Poetry And Art By Featured Artist, Mela Blust

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
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
  I am not a rehabilitation program for broken 
the weight is too great and
    and the anger is a ghost 
        and the fear is a powdery moth choking my words
                   so I spiit out.
I don’t swallow anymore.