Ayn Frances dela Cruz

Ayn, 34, is Propsmaker and Chief Slave of Paper Monster Press. She publishes her work sporadically online and offline. She currently works as Project Manager of BEntrepreneur Magazine & Youtube Channel.

20-second story

 

I have allowed myself

To seep into the cracks of

Pavements.

My blood has stopped

The holes in roads.

 

When once you have read

Of my letters

You become me.

You become

More than I am.

 

I am so minute and so shallow

I fit into the ducts of your eye

And come out as tear.

You shed me always without knowing

Who I am

 

Without knowing my love for you.

A love blood-thick

That I become your pores.

 

You should hold me close always

And enfold me

In the locks of your hair

 

And keep me there

Secreted away

So I may never find my way out

So I may never find my way

Out of you.

 

 

The Bone Narratives

Ayn Frances dela Cruz

 

On a cycle, a seeming hunch

10, 000 bones are gathered

For one supreme tent, the skin

Holds beneath its folds.

A socket, a mandible, the jaw,

A hinge, completely spread

Seems like the revolutions

Of the sun on a fallen earth.

 

These are my pulp fictions,

My recurring history

Of histories, write it all

Down on these old bones,

There time calcifies, and I

Even as they become solidified

Wax, taming the always unseen

Deserts, only the heart

Is unpredictable, the bones go

On, recording the skin, becoming

A book of blood, a space, where

The old ghost writers rehearse

Their ectopic narratives.

 

In our ivory towers, in our sparse

Comfort rooms, the bones arch

And bend, and we plant them

In our gardens of time, waiting

For them, for us to bloom,

Those beautiful, deadly

Night-flowers, the flowering

Bones, the ones that rattle and

Shake their fists at passers-by.