.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'
.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
.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
.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
.he splits hearts likeoranges in themorningsinks his teeth intoripened flesh, andleaves nothing but therind, too hard toswallow
.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 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
.she became a seabed noanchor could grip, with ahabit of turning everythinginto a shipwreck
.we are one and thesame, that old willow andme, we stand tall with thescars that life gave us -with the names of loverscarved deep in our limbs,and old burns from mydads cigarettes
.i dream of drowning inlakes, belly up, a petalshaped bruise of your thumbon either wristi dream that what laysin my bed is so muchmore terrifying than whatlurks underneath it
.i keepbutterfliesin mystomach;pierce holesthrough sowe canbreathe
.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 want to sink intothe earthand rise up againblooming
.spring opened up hisarms to mebut winter stole my heart
.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
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.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
symptoms of red a materialist inside of you unknitting your sweater & in your dream you are a wolf eating a flower in an orange field. the world is ending. an unnamed girl stains you as if she were tea giving up to a foaming ocean. she writes a story: the unrequited blurry visions of two visionaries
all we ever wanted was the world.it still feels like summer.the rain tastes like late nights and cigarettes,sliding through the back door,still damp with the could-have-beens,our past loverstugging at our lips. we sit in downpourand watch the trains roll past,metallic stardust spilling from our mouthswhile we talk about how we could get on one of those trainsand just get off at the last stop."and we'd never come home."
nothing lies forever & if we kiss it's because I can't find you among the grassy ribbons of your old zeta ego & if I miss tongue, teeth and cheeks let the pavement carve new mouths into my tights she writes an another poem about cigarettes her east coast
whitewashedmother refuses to drink the honeyshe paints our rooms with, forcurtaining the timid female quarters of homeis just as frighteningas a monsoon-poor September.the kind she weaveswith her own words seem farsweeter than the jars they makein the farm downthe tree-cut boulevard.she hides stories in her collars, spillingonly when her honey jars are raisedto counterher red-hot honestyand our yellow, foolish,innocent laughter.the forlorn scent of industryseeps into the cheap marble floorand cracked bathroom tiles,till it reaches father's nose where itvaporizes in fear of being shunned.father will paint the ceiling bluebecause aloof girls make broken homes, sewn seamby seam to a delusional perfection.we are perfect, bent at the knees and spineto the fetus we compare tobut the shoulders we always are.we dare not tremble;his reign, unquestionable,eternal.
i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost, kissing stylish arsonists + I still love every sky escaping from your lips
on becoming alivethank god for sleeping pillsand the man who gave me a bagto quiet my mind.thank god for boys with open handsand curious minds and naïve heartswho make me young becausegod, you birthed me oldthank godyou birthed me old,so I could be the one tomeasure the livelihood of starswhile the others madetheir childhood wishescome true.thank god I have a mindthat runs a million miles fasterthan I ever could, becauseI believe my heart is an hourglassof honey and grime, andI’m slowly running out oftime, and I fearthese days are numbered.thank god for peoplewho write the words bleeding in my heartwithout knowing I exist, thank godfor beauty and my understandingthat I only exist in relation to itand in appreciation of whatI can’t become.thank god for my rebirthbecause I spent all thoseeye-opening years of my lifesleeping behind the wheel, thank godsomeone was there to wakeme up. (thank god that I canweep for happiness and depressionin the same day,
nakedness and heavy lungsand now, I’m defined by theconfines of my body, the faultsI carry like misdemeanors againstthe ones who translate me inlines and curves and scars that readlook, but don’t touch. now, I’mbusy catching up in revolutionsaround the sun and laps withinthe indignity of my own mind;swallowing travesties and memories alike—the sun in your voice, brighteningme inside as I wake up and breathelike an eclipsing star, my bones clankingtogether like wind-chimes, my legsgiving out like ghost peoplewho’ve given up. this is beautiful, thisstripping of layers upon layersof reality and pretendingI’m not ashamed to stand naked andquivering before those who judge mein impersonal numbers and figuresas though I were irrelevant, that I’m notholding my breath in hopes I willfloat away like a balloon, beyondhuman comprehension, light and fadinglike the handwritten notes and promisesscrawled across every inch of me,just so I could be forgotten
The Problem With Elia.she could have been a violin;born a week too late, she hadmelancholy in her bones: doctor lizbettook time out of her schedule to pluck hernewborn strings - calloused sanitation againstmottled pink-and-yellow flesh & thrashing limbs.in three more years, she will havenothing in her bones at all: doctor estairdiagnosed her with iatrophobia to fuel herinstinctive chords - ripple-free shells of liquidlobotomy & a capsule to callous her pink-and-yellowflesh against the thought of just getting over it all.ten years after that, her mother willfind her face down and thrashing: her dustbunny bones will flex as she retches up her memoriesfor display - lawyers will spend the next few years pawingthrough them with clawed hands and heaving breathing untilone day, they find lizbet and estair huddled amid the rubble of her bones.
praying for dawn (and not you)nighttime falls downmy throat--i still find myselfcalling your namewhen i'm a mess of half-dreams andmelting moons.
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight