.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
.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 would shed my skinwith autumn, but my veins wouldcrack like the dry leaves
.she calls down angelsjust to burn theirrighteous wings,to see them rise thenfall, those flailingdovesshe tells them, thisis what it's liketo be humanand they say judgementwill arrive for you, mygirl, you will becleansed by burninglightand i strike another match
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
.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
.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
.she became a seabed noanchor could grip, with ahabit of turning everythinginto a shipwreck
.he splits hearts likeoranges in themorningsinks his teeth intoripened flesh, andleaves nothing but therind, too hard toswallow
.the cat keepsleaving dead meaton my doormat,a pile of bones,bloody and rawhe wants me toknow what i'mwalking into, hewants me to knowjust what i am
.you are dead and buriedsix feet under yourself,still feeling the way you didwhen you were seventeenand when you bathe, you stillkeep your head under thewater, wrists upturned, redeyes open, trying to drown yourselfout
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.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
.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
I have your number, SeabirdHis bathroom is small and bleak. The mirrorshows your reflection in seven colors whichhaven't been named on the red-blue-yellowspectrum. Your eyes are shaking like eggsand he hasn't said your name in a year. Youthink of everything he calls you: Jay, Jaybird,Rose if he's playful. He told you particles ofevery man he's slept with are in the carpetwhen he pulled your head back to look intoyour pupils. Your eyes are black. They run,raw and rotten from fluorescence overhead.He told you the shrooms weren't the same.If you don't like LSD, you might feel bettertrying something more natural. It growslike marijuana: from the ground. But so doesevery poison you can think of. You're natural,bare with shades you can't begin to fathom.Something like sulfur is in your nostrils. Youtouch the furry rug and think of Vishnu. Hehas so many arms to carry you. Jesus only hastwo. The church was broad and heavy. It sleepsin Chicago, beside a park that smells like piss.He opens the door,
i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost, kissing stylish arsonists + I still love every sky escaping from your lips
evolution poembut I believe to seek unbecomingis more cultivated than stretchingout the leaky fibers of a semi-circular self-image until theyspiral into uncontrollableforests, cauterizing eyelids;yes, unbecoming,like picking bones outof a salmon's chest.
you should be home by nowlast tuesday the house took my hand & said,it's more of a hurricane than a firesince he broke in & burnedmy curtainsmy floorsmy bridgesmy selfbut sometimes I see her with a lighter& she finishes what he didn't do(I think she's afraidof settling in,being quiet)but last tuesday I realized that she kept the lights onto frighten away the bridges & the peopleso no one will come inside& smash the teacups, steal the pipesbecause since he burnt her beds outno one lives there anymore
what I forgot to sayto the girl who lives like a hurricane:don’t expect to tell me aboutyour addiction to self-harm andNyquil and have me smile;although, as I shiver from lakewaterand things less tangible, I seem toacquire a talent for glossing over the listof things I need to tell you--your boyfriendis an asshole. California does notbegin and end in a tiny town wherepeople operate like clockwork aroundthe same happy working song. I am nota fountain of wisdom, and, to be honest,I can barely understand you over thethunderstorms in my own brain.you are beautiful and you arewrong..to the girl I left back in time:purpose is not a given. I amthe same teenage angst who usedto wear too much eyeliner andcomplain about my futureas I’d foretold it-- loveless and whiny,like me. I am her plus a few moreself destructions and minusa lot more days to continue strivingalongside you for simple goals andsimple friends and simple memoriesI won’t remember..to the girl who see
on self-assessmentThis is a poem for all the people who stillhave something to see in me. I couldcut myself on the sharp edge of my thoughts,bleed out a saturated river ofsomething sweet; I could be like a millionother gifts from mother nature to preservein glass cases and scientific journals andbuzz words, to picket and fight over andeventually forget. I couldwrite a million stories about the universein my stomach, and my lack ofa gag reflex and the irony in that.I could write about the blooming stormsin my head and about how I’m addictedto bad weather, and how I can’t hear myselfover the static waves rocking me to sleep.My best friend is the most beautiful hurricaneI’ve ever seen, slow motion wreckage who says things likewhat does it even mean, where arewe going, maddie, what am I even here for;My first love wasn’t special. It wasignorant and narcissistic and orbited around melike some neglected planet, like Iwas finally the center of a universebesides m
fidelic whore-- this is appropriationmy sweet synchronicity ,i have downed your appetitein a bed of front teeth (it is morning in perthmidnight in dublin, and the noonsun has been lost behinda dress of mothy curtains)do i taste ofyour forethought of love making;do i reek ofthe weeds that have infiltratedthe posture of your spine?-you bend overmy lap a curve of guiltand weep all night.i collect each knob of your bodylike a gift. press it to my mouth.swallow, spit.
excuses for why I'm shakingwe live in a world of apologies.I made a mistake a year back,choosing my addiction to oxygenover less demanding things.I’m sick of trembling for problemsthat aren’t mine and I’m sick of tryingto romanticize black holes andthe indiscriminate nature of lithium andI’m sick of waking up every morningfeeling sick. and truly, I’m sorrybut I’m not ready to accept my rolein the making of myself. I’m not readyto lament for those with a smallerpain tolerance, and for my dislikeof anything that requires commitment.I’m sorry I miss you and I’m sorryI won’t admit that out loud.how scary is it to be somethingso unalterably heavy, to be diagnosedas your own worst enemy, but god,you’re so fucking beautiful,and not in the stereotypical boymeets girl meets fairytale way, butthe kind that makes my heartbleed a million miles quicker.I just wanted to cry on allyour scars and wash them clean.when things are bad for
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.
forgetting how to sleeptake two.a week past the end of the world,and there’s something therapeuticabout not caring. I must’vereally messed up in another life. Iwake up shaking and forget to sleepshaking and hold your hand, shaking,remembering the moment I becamepoison. I feel crazier than ever; cementhead’sgood and gone with his plastic wristsand missing soul. the boy who entertainshis unfriendliest nightmares couldn’tmuster up enough innocenceto make it right. (today, he writesa letter; dear Sophia, he tells meit doesn’t get better. I’mlocked up for a crime Ididn’t commit. you did it,Sophia. you built mewrong.) but you know me,I fell in love with a problem Icouldn’t fix, a boy blindedwho’s never seen the light.He was a stormy violet but Iam cyan graying with age--I spent most of my life dying,and the rest of it wishing Iwas someone else. they tell usonly god will see your ugly;and the girl who swallowedrazorblades can&
why we pity angelsto him;you are afraid of phonecalls. youare afraid of your own voice, andopening your ribcage to letyour heart come live on your sleeve.you are afraid of living without caffeineor alcohol, whatever the day calls for;you are afraid of being realwithout laughing afterwards, becomingeverything you worked so hard to getaway from, acknowledging allthat you still are. know this:I am afraid of loud noises.I am afraid of honesty and drowning,people I don’t know and wordsI won’t say. I am afraidof growing old and living alone andyou not accepting me. I am afraidof myself. In that, we are the same.to her;I have the compulsion to grab youand cup you to me like you are somehalf-alive bird, like that soundas the lazy sun paints you a portrait isyour hummingbird heart and not my ownshallow breaths. in the beginning,you were my peace of mind. you tracedthe contours of my being with a scalpeland held me up, a shadow puppet,as the darkest, blackest figures I gav
things i have come to know about the sky1.you are endless, a backlit canopyor stage of infinites; some sayyou speak to them in low murmurs,that you rain judgement down upon us,i fear you not, you've caught my eye a few timesbut i only looked up to see whatthe hype was all about2.when i was born, doctors said i was blue—cerulean as the sky,entering the world with clenched fistsand held breath—battle though this life may be, always itwill be by my rules3.scientists say the sky is like an onion;layers of celestial sphere you can slice offwith a thumbnail, 217.5 miles of teary eyes& thick skinwe know not of what it is that compelsgravity to roll this sorrow down our faces4.in some cultures they say the sky is athronedom, an altar for the gods; weather,an instrument of rageful indifference,a beautiful devotion worthy of arthritisand a place in our school books5.you torture us as the romans did,we the bread for your melancholy circuses;apathy never looked so poeticas you do when you pain
.you said november was akick in the teethand life goes onget over itand i thought godnow i know how the birds feellying dead on my kitchen floor
You have a new fan.
My birthday is in November.