.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
.horrors prey ondreams, and sleep cando nothing about ita lamb straysfrom the flock;a wolf grins
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
.i keep a garden ofdead leaves, their amberribs crack under myfeet, and i smilethe flowers turn theirbacks on me
.i opened mymouth;you showedme yourteeth
.we buy flowersjust to watch them wither and diejust to see their once velvet petalsgive up and fallto the windowsill below
.hangman, could you showme the ropes? i'd rather doit all on my own
.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
.when you claim your slotin the ground, it will claim yourbody in return
.i heard that eventhe dead have nightmares; sometimesthey roll in their graves
.winter gavebirth to a baby,cold and still
.i was born with thecord wrapped tightaround my neck; itwould seem fitting todie the same way
.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
.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
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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
,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