.she became a seabed noanchor could grip, with ahabit of turning everythinginto a shipwreck
.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
.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
.i want to sink intothe earthand rise up againblooming
.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
.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
.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 have learnt enough about gravityto know that he can do what i can't, myselfsnap my bones like twigsunderfoot, andhe says that beautiful things arethe easiest to break
.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
.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'
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
.he splits hearts likeoranges in themorningsinks his teeth intoripened flesh, andleaves nothing but therind, too hard toswallow
.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
.we buy flowersjust to watch them wither and diejust to see their once velvet petalsgive up and fallto the windowsill below
.i would shed my skinwith autumn, but my veins wouldcrack like the dry leaves
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
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
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
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
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
Hunger PainsIt begins with a bang.I forget to eat for a few months andI drown in cheap ideas with pretty names,the ones they fill books and barren wristsand stormy heads with, and soon,moonlight shines from insidemy ribs and I am a lighthouse.Thank you for the things you gave me,intrinsically, a knowledge ofhow to properly wearmyself. Thank youfor not fixing me.I used to write about the colorof your voice, always blue-- the skybefore I fell asleep and the morningdragging me back; I wonderthat you could’ve loved me betterif you explained who theSomething was that shared your bedat night, or why insincere wordswere your favorite.My poems still cling to my skineven when I sleep. even whenI wake, an anchor. even whenI boil myself alive and unfoldlike a pallid lily inside yourheavy hands;and after enough time,I forget to say goodbye.Today,I pick the scabs on my hips,kiss the sorry out of your smile,and breathe like this airisn’t already a million years old.
train tickets are like 200 bucks.i loved her forthe miles between us,and i think i might always do so.she is printed in my mind,upside-downlike some halfbreed stoner dreamand i feel her colors likesun. rain. hurricane. leaves side vertically in my veins, the left side of a bicycle wheeling around my brainand she is a fucking drug, man.i think i'm gay.i'm not saying that just tosay it, either. i justwonder.why else would i write letters to hereven though she'll never read them,and why do i wonder how she looksright on the verge of sleep? i think about kissing hera lot. it's always her. she is my now. my then. my way bak when. but most of all, she is mywhy, and that is fucking fantastic.
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.
.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