Excerpt for Bloom: The Deluxe Edition by , available in its entirety at Smashwords


l e x y c o u r n e y a


Copyright 2017 Lexy Courneya

Published by Lexy Courneya at Smashwords

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sneak preview

about the author

connect with me


dedicated to my best friend,

my miracle grow™


how the clouds formed

in the beginning

when the sky was black coffee

god poured in some cream

overcoming writers’ block

floodgates burst open

words pour out onto the page

i’m dehydrated

literary catheters

pens – the catheters

through which black words drip into

the vessel of verse

divine dandruff

god scratches his head;

immaculate flakes descend

onto outstretched tongues

infinite cosmos

cradled in the void

the madonna is rocking

forwards and backwards

knitting a blanket

sapphire blue and strewn with pearls

back and forth, always


cicadas come of age

breasts bud on virgin

flesh, bursting from topsoil

like cicadas come of age

concrete jungle

the concrete jungle

teems with lemons, oil rainbows,

and pedal pushers

riot time reverie

clouds traverse the sky

like cauliflower riding

a conveyor belt

when you feel unloved

when you feel unloved, imagine that you are cradled by mother earth, encircled by sweet smelling flowers and blanketed by the warmth of the sun. seek solace in the beautiful imperfection of the tangled trees and the unkept foliage around you. with their encompassing embrace, they obscure your presence, protecting you from the harsh realities of the man-made world. you are safe and free to be yourself.

beauty in chaos

no matter how hard you try to tie up your life in a neat little bow, it will always remain a tangled mess. unlike knotted earbuds, you can’t throw your life away when its imperfections frustrate you. you must find beauty in the chaos.

glory! glory!

the optimistic mind

commands you to

drop to your

knees and




which your

eyes graciously

bestow upon your

abused flesh,

tilled (or torn) by

sharp tools and even

sharper words.

you do so reluctantly,

because you learned

very young

not to add

salt to wounds.

the saline stings

as it

seeps into

the scratches.

but the pain

is preparation for

proper healing.

your tears coax

life from

the devastation;


bleed green and

scab over with

saplings and


the optimistic mind

commands you to

rise up



your hands

to the once

saturated skeye.

glory! glory!



from your



covetable fruit,

gleaming in the

light of reality,

graces your

outstretched arms.

glory! glory!


your limbs hold

the knowledge of

good and evil

and your

trunk possesses the

strength of diamonds.

mother sun

“mama!” saplings wail

their limbs reach for their solace–

the life-giving sun

how to remove stingers from buzzing memories

not all memories can produce honey like honey bees. some memories are born of wasps and hornets. others are apian princes, royal pollinators of the buds of reminiscence. accept this truth, and the stinging will subside, alleviation your compensation.


contents of the mind

snapshots of life

taken at irregular intervals.

evaporated teardrops

and emotions eroded by time.

a collage of puzzle pieces

and futile attempts to assemble them.

a hazy depiction of who i am

and who i will become.

epiphanies that only spark


pages blank to the naked eye

that spell out what i feel inside.

questions that lurk

in the shadows of my mind.

metaphors, similes,

paradoxes. . . .

the twists and turns

of a road called life;

i maneuver with uncertainty

towards a goal unknown

and a fate unseen.

false leads,

dead ends,

and a mystery left


toilet thoughts (a futile flush)


the word that spins

around and around

the porcelain throne

that is

my skull.

with each rotation, it gets

closer and closer

to the ominous portal

that will

transport it to the


chaotic ocean–

a subconscious

in which

dialectical waste is

preserved by

tear-derived salt

for eternity.

with each rotation,

those three indelible letters

f a d e

from my

worn, disheveled mind

like ketchup residue on

chinaware during a

rinse cycle –

an illusion of release shattered

by the discarded linen cloths

(of a cognitive mummy)

clogging their path to perishment.

each cell of my

downtrodden being sighs,

will this linguistic leech

forever gorge on

my brain,

depriving it of


this parasitic interrogative

procreates, producing

alphabetical spawn that


faster than

primitive rabbits.

the lettered pathogens

threaten to overspread their

ivory petri dish.

words rise in the

toilet bowl of my mind,

rushing to the rim so as to

jump ship like

jack and rose.

quickly, i

lunge for a plunger.

the portable,

plastic, ball-


pen with which i

catheterize my brain

allows limpid words to





into the vessel of poetry.

finally, i feel relief.

the smoker

exorcist addicts

watch dark spirits rise from lit

cigarettes, entranced


deep in the concrete jungle,

along the highway


one with a

blue complexion

admires His


in the window

of a store’s


rama waits outside

for sita.

rama is an



he lights a fag

between his teeth

and watches

the dark spirit

drift away.

a moth is drawn to

His light.



towards Him.

clothed in drag,

clothing drags

Her down,

but sHe can’t strip.

not here.

only butterflies

can abandon their


sHe can metamorphose,

though only externally.

strands of

cubic zirconium

dangle before rama –

strands of which sHe is


sHe is not simply

a beautiful mirage.



for rama.



for Her.

prostrate and


blue and


could it be


sita emerges from the store

like a butterfly from a chrysalis.



on clothing

when sita

sets rama



disguise rips

at the seams.

sHe is

flooded with


if one is uranian

does that make one an alien?

naka is crooked.

rama is straight.

but sHe can’t be crooked.

not here.

all must be

straight in

mother russia.

must one be hetero

to be a homo sapien?

now rama must

set things straight.

rama is an



he lights the fag

between His teeth

and watches

the dark spirit

drift away.

once a beauty

now a beast,



is the same?

is one’s heart


without the


* in the ramayana, soorpanaka falls in love with rama. when she appears to rama as a beautiful maiden, rama is entranced by her beauty. when sita appears, however, soorpanaka's true identity is revealed. soorpanaka is cast off because she is demonic. through comparing homophobia in russia to demonophobia in the ramayana, i hope to convey that love is love, regardless of gender.

what is normal?

with no two the same

each human is different

does that make us strange?

we call others strange

if they are not the same as

most of the others

but if most others

are not the same, then why must

they call others strange?

if we are all strange

then strange is normalcy and

normalcy is strange

when my eyes are closed

blinded by beauty,

riches, and fame, i see best

when my eyes are closed

silver tongues are gold

nothing matters more

than the mating call of an

albino peacock


cacophonous cradlesong

feuds in the night –

my cacophonous cradlesongs –

keep my eyes wide shut

insomniac mirage

as restless as the

ocean tide, i drift upon

the seas of slumber

let me in

drained tear ducts and dreamless nights make for dry eyes. i yearn to peek through the windows to your soul, but the lights within them have dimmed and the shades have been drawn. damn you! my pupils desire to rendezvous with yours. won’t you let them?

star (siren of the night)

siren of the night,

i scale the alps to reach you,

and you spurn my hand?


insults grow on your

fingernails–talons with which

you lacerate me

corpus flori

my heart

was once

impregnated with

concentrated love.

then melancholy

thrust forward

its jealous sword,

leaving lamprocapnos

spectabilis behind.

i waited for a savior

to darn my

bleeding heart,

a savior which

never came.


depleted of ardor,

i burrow into

a potpourri satchet,

hoping that


will adore

the bittersweet redolence

of my withered remains.

too shallow

brackish rivulets

wander my cheeks, taunting–too

shallow to drown in.

rest for the weary

god draws a deep breath

and blows out the candlelight;

all good things must end

hydrogen bond


are an

oxygen molecule –

a concept

intangible yet


welcome is the

sting of remembrance,

preferable to the

dullness of disremembrance.

i wouldn’t dare erase

the recollections

of our love – like a

hydrogen bond, they keep

you and me



a p a r t.

kidney stones

don’t despair, my love.

life’s kidney stones will pass, though

not bereft of throes

sad girls

sad girls

are still–

beautiful girls

happiness will come

does the sun shine as brightly on the way things are right now? perhaps not, but the sun can shine as brightly on the way things will be.


cash or credit

to him

replying with

i love you

is like

paying with credit when

he only accepts cash.

he demands tangible compensation.

he desires golden dollars–

shiny girls whom he can

touch and feel and use.

he wants to

hold their faces

in his

greedy palms and

say with covetous eyes

you are mine.

affidavits of a rape victim

he will always live within me

like a twin absorbed in the womb

or the zika virus, rousing when

it comes time to bear children.

he will exist

in my memories,

in my voice when i say no,

in images of tall men with greedy fingers

locked in my hypervigilant gaze.

a former courter in a courtroom.

expression cold and eyes dead

as bullet casings,

immorality solidified

by medusa’s snakes.

his facade masks all

traces of culpability –

the lines which he made

and crossed with his

unwelcome touch.

he possesses

the remorselessness of

either sinner or saint,

his face an interrogation lamp

burning with suspicion.

with flushed cheeks,

i check

and recheck

the locks

on the door to my sanity,

smelling the sheets

for signs of a rat,

listening to the tapes

for sounds of consent,

recounting my steps

until I’m back where i started,

my virginity still intact.

i convict him


and time again.

he is guilty,

i mumble to myself.

he is guilty.

he is guilty.

he is guilty.

he is guilty.


my compulsion

to confirm the crimes

proves as

insatiable as

the man who

committed them.

my fingers feverishly

transcribe my truths in

tangible form

so that they may become


affidavits which

i compose for myself.

an affidavit.

an affidavit.

another affidavit.

only yes means yes

you claim that

staging a coup

against my sovereignty

was merely

a "miscommunication,"

a “misunderstanding.”

but the real


lies in

believing the sincerity of your

sorcerous fabrications.


your soul

finds solace in the

teachings of narcissus,

my shuddering soul

spends its days

translating hexes into honesty.

i love you.

actually meant–

i love your silhouette.

i want to spend the rest of my life with you.

actually meant–

i want to spend the rest of this moment ravaging your flesh.

i want to demonstrate how much I love you.

actually meant–

i will trespass on your boundaries, your innocent skin.

you are mine.

actually meant–

i now possess the deed to your body.

my soul has already wasted hours

rendering my words into

legions of languages

in search of opportunities for misinterpretation &

determining if the spaces

between letters left room for

false impressions.

and let me tell you this:

rejection tastes the same

to every tongue.

i’m not ready for this!

always means–



always means–



always means–



always means–


be not mistaken, he whom I have

banished from my queendom:

only yes means yes.

dear rapist

assaulting is awfully similar to

assassinating. they both begin with

an ass. an ass like you. and end with

an assignment to hell.

dear victim-survivor

remember that

you are


and believed

in the eyes of

those who


stay strong,

my love,

for things will

get better.

and above all,

heed these words:

your voice

holds a power


by the


more than your trauma

it may seem that selfhood is an illusion, if not a privilege for the lucky. but you must spurn the notion that you are nothing more than trauma's carcass. like a vulture, scour the vestiges of your being for a semblance of untainted identity. string together the pieces of yourself that are unrelated to abuse – your authentic self – as well as embrace the aspects of yourself which trauma created – your acquired self. learn to love all of your component parts, even if that means coming to terms with your hybrid nature; begin to exist in the overlapping section of your identities rather than futilely attempt to establish residence in one or the other.

you, my dear, are an arnold palmer. you are half original and half trauma, but entirely human.

sneak preview

favorite funeral

boys will be boys” – an

epigraph on the tombstone

of our rape culture

absent adoration (starved hearts)

to those with shrapnel for mothers –

caregivers who leave their children


like a fragmented sentence

to those who cling fast to

human companions

and burrow themselves into the

chests of men,

suckling maternal love

from a wet nurse’s bosom,


who envelop themselves

in bodily warmth and

hearken heartbeats as though

they’re eavesdropping behind

tightly-closed doors –

attempts at manufacturing a

memory of when their mothers

held them close

to those who unravel

when they’re alone,

you must love yourself

thrice as much

so that you don’t grasp at mirages

to satisfy your starved heart

me to me:

you are the love of my life.

combing for clovers

you can’t live life with

slumped shoulders and downcast eyes,

searching for some luck

misplaced luck

clover fields littered

with cockroaches–luck spent on

those born immortal

how the clouds formed ii

god is always high

making white lines in the sky –

a cocaine addict

as if he won’t remember

teach bravery to

your tongue; talk as though he who

listens speaks slurred words.

the healer


words drip from his lips like warm

honey, descending

into the kettle

of aqueous anguish lodged

within my ribcage.

somewhere between my

failing heart and compromised

lungs, tempestuous

wellwater transforms

into sweetened tea. His tongue

provides remedies.

about the author

Lexy Courneya is a college freshman whose love of poetry began in middle school. This book, which Lexy began writing 6 years ago, documents Lexy’s journey through abuse, sexual assault, and various mental health struggles. Lexy hopes that her poems about trauma will provide validation and comfort to others who’ve experienced trauma as well as raise awareness about sources of trauma, namely sexual violence.

connect with me

Thank you so much for reading my first book! Here are my social media sites:

Send me an email: theblondestpoet@gmail.com

Follow me in Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/haikuheathen/?hl=en

Check out my Tumblr: http://sloths-and-selfcare.tumblr.com/

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