.fistsclench; i brush myheart frommy sleeve, thenditch thesweater
.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
.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
.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
.horrors prey ondreams, and sleep cando nothing about ita lamb straysfrom the flock;a wolf grins
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
.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
.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 carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
.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
.sooner or later,the tooth fairy picks up ahammer and chisel
.hangman, could you showme the ropes? i'd rather doit all on my own
.he splits hearts likeoranges in themorningsinks his teeth intoripened flesh, andleaves nothing but therind, too hard toswallow
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.they say that you are thework of the devil; you'll haveblack orbs for eyes and a tongueas sharp as your fathersand i hope you will not feel a thingwhen they pull back your blanketsand carry you out, when they leaveme with nothing but creases
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.you forget thatroses have thorns;a prick of theskin will tell youthat you're holdingher too tight
.i will notlove for fearof losingand if afondnessshould creepthrough likeivy, i'll cut itback
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.
wednesday's childit is the third of octoberand i am building a castle for usout of feathers, bird bones, ocean waves and library book pages. anything to keep our feet fromtouching the ground.you are sin, he whispersand his fingers trail cold fire down my side, scorching fleshand freezing bone;brittle pieces of me shatteras they hit the stained linoleum floor.don't wake me from this nightmare.i whisper a nursery rhyme as i walk down ourautumn path.kamikaze leaves fall, trailingfire as they throw themselves fromthe branches, down, down,to cold pavement below.your words echo in my minda constant reminderthat i am sinbut you,you werenevergod
six steps to fixing youstep onecry. scream. bang your fists against the wallsthat keep you locked inside.kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupidand wrong and that you've never loved her.cry. scream. apologize via him to you.let your tears catch on your lashesuntil you can no longer see anything but your owndemise. taste the bitterness left inyour mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.step twobreak a mug. break two. kickthe pieces around the kitchen floor and cry some more.break a plate. break a cup. break a bowl.break a finger because nothing can take away thissort of pain. you are empty and yetyou are filled with so much anger.break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.step threeyou are okay, you tell them.you break three days later and you liein bed, unable to move.step fourstart picking up the pieces. clean up the messyou've made and he's left.use windex to polish off the dirt and
stardust.my spine cracks beneath rose petals, and i realize i'm not worth fixing.
we're legal murderers.how to love a writer:don't. because we will turn your passioninto works of extended metaphors for death and decay,slipping you scarsserved sunny-side-up because, hey, we all want to befixed, right?not writers. writers want someone, anyone (usually the wrong one, because pain sells more thansmiles)to try and pour cement into the dents inside themuntil they realize that they're really justabandoned sidewalks located in the wrong side of townthat cannot be repaired. that is what we do.we break peoplefor a living.
IcarusSun girl,the whispering stars& feathered clouds dancefor you tonight.Do not let anyoneclip your wings;you were made for the skies.
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.
String TheoryThis is determination,existential numbness in whichI drown from the paranoid spittleof that dreary-eyed girllost in the mirror.Jesus, what would you doif you saw me now, all grown into my predetermined curves andthe nihilistic fabrications knotted in my skin.Maybe you still want to bea brain surgeon. Maybe you stillweep when you’re happy and stopwhen you’re lonely, drooping over likethe puppet no one remembered. Maybeyou still smoke like it’s a defiance, and lovelike it’s a war; maybe time preserved youlike a corpse in formaldehyde, and maybeyou still think of me,too.
if you can't stand --my mother flicksher cigaretteswitcheson the flameunder the blackcast-ironhair gleamingtitianin the lamp-lightwhen she sees meand boils overmy head hitsthe bittersweet wall-to-wallcosmos in my eyestrappedunder the tablelike evenings of liver onions limas and sitthere until you eati guard the injuriesturning from indigoto pitch
.guts don't get youglory if all you do isspill 'em