.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
.the cat keepsleaving dead meaton my doormat,a pile of bones,bloody and rawhe wants me toknow what i'mwalking into, hewants me to knowjust what i am
.he splits hearts likeoranges in themorningsinks his teeth intoripened flesh, andleaves nothing but therind, too hard toswallow
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
.you should haveemerged with life; yourlittle roots should haveclutched the soil in theirtiny white fists, andgrowni did not mean to trampleyou, i did not mean tolet my body killyour body
.i was born with thecord wrapped tightaround my neck; itwould seem fitting todie the same way
.a tattoo for everysin, a poppyten yearslater- a meadow
.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 opened mymouth;you showedme yourteeth
.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
.hangman, could you showme the ropes? i'd rather doit all on my own
.the oaks crouch to greetme, i sit with the ferns andthe forest listens
.horrors prey ondreams, and sleep cando nothing about ita lamb straysfrom the flock;a wolf grins
.we buy flowersjust to watch them wither and diejust to see their once velvet petalsgive up and fallto the windowsill below
.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
.misery lovescompany aslong as it'son his termsand i've abetter chanceof winningif i just playby the rules
.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
.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
you never taught me how to sleep.one day you'll unfold your bedsheets, and i will still be in the creases.
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,you are notthumbed bruisesor honey bones& you have onlyever been a godinside of your own head
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.
in flesh and bloodHe finds her unassumingly. She's just standing there, cheeks ruddy, bundled in a forest green jacket lined with fake—he thinks—fur. He finds her, hands in pockets, feet atop the grass. The light that floods the panes of her face casts dark shadows beneath her eyes and along her jaw and he thinks for a moment that she might be kind of beautiful."Why are you standing before the Eiffel Tower and looking so sad?"Her head snaps. He counts, one, two, three, seconds, and then she turns her face upward toward the monument in front of the two. They are alone. She doesn't say anything and then she's saying something and he has to turn his attention from the angles of her face to her brown, brown, brown eyes."Do you think it's lonely?" Of course not, he thinks. Of course not.But all he can utter is no as he stares up at it. When she asks him why he sputters and turns to face her again, and sh
Sweet CornHe shuckedher cleanto the spine.Broke off the gold untilnothingbut the stalk remained;bareand broken open.The ribcage spilledher secretsand gushed her painupon the sheets.She lay in the bloodand wept, for the lieshe had lost.
stardust.my spine cracks beneath rose petals, and i realize i'm not worth fixing.
.sooner or later,the tooth fairy picks up ahammer and chisel