.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
.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
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
.he splits hearts likeoranges in themorningsinks his teeth intoripened flesh, andleaves nothing but therind, too hard toswallow
.she became a seabed noanchor could grip, with ahabit of turning everythinginto a shipwreck
fracturesbindweed lungs spill throughmy oak branch ribs,up my throat andaround my thorny tonguemake their way down tocross my clavicles,elbows and cracked milkywriststhey hold me tighter than you ever did
.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 dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.horrors prey ondreams, and sleep cando nothing about ita lamb straysfrom the flock;a wolf grins
astronomer's insomniapour in milky waystir until planets dissolveturn, avoid the sun
.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
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.i would shed my skinwith autumn, but my veins wouldcrack like the dry leaves
.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
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
.i feel change, the waythe birdsong changes when thecat goes out for lunch
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&
1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
DefeatStars splinter the sky,glowing against cloudswith obstinate brilliance -I flame out beneaththe deflated sun.
Interrupting the Fallbrittle carcassesof autumn trees,naked and bare,swaying, contorting, like my feeble frame -bending and breaking, breaking and bending,under the pressure ofthe words i speak to myself: simply cold, and harsh,like an early winter,interrupting the fall.
( 4/01/2014 )I’ve been toldladies are supposed tocover themselvesin flowers, fine wines,or men.Fuck poetry,ladies don’t havetime.But lately,Bukowski sitsupon a barstoolin my headlaughing.He’s telling meto fuck her, poetically,emotionally, physically-figuratively speaking.I can’t decide which“her”he is referring to,( the new or the old )when jealousyon both endshas meby thethroat.Why do I attractbroken girlslike abandonedpuzzle pieces?Why do my wordsnot sit rightin my mouthwhen I can’teven stand upand speakfor myself?I don’t deserveto be apoet.
binge eatingi have a buildupof black holessuffocating my arteries,having swallowed downthe bitter taste of too manygirls with galaxies travelingthe length of their spines.i ate them in mouthfuls,gaping & sad like a bingereaching for the skies-unable to hold them all in.i don’t think the universeis as vast& wondrousas it used to be,thrivingbetween theintercostal spacesof my ribs;i am hungry.& with a collectionof moon sighsas a reminderin my pockets,i will just have to learnhow to calm this swollenindigo pulse while eating.
Goodnight MoonThe battered sky bloomsas the dark teabag stainunder her weary eyes.Like the coupletstrung around her necklaceand embeddedwith teeth marks -jewels impressed intothe vast expansive skyof her laden shoulderbones.The bruise darkensand the stars seem impossible.Too far awayand smiling a long dead smile.But somewhere a pomegranate lip,swollen with the disdainthat he made her swallow -somewhere, those lipsfind the courage to sayGoodnight.
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
resonanceidoes she know the astrological significanceof the bruises starring alongyour wrists? if I could, I’drun away somewhere wherethe sky is silent and the peoplehate honest eyes. here’s my problem,I’ve wasted all my time daydreamingin the universe of your scars. I wonderif substantiality is lethal.ii[when will you move onlike you know whatyou’re doing with your life,like this tiny existentialfailure is only a hazard signon the roadmap of your journey,like the world weighing downupon your shoulders is anexercise in vanity and quietudeinstead of someoneelse’s burden?]iiilists of necessities: methods ofstarvation, hours to fall asleep by, sharpobjects, words that mean nothing.I’m sorry this isn’t better. I’m sorryI’m not better and I’m sorrynothing is bright anymore.things you remind me of:the november skyright before it rains.
.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova