.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
.we buy flowersjust to watch them wither and diejust to see their once velvet petalsgive up and fallto the windowsill below
.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 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
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
.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
.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
.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 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'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
.death says he's a busy mangot places to go andpeople to seebook an appointment on the way out
.i feel change, the waythe birdsong changes when thecat goes out for lunch
.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
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.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
.horrors prey ondreams, and sleep cando nothing about ita lamb straysfrom the flock;a wolf grins
.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
tell a liei. rivers are stronger than oceans despite their sizethey tumble through sharp mountains but they never, ever stopii. i can rush and pick up sediments and disperse them where i wishiii. i'm lying -i knew you saw it anyway,there's seaweed in my fingernailsand salt on my breath
InfiniteWe’d make a beautiful constellation,You and I –shivering galaxies that may implodebut who keep expanding,still hiding in gravitational lensesof sheer splendor -a thousand and one stars;we could wish for personalsor companyor maskless paradeswithout crippling facades-not nameless but known.You and I,we could be brighterthan the sun.
1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
Portrait of an UnderachieverHe sorts conversationsautobiographically, picking passagesthat best brandish his full-figured egoand leaving out the details.He'll probably grow upand have a wine cellar full of bullshitvintages and other frivolities-he uses words like frivolities.Regularly.He is alliterative, makes allusionsin ordinary conversationand never orders off the menu- exceptwhen it's in French or Latin orSwahili Bantu.And his life is full of empty momentswhen he should have been doing big things.
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&
Eschatological Relapseone. My addictions includeor have included: cocaine, cigarettes,happiness, sex, that feeling everyone getswhen someone you never loved confesseshis infatuation. Alcohol, humor, pornography,browsing the internet for poetry, politics,and photographs of crime scenes. Adrenaline,caffeine, dopamine, or anything that makes medesperately horny. Gum-picking, small shocks,attention, anonymity, but only if theyat least know my name.two. And it felt like God's armsin a gentle apocalypse.
checklist of a masochistiiiyou were an untouched sunset,never before seen and familiarat the same time; delicately sheddingshades of pink the same colorof your starving voiceand I was most beautifulwith my clothes off, too much skinintersected by too many lines (neverthe near parallel you longed for)a hazy blur that made the nightsour own watercolor clicheiiyou were that cheap love songthat never sounded authentic,lyrics stitched through yourpaper skin; chords resonatingfrom your every wanting sighand you were surprised how muchyou needed me, from the concrete solidityof my ribs to the metaphoric indecencyof my thoughts, naked and tremblingfor your callused ears (or maybeit was just me, justifying the wayyou skinned my anxious layerswith your ravenous hands,like underfed beasts)iyou were the child cryingat shadows pretending to be monsters,running from the prospect ofgod and death and gravity;& you were the letter I never sent"I'm done apologizing forthe person I wasn't befor
october poems and cigarette endsi. where are the metaphorical cigarettes when you need them, augustus?ii. the poetry fell through the cracked riverbanks of my mind and slid off to elsewhereiii. so still, i continued to breathe the lovely mindfulness, the unconventional endlessness of consciousness nothing’s.let’s call them dreamers.iv. the poetry written on my bones fading with all the sleep i drank (till the drunk of November mornings), the dreams melting off like the stars which ate away at my skin and left me bleeding—dying.v. so, this is what writer’s block feels likethe eradication of sweeter thoughts and dreamsvi. (i think i finally understood why van houten drank so much.)vii. “but i think the words you write are beautiful,” he says. “you’re beautiful.”“i’m not beau—”viii. still i write with an unsettled heart andindian inkas blue as the eyes which fell upon themthe thoughts spilling out onto the pages it met
1you are triumphantin your smiles, i supposeyour forte did not consist of loudnessnone at alland dimples cannot talk but yourswon't stop telling storiesso i dream of being old, crinkled,but never findthe days that float like swans andhovercrafts,slowly but aware
.she became a seabed noanchor could grip, with ahabit of turning everythinginto a shipwreck