.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
.a tattoo for everysin, a poppyten yearslater- a meadow
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
.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
.i opened mymouth;you showedme yourteeth
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
.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
.fistsclench; i brush myheart frommy sleeve, thenditch thesweater
.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
.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
.she wants to taste the moonbetween forefinger and thumb sheplucks it from the sky, and likesome great pearly gobstopperrolls it over her tongue,licks the dust from herlips,shuts her eyesand smiles
.death says he's a busy mangot places to go andpeople to seebook an appointment on the way out
.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
.i was born with thecord wrapped tightaround my neck; itwould seem fitting todie the same way
.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
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,you are notthumbed bruisesor honey bones& you have onlyever been a godinside of your own head
you never taught me how to sleep.one day you'll unfold your bedsheets, and i will still be in the creases.
you are, you will bethis is meant to be heard: https://soundcloud.com/c-e-moore/you-are-you-will-be-by-your-methamphetamine--my bodyis beautifulwaitnofucktry again with moreconviction this time.my body is beautiful;its curves ascend more than the ruggedAlps, theyfall like contradictions from a politicallyincorrect statement, my body is thepavement of my mind's highway but theseflyovers keepcollapsing, I'mtrapped under the debris ofesteem(not self-esteem, that requiresa mind-heart team effort)my lips have kissed all kinds ofroyalty; my hands have polished enoughcrowns and sworn fealty to the rightpeople. my loyal legs once opened widerfor you to go deeper but I don't likethinking about that, I don't liketalking aboutyou.start over and this time,mean it.my body is beautiful; have youseen how my hipbones curve likewishbones?(when you find me stuck between yourgravestone-teeth, will you promise to bebreak me homolytically?)have youseen how my thighs purge out ofsociety's
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.
stardust.my spine cracks beneath rose petals, and i realize i'm not worth fixing.
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.
The end of a worldAs I look out the window and see the clouds of smokePeople are leaving their house,With their face drained of hopeClose by I see people crying,In the distance I hear people screamingThe worst is happening,Only this time we’re not dreamingThe faithful are gathering,Holding hands and prayingThe tainted are bargaining,Taking anything that can be takenThe weak are jumping off buildings,Leaving blood on the pavementLarge scale of suicidesWhether by knife, gun, or hangingIt’s anarchy out thereAnd it has only begunI’m damned to the flamesBecause my sins can’t be undone
honesty isn't a weaknessI have a headache and not enough timeto explain the irony of how I want to beevery pretentious poet making art out ofthemselves, cutting open their side and writingin blood and pixie dust; or how difficultit is to make a good allegory out of carsicknessand household complacency. thisis every secret I ever hid. when I was 9someone dissected the world in front of me,showed me it was a living, wanting thingand that I was just a lonely cell, functioningthrough my dysfunction; when I was 11the boy I liked told me he’d be interestedif I were prettier and I learned starvationwas more a state of mind than a presenceof being. when I was 13 I researched the lethalityof cleaning products, because god, I felt so dirty,and nothing can clean you more than a couple cupfulsof bleach. when I was 15 I was old and decrepitand mostly dead, returning from war with flowersfor graves that weren’t filled and a heart oftragedy, vulnerable and draped in every shadeof mourning f
,i used to part my hair down the middle,but then i stoppedwhen i was twelvebecause innocencewas heavy,or something likethat.besides,we all have to grow up,don't we?
.sooner or later,the tooth fairy picks up ahammer and chisel