.she became a seabed noanchor could grip, with ahabit of turning everythinginto a shipwreck
.i feel nothingnothing takes its perch on myarm in the morningtalons poking holes throughmy tissue paper skin,sits with me for breakfasti see nothing in the mirror,a dead-eyed frowning thingnothing gives me a kiss goodbye andsays it will be here wheni get back
.the reaper playssolitaire when he's gotsome time to killbut when your time'sup it's back to work, coshe's gotta make a livinglike the rest of us
.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
.death says he's a busy mangot places to go andpeople to seebook an appointment on the way out
.she wants to taste the moonbetween forefinger and thumb sheplucks it from the sky, and likesome great pearly gobstopperrolls it over her tongue,licks the dust from herlips,shuts her eyesand smiles
.i want to sink intothe earthand rise up againblooming
fracturesbindweed lungs spill throughmy oak branch ribs,up my throat andaround my thorny tonguemake their way down tocross my clavicles,elbows and cracked milkywriststhey hold me tighter than you ever did
.my cat has ninelives and i fear he willspend each one doingthe same fuckingthingstaring out of thewindow at the birds onthe fence, when he could beout there, sinking histeeth in
.in the nighttime you arebetter; moonlightembroiders yourskin and stitchesyou up with apurer love, untilthe morning comes,the sun runs histeeth through yourseams again, splitsyou open
.when her love left, it leftthe house emptyand she saysi hope one day it'llcome back to me,cos i don't keep this shotgunon my front porch for nothin'
.i've been breaking out ofhell, but the devil don'tstop mehe slips a return ticketinto my pocket and says,you're gonna wannause this, kid
.and i stopped killing spiderswhen i realized that we are both just tryingto make our way in the worldand he hasn't got a cluehow he ended up on my bathroom floorand i can turn out the lights tostop the moths from killing themselvesbut i can't turn off my brain andstop myself from doing the same
.i want words in my skinit is not enough for themto sit just on the undersidei want to feel them gathered inthe creases of my joints andi want to see them forming in my fingerprintsup closei want to see every last inch black and blue
.he splits hearts likeoranges in themorningsinks his teeth intoripened flesh, andleaves nothing but therind, too hard toswallow
.i would shed my skinwith autumn, but my veins wouldcrack like the dry leaves
astronomer's insomniapour in milky waystir until planets dissolveturn, avoid the sun
.i am empty,insides carved out likepumpkins on halloweenand i will tell the kids thattreats come with trickscosi was born with something eventhe night can't hide
how to be a poet: the basics.kiss all the peopleyou know you shouldn't,solely for the reasonthat they look goodin stanzas. look at your scarslike mothers peer into cradles. then makemore; make yourself intoa symbol for infinity,or at least try,because it never works. patch yourself up. say, "darling, you're okay," while staring at yourself in the mirror with your hairdamp and your lipschapped (refer to stanza one). change. grow. it's what we like to read, isn't it?miss the people in your lifeuntil they leave,and then miss yourselfas well. screw everything up,and then write about itlike it had to happen.try to believe it, ignorethe voice in your head that hissesand groans in your sleep,behind your eyelids."baby, you're a fuck up,you know it know it know it".try to carve the hummingout of your bodyby exit way of your veins. be hospitalized. give in, give up,play along, stop writing. get better. but then you start writi
Ephemeral1.i wake up and tear the sunfrom the sky like this is agrade school art project and iam supposed to share somethingworthy of myself-- i thinkthere is a black hole nestledbetwixt my lonely ribs,devouring anything alive.on days like these, my greatest weaknessis weakness and i am my own fatal flaw.we live by mantras and my ears ring‘i hate every piece of me’(he put his head to my chestand heard me dying;call me beautiful now)2.we are the false ends of sunkenuniverses, we are pieces ofdead galaxies and you arestardust, god, you arebeautiful.i believe that this is all just a dreamby someone with an imaginationbigger than the word “no,” that weare pawns in a game not worthremembering, but when i’m with youi’m real.i never took kindly to thingsthat required codependency,the uncalloused portionof my frostbitten heartbut god, you arebeautiful.
Kayaking at 7am on Blackridgeraindrops crackthe glass of the lakestartling silverand scarlet fishgone in a blinkagainst the sedimentand graspinglakeweedthe sweepof my paddlecleaves ripplesagainst themermaid greenwatersenticing richnessas the restless-dogwind bitthe heels of the stormand the sunshouldered pastthe lakegleamedlike the sky
inconsolable,iburied my skinin my gutin the flowerbedof my intestines soi could hold outbeing open and rawand feeblelong enoughfor my flypaper lungsto seep you inand spit you outinto my bloodstreamas you pass throughthe cardiac chambersthat bound me toyou
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
Pears and Peaches (Things They Don't Teach Us)On Monday, he eats peaches. His right arm is curled against his chest like an embryo and as I hurry by, I imagine that it is a side effect of a stroke brought on by grief. On Tuesday, he eats mandarins. He clutches the fruit in his right hand and peels it with the stiffened, arthritic fingers of his left. As I hurry by, I imagine that he earned that arthritis with a lifetime of labor. On Wednesday, he eats bananas. He peels the fruit slowly, his rheumy eyes lost to memory. As I hurry by, I wonder if he is thinking of a lover. On Thursday, he eats grapes. Some of them are brown and pitted, liver-spotted like his skin. As I hurry by, I wonder if he made it to the supermarket this week or if they are all that was left from the week before. On Friday, he eats cherries. They are a rich burgundy and his lips are bleeding with the colour of them. As I hurry by, I notice that he has tucked cherries over his ears and he is smiling. On Saturday, he does not eat
between the pineswhen i ask who you are,stray ghost,do not tell me you arementally exhausted.it shows throughdeath, anywhere—the dismal coldis muted by lustrouslysharp waterin folds of the moor,thrashingis it applause?a shudder curdswith sudden sleet,low pulseof winter.how raw trees snapinto full bodyapparitions is slow,beyond motionand heavy likeabandoned bodies.this cold rangesfrom mountain foreststo stranded hangings,giving frailty when it can'tbe refused.between these pines i lietauntingyou torpidly walk into me.
five second suicideand as i pour myself out on these canvasesi drip over the edges, spilling dots ofabsence on the hungry earth.they call me jane doe,and i am not art.every evening, i close the door,close my eyes, disassemble.slowly, i've become fleeting.i float, my feet don't touch the ground.how can i crash?i fade, i dissolve,but i've lost the motive to explode.there's no glory in my death;i leave no trace of the dramatic.a man on the train last tuesdaynudged me, apologized, and carried on his way.he's the last person who'sspoken to me since then.we hit a notch in the tracks,the car wobbled.i stared at him silently,counting the infinite futuresthat suffocated behind my teeth.i'm dying in my own penitentiarywith the cell door key in my pocket.
the sound of a tuning orchestraaudiation is the mental construction of soundin the midst of silence. have you ever laid inthe heart of a tuning orchestra?felt metal stretch itself taut over lacquered woodlike telephone wires lining state borders. noticedthe conductor but not his face,realized the ghost of sound, how we imaginenoise long after its disappearance.the first time you told me my voice felt like home,i did not speak for weeks. i was too afraid to destroysomething i accidentally created.on the nights my muscle spasms simply refuseto stop and you are just too caught up in dreamingto bend me back to normal,i reconstruct your breath and mouth and wrapmyself in my imagination.i think of myself cloaked in the softness of your voice,pretend you are singing to me the way floorboards orradiators welcome you home.audiation is the art of building your rumbling tenorout of absolutely nothing and forgetting that it evenleft me in the first place.it is stretching wires tight across time zones and s
.don't come to me at 2amwhen your heart starts to splitits nuts and boltsand your eyes are threatening toburst their banksi will be too busy trying tosolder my ownlaying down sandbags and prayingthe tide comes no higher