite of the valiant effort
From my war-torn toes,
Glass cuts through.

Thorns pierce.
The knots

Making breathing
Difficult. Yet, there

A spot of light,
Splitting the canopy
Of leaves, and landing

On the palm
Of my outstretched hands.
Holy reverence.

A light,
I failed to see
Before my soul’s rupture.

The path is dark, misty,
Cold and beautiful. Maybe
At the end I will be showered in sunlight.

Lead me blind courage;
Lift my foot once more.

Fair Face


This face, I wear, travels
Tired, lonesome, yet fair.
Scratched with fine razor,
Smoothed with sandstone, and
Altered from an altruistic pour
Of Freyja’s tenderest draught.
Magic may mask my madness

The Fire-Tender’s Oath


My hearth radiates
A crimson-gold hue
Upon the exposed arms
Of cushioned chairs
And chartreuse sofas,
Surrounding a single,
Stained, mahogany table,
Covered in scraps
Of ink-scratched paper.
The flames whisper
Soothing comforts.
My soul still shakes;
Though she shared,
But the briefest
Touch of a dark frost.
Ease those churning thoughts—
Find company with fire.

So long as this hearth
Embraces my hall,
Goodwill be given to all.
Open and varnished red,
My door swings inward.
A life with fire
Forms a Goddess
From a woman.
The truest gifts
Are those given
For our commonality;
The ones whose use
Is not ordained by
A tyrant’s orders.
Let us share this light
And give worship
Through song and tale.
Never shall I forget
The sin of our savior.

The world had not always
Known the warmth
A hearth-held home offers.
Once the shadows
Had brought danger.
Beware. Beware.
Dark days await.
What will hold
The night at bay?
When cowards rise rash
To a violent rage,
Not much stands
In my little light’s way.

The Gods will declare
With the same thunder
As a storm, whose
Coming occurs once
The old die and
The young forget.
Another chance to
Usurp the throne
We gave to the sun’s
True begotten son.

They will bow low
Through zealous reverence
To the heaven’s edict.
Take your children to the
Deepest caverns, where
Stalagmites drip murky water.
Pray in fervent fear for
The sun, whose light
Protects only half the day.
This, by all logic,
Made sense.
This was fair.
What right had we
To take more than
Gods had given?

The massed hogs now
Lie with us in filth,
Though they slobbered
And squealed for a chance
To nestle their shaved, pink
Protruding skulls betwixt the bosom
Of Lordly shepherds.
Why should I hate a pig
For dreaming pig dreams?
Cool, muddy, puddles and
Scraps of rotten fruit to fill.
I wish for different things;
Though, they might as well be the same
For all the good wishes do.

Oh, tyrant Gods,
Leave my hearth be.
Prometheus alone suffers
For the kinship we now hold.
Why should his anguish
Not satisfy your sacrificial demands?
The Fire-thief beat the
Heavens with neither brawn,
Nor blade, but with wit,
Honest crime, and pure heart.
The halls of heroes shall
Herald shunned saviors
All the same; though let pain
Not be a necessity of virtue.

This oath I take
Solemn and true;
To my friends,
My foes and
To my siblings,
Which we are all;
My blood binds
To this fire’s fate.
My hearth I will tend
With loving dedication,
So the light shines freely,
So the light shines kindly;
However, should ever these flames
Flicker or wane or fade
By decree of God,
Or their lords,
Or their creatures,
Or their livestock;
Then, so too does my contract expire.
Warmth will cease to echo across my walls,
For a shadowless fire burns wicked and
Pure, yet restrained with dedication,
Through the craft my kin gave.
I need permission from no God,
For my fire scorches
All creatures,
Who dare come near.
The earth will liquefy
Beside the heat of a bestial fury.
Let Zeus fear the gift of Prometheus.



A subtle swoop of a patterned seam with
Warped colors, gliding from the sleeve;
The bottom hem blows in the breeze.
I found purpose in movement across
The cobblestone streets of Amsterdam.

Some unfortunate few never witnessed
A Goddess pass in public.
Let their stares embolden a spark
Of a suppressed matchstick.
Burn, girl; burn
With the spinning rush of the world.
Make them wonder the identity
Of your Goddess.
A smile followed by a quick,
Sudden breath to blow a wayward strand
Back to her perfect place.

The Specter Between Our Sheets


Darkness subsides as
A strike of a lighter
Blinds our eyes.


Breathe out.
The smoke obscures
Thoughts a while

Your hands fall away from mine.
Between our sheets, He sits,
Cuddling our nude frames.

I begged you once.
Your touch will leave a scar.
No mind you paid,
For you had laid your claim.

Now you say my skin is too familiar.
Memories of the past distract our bliss.
A visage hangs upon me like cursed mists.

I am all those things my lover. I am
Moonlit swims naked in rivers near
The tree where our lips first embraced.

Our love was friendship.
Do you see me?
Why do you want the world
To stay as it is?
Recognition wrings shame
Through your tired eyes.

Touch me on my nose.
Do you feel my breasts?
Can we find love
In echoes of past pain?
Please hold me my friend.
Let this spirit rest.
Let this spirit rest.

There Lies Life


Those nights had felt
Much the same as this.
Drops of individual thought
Fell through my throat,
Compiling into a briny sea
Within tar-covered lungs.
She came to me like
Cravings of nicotine.
I cut myself to see,
If my blood was green;
It wasn’t, so I can’t
Be sure what that says about me.

Weightlessly another nameless spirit
Drifts directionless through the void.
A shock had confused the senses,
Mutilating physical sensations.
So, her heart finally stirred in protest.
A violent expulsion, rippling
The life from her neglected suit.

We assumed relief or peace, but
As the pulsing heat within her veins softened,
And the shade of color drained from vision,
And the realization had come and left
—forgotten and unimportant.
The understanding, which we had known
Our life was to end as it had
Upon the first demented dream
To enter her unbloodied wrist
Makes for trivial amusement.

I knew it to be this way,
For the same reason
We know anything.
Reflect the writing within
To show the master’s hand.
What we do with knowledge
Weighs as much without it.

I have known this, as I’ve known you
Once, as a comforting reminder
That death’s desserts arrive—albeit
Later than expected—though, just as enthused
Are we to not be.
She never found the words,
But I’ve made peace.

This was the warmth of a friend,
Whose return was as routine as meeting
By the Old Wye Mill after sixth period
Armed with a scandalous scrap of gossip,
Accompanying a fiendish smirk, sandwiched
Between two sets of pink, spiraling dimples.

This place holds no marks familiar to the mill,
Nor any place we had visited, except
For the timeless moments asleep.
I know her question before her lips parted.
Had pleasure been all
Which the oracles had sung?
Or intelligence, or wisdom, or love?
Did knowing bring peace, or
Love fulfillment? What of happiness?
What made you smile? Of all things,
Those are to be cherished the most.

In truth,
I confused the high for reason,
Believing in whatever felt sincere—
Blaming whatever I felt I needed to.
Those wounds had felt so real
Only a lifetime ago.

The stars whirl through the endless cosmos
Upon the seams of my dress, sending a breath
Of wind through the gnarled braids of vagabonds,
Troubadours, bandits, priests and knaves alike.
Though I had no feet, I danced. Though sounds
Failed to pierce, I continued hearing their tunes.
Growth and movement are all I cling to.
If one were to cease,
Then, I am all I was to be.

Our energies embrace, though
I recall lonesome nights
Beneath shattered black skies
With tears obscuring the flickering
Glow of fireflies and celestial lights;
Oh days of tramping through spiked thorn bushes
And the vicious droppings of holly trees,
Which burrowed within the folds of fabric.
Our youthful light not yet tarnished
With jarring pains, pangs,
And suspicious libations from lofty bastards,
Who touch themselves to thoughts of status.
Be quick to preserve our truths.
A cycle of treachery forces the ink stains
To fade before the pen can remind the soul
Of what it had already known.

Dearest friend,
You, whose light shone clearest
Amidst nights of sorrow and spins,
Or the drugs and fake friends,
Led me from the lies she’d conjure
Like a demented host with a crusty
Rag covering our evening mistake.
I had never feared death; neither the pain,
nor the tremors, nor the ones I’d leave behind.
Take the words she wrote in this life,
And toss them wherever our carcass lies;
They were always for her.
I hope the others might forgive, for
I had never felt the spark of creation,
Til we reunited—my soul’s flame.
Should our paths falter as they have,
then find me wherever I am pushed,
For my life is as empty as a promise without
The presence you instilled upon my demeanor,
And the fortification of my character.
Lead me against whatever weather,
Fair or treacherous—It matters not.
I never feared death, nor the pain,
And I won’t fear our parting.
We lost each other once
And we may again,
But our threads
Are intertwined
In the nameless
Lives lived.

Maidens of Flower

(To H.H. & M.K.)


Foot tracks are all that remain.
Gaia has yet to notice our thievery.
Stained are our lavender lips.
Empty reed baskets lay ransacked.

Friends as we frolic in floral sundresses.
The bottom seams are ripped, ragged
And raw—painted from ancient,
Grassy brushstrokes.

Crisscrossed, we sit, beneath the outstretched arms
Of a mother maple. Dandelions, we had knotted
In perfect succession, lay near.

Bow before Father Sun.
Allow me to crown us Queens.



Burning bridges collide to block my ears
From the words they shout
Which beckon tears.
Their screams and taunts fall idly aside
As my wandering feet pass on by.

Inch by inch leads to miles along the road
And I’m not so strong in courage.
I’ve been known to bend to fear,
But when I was young I dreamt of better years.
A chance for happy tunes, and maybe love
Should this life be lucky.
With this in my heart I carry on.
I don’t know the way, but everyday,
I’ll keep on pushing on.
Every mile will carry me home.

And brother take it easy if you must
The road is long and hard.
It’ll break your soul,
But only if you let it.
In my heart and in my head you can trust.
Though I’m not so strong, and my courage cold,
I will hold your burdens awhile.
As children together we shed our blood.
Inch by inch leads to miles along the road.
I know not the way, but
I’ll shoulder your weight.
One of these days we’ll be home
One of these days we’ll be home.

Sister, cry if you must
For tears are of the love
And of the life we hold dear.
In my head and in my heart you can trust,
Though, I’ve been known to stumble;
I’ve been known to fall;
I’ve been known to cry out,
And at times I’ve cursed you all.
Still, I remember as children,
When you held my hand.
Inch by inch leads to miles along the road.
I know not the way, yet
I’ll shoulder your weight.
And one of these days we’ll be home.
One of these days we’ll be home.

The blood we shared
And battles fared
Kept the darkness at bay;
Our love forever remains awake.
Though the road is long and pain
Will come along. Just know,
It’ll make family of us all.
It’ll make family of us all.

Inch by inch leads to miles.
I know not the way,
but I can shoulder your weight,
And one of these days
We’ll be home.

Spring’s Song


As a petal peels out in the sunlight
Spring’s kiss softens the soil. Come to me
Sweet, cool air. There is, within me, a blight
I have long wished to expel; Away flee!

Frozen at heart, their dark, icy tendrils
Pried on my goddess’ light. Her worn eyes
Knew only despair. Arthur’s grail now fills.
Drink to a new life. Rebirth without lies.

A new name chosen for a nameless soul.
Feeling flows through the arms of a dead boy.
Mourn if you must; there is no grave, nor hole,
Nor a casket. A girl has found her joy.

At the ends of outstretched fingertips
The rising sun blows kisses from his lips.

Scars and Lipstick


This is a wonder;
This subtle rhythm
Beating as a fat
Bumble bee’s wings.
Freshly steamed I stand
Mostly unharmed—
The scars have faded.
Tears, pokes and prods
At one point blessed this body,
Before I was myself.
An alien held a mask,
Which I tore upon and bit;
Gnawed like a trapped animal
Knowing only its destined slaughter.
I was only saved through
The desperate gropes
Of her savage nature.

Here I am;
Unimpressive—I know—
Unnatural proportions and
Extra things
I wish I never had.
But, Upon myself
I can now look
Without a tear slipping
Its way through the leather.

The face I once
Had loathed,
Has softened.
I can swipe a manicured hand
Across this foggy mirror,
And not struggle to fight
Her desperate attempt at tossing
Myself against the glass,
Till the shards bite deep enough
For this costume to give,
Sliding our peeling flesh
Into these rusty pipes.

There, my eye,
So gentle it appears;
Reflective of the good,
Which I had hidden.
No more will I cower.
She shines in the center;
A delicate fire, tending
To the needs of the soul.
Is this what it means
To feel my heart beat,
And not wish it to cease?

This feeling so small—
Delicate and easy for
Others to crush and mangle.
Remember. Remember
The price we paid,
And the skin we scarred,
Scaling this slope.

I wiggle my hips;
I smile.

About the Author~

Sylvie is dope; She grew up on the Chesapeake, is a graduate of the Naval Academy, and a writer of things. In her free-time, Sylvie creates leather bags, and reads about miscellaneous subjects to enthrall any unfortunate stranger, happening to sit near her at the bar.

Referenced In:

29 thoughts on “Dear Anima

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s