.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 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
.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
.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
.fistsclench; i brush myheart frommy sleeve, thenditch thesweater
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
.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'
.time will only heal yourwounds on the conditionyou'll let him prise themopen again, upon return
.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
.she became a seabed noanchor could grip, with ahabit of turning everythinginto a shipwreck
.misery lovescompany aslong as it'son his termsand i've abetter chanceof winningif i just playby the rules
.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.we buy flowersjust to watch them wither and diejust to see their once velvet petalsgive up and fallto the windowsill below
.death says he's a busy mangot places to go andpeople to seebook an appointment on the way out
.i will notlove for fearof losingand if afondnessshould creepthrough likeivy, i'll cut itback
.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
Parentheses(I wonder if parenthesesever see all the letterscaught in between themand feel that distanceas though it is tangible;if they ever craveto be close enough togetherso they could intertwineuntil their inkscratchescollide to incoherence;if you’ve ever noticedhow your right hand ellipsesand curves just like a parenthesis,and how my left hand is its opposite.)
To My Biology TextbookOn page 159 of my biology textbook, it reads,“...cancer is the uncontrolled growth of cells”as though that could explain everything,and I thought it did for a time.But my textbook never warned methat his skin would paleto a point where I could seethe blue freight trainscarrying eighteen pillsthroughout his frail body.My textbook never warned methat his watery irises would freeze over,that he would hurl insults like knives,and that he would clench his jawas tightly as his fist clenched his wine glassbecause the only person to blame is himself,and he can’t swallow that as easilyas he can the olives in his martinis.And my textbook never warned methat it would be this difficult to breathebecause of my acute awarenessthat his breaths are limited,and that there would be nothing I could dobut soldier on searching for that silver liningclinging to these foreboding thunderheads.
gossamer, and yousome people(the lucky ones)get songs stuck in their heads.i, on the other hand,am left with wordsthat beat incessantly againstthe confines of my brain.last week, it was "gossamer."i thought it was whimsical;that was pleasant.i saw the wordevery which way i turned: a gossamer veil of sunlight, a silk shirt like gossamer, a spider hanging by a thread of it.i hate the word now,with all its whimsy washed away;the hard g is too harsh and garishagainst the roof of my mouth,the double s too serpentine.it feels numbingly stiff on my tongue,like some sort of linguistic anomaly,a could-be word that really shouldn't be.today, it was your name.(i never thoughtproper nouns counted, butevidently, they do.)i didn't see you as much as i heard you,somewhere,in the whistling of the breezeor the creaking of the hardwood floors.your imposing yet warm presencehovered somewherenear the nape of my neck.i admit that somewherein the recesses of my mind,i ho
And There Was Lighti.He was seventeen when he died.I never went to the funeralbut I walked past it the day ofthe service. His motherwas in the backseat of a blue Dodge,door open, head in her hands."My baby," she kept repeating."My baby." It would go from sobbing, toscreaming, to a soft whisper thatI could only hear being carriedon the wind.ii.It was a Wednesday afternoon that they foundhis old red pickup truck parkedout front of Slim's, two beer bottles inthe back and the windows cracked to let the staleair out.I heard that his dad told the police he wasgonna take that old truck and fix it up, becausehe had promised his son before—because it's always in the before—he died.And in the after, his mother never had dry eyesand I'm pretty sure my mom told methat she saw his dad at the bar every night,drinking his sorrows down because some people can'thandle the stress.Some people can't figure out why their son wouldkill himself.iii."Some men just want to w
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
we're all drunk and always have beennoi haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause i don't breathe poetry inand out -inand out,inand out -i write it under my eyebrowswith the precisionof a drunk snipertoasted into admissionwith irony s-st-tutter-eringdown his throat.you wouldn't take a damned bullet for me.beautiful is a word keptfor the riseand fallof her tidal chest,not my shallow breath,not my sunset, heartfelt,hollow silhouette.i would have disappearedbetween your accusing index andneglected thumb -rub me,rub me?rub herrub herdon't you feel calmer?noi haven't felt smaller than thisbefore.i haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause you found a home betweenher stroking index andcomforting thumb -i haven't forgotten,no, i still remembernow twenty two penumbrae in the pastdidn't stop mefrom settlingin one of several crevassesat the bottom of your oceanic mind;you may have forgotten,and slept inon the details,but i haven't,not yet,not ye
to become a writer.parents divorce before you can talk.write about itlike you don't care. try to mean it.go through monthsof shitty pity-leaking almost-poemsbefore you get onethat actually makes someone feeland thensay that it was all a mistake. mean it.only feel like a writerwhen you're insecure. fall in lovewith someone. anyone. tell yourself that's it's just for fun. just for being young.actually love the hell out of them.mess it up.write about it. smoke 2-5 cigarettes every day,something destructivebut with the hopesof saving your lungs for running(a metaphor? another rule: never tell)and drink and drink and drinkuntil you have the courage to call up ex boyfriendsor lovers or dead friendsto say that you miss them.write about that-act like you don't care.actually care.everyone knows that you care.write about that.
Pocket UniverseI can smell the typewriters beneath your skinmetallic, halting, smudged vibratowavering note stretched out far beyondthe edge of the universe tucked in your front pocketbreathing out in time with your heartbeats.All along the wall I find notebook pagesold teabags hung for too long, green flakes whirlingwhile you sit in the lean of the willow treeand watch the play that is my lifechew the scenery; the stage collapses with a groan.You pull your scarf inand wrap the scars in burnt umberwhile the show goes onagain.
16 knocks on wood1.the moon disappears every 28 days.it wanes & waxes in fractions; it's smartenough to not try everything at once.2.i have been taught that every 7 years,the cells in my body will die & be born again.this means the moon will vanish & reappear 91 timesbefore i will have skin free of your fingerprints.3.Proud Lake is located in Commerce, Michigan. at the crack of dawn,you can find a boy with a gravel & honey voice casting fishinglines into the abyss. you will wonder if he'll catch a good one.4.time knows no boundaries;just benevolence that doesn't always work out.5.once, when i was 2 years old, i choked on the leaf of a mulberry tree.not every seed bears good fruit.sometimes, something is so beautiful that you can't breathe.sometimes, you won't even try.6.my palm is roughly the size of a nectarine.in Chinese culture, nectarines symbolize mutationand mutation is a change in structure.i still don't know what my hands are trying to tell me.7.a boy named Joshua tol
.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