.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 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
.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
.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
.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'
.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
.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
.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
.misery lovescompany aslong as it'son his termsand i've abetter chanceof winningif i just playby the rules
.they greet me like old friends,ivory hands gripping myshoulders a little too tightto be forgivingi tell them that i'm sorry,and they know what i mean,their smiles fade and the blackholes on their faces start to furrowand i explain that it's notquite time, not yeti still haven't worked up the gutsto let them outbut they've heard this spiel before,and it's getting harder tosilence the rattling, a myriad ofskulls and ribs that i can no longerhide
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.time will only heal yourwounds on the conditionyou'll let him prise themopen again, upon return
.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.she became a seabed noanchor could grip, with ahabit of turning everythinginto a shipwreck
.death says he's a busy mangot places to go andpeople to seebook an appointment on the way out
.i heard that eventhe dead have nightmares; sometimesthey roll in their graves
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.)
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
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 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.
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.
you've been dead for a year, my deari met you on december 21st,the longest night of the year.you had solstice eyes: cold, dark, alluring.i knew you were not meant to last,powerful as a gale but fragile asthe tulip stems you snapped,a sickening cycle of you,an overwhelming tidal wave.they say two wrongs will never make a right,but i made so many bad choices thati wound up back where I began.it was too easy to love you,but getting you to love me back was impossible.i clawed at your chest until I struck blood,until my nails split into shards.you were born a phantom,and i, your corpse.holding onto you felt like drowning in quicksand;i fought but always sank into your arms.i breathed in dirt, breathed in dust, andfound my organs choked with you,smothered by your existence.you sucked out my breathevery time i kissed you.i died every day with your handknotted in my hair.You left on june 21st,the longest day of the year.i bit down sorrow and deconstructedthe labyrinth within me,the one you hadn't th
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.
The Girl With The Jackalope SmileShe always told me her life was a cake walkBut I'll never understand what kind of happiness comes from Crushing pastries under your footShe could stitch sunshine along her wristsAnd leave the rest of us in the darkTrying to paint our own cerulean skiesAnd leaving us all bereft when we only managedTo stain our skins blueAnd she could dance a two-tattoo on the arch of moon beamsLicking her diamond lips to taste something moreWillow wick finger tips gleaming with still flamesTempting a hand into her grasp so that she might Burn life back into our hollowed bodiesShe traced constellations on her lungsSo she could breathe the star dustAnd have shimmering breath all year longInstead of just in DecemberHer canines glinted when she grinnedCandle drops of light shinning in each toothAnd melting our hibernation patchworkTo reveal our summer skinHer veins surged with hot apple cider and wildfires And her cigarette smoke smelt of burning woodHer orange and red
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
.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