.sooner or later,the tooth fairy picks up ahammer and chisel
.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
.horrors prey ondreams, and sleep cando nothing about ita lamb straysfrom the flock;a wolf grins
.time will only heal yourwounds on the conditionyou'll let him prise themopen again, upon return
.i want words in my skinit is not enough for themto sit just on the undersidei want to feel them gathered inthe creases of my joints andi want to see them forming in my fingerprintsup closei want to see every last inch black and blue
.misery lovescompany aslong as it'son his termsand i've abetter chanceof winningif i just playby the rules
.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
.i keepbutterfliesin mystomach;pierce holesthrough sowe canbreathe
.winter gavebirth to a baby,cold and still
.i opened mymouth;you showedme yourteeth
.i will notlove for fearof losingand if afondnessshould creepthrough likeivy, i'll cut itback
.spillyour emotion,or drownin it
to the girl with hungry footstepsI'm sending all my words backto the people who need them--people who wear scars likewar trophies, like jewelry, likean identification for those sufferingfrom the same acceptance ofself-hate. this is to the peoplewho sleep with one eye open, whocry when footsteps enter their roomat night; this is to the girlswho love by cutting their heartsinto snowflakes and watchingthem melt. I left you behind andI can't be sorry for that.you are the type of beautifulthat kindly asks the worldto fuck off. the days we buriedhave decomposed, headstones aresnapshots; sanitized breakdowns,rusty tongues, sighs lacedwith fear, I love you, I loveyou. saturdays were the bestbecause we could sleep throughthe nightmare. you painted me apicture of the world with your wordsand they made us wash it awayfor being transparent.we were afraid of nothingbut the monsters in our eyelids.back then, we counted dayslike shooting stars; it took 67to wish myself away. thisis for you, skygazer;
dead girls don't write poetrydear someone,there are no funeralsfor the fleshno hospitalsfor the mindno curtains & no cremationsfor all our pretty wordsparadigm,you can't save every patientsweet,a corpse would warm your bed
.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
.i would shed my skinwith autumn, but my veins wouldcrack like the dry leaves
.sometimesthe voicein my headdecides tocurl up inmy throatinsteadand sometimesthe beat ofyour heartdecides tomake itselfknown throughyour fists
every night my hair is falling outI have heard that in 7 yearsevery cell in your bodyis new& isn't it beautiful that it will bea body you have never touchedbut I know that when your brain cellsdiefall like ashes through your skullthey stay dead& I can never scrap the memories out of their corpses
in which I become beautifulI drown my conscience inthe holy water of my wrists,I carve hearts from emptypaper for my galaxyboywith stars written in his skin,and I swallow moths tomuffle the emptiness andhelp me fly away.
you've been dead for a year, my deari met you on december 21st,the longest night of the year.you had solstice eyes: cold, dark, alluring.i knew you were not meant to last,powerful as a gale but fragile asthe tulip stems you snapped,a sickening cycle of you,an overwhelming tidal wave.they say two wrongs will never make a right,but i made so many bad choices thati wound up back where I began.it was too easy to love you,but getting you to love me back was impossible.i clawed at your chest until I struck blood,until my nails split into shards.you were born a phantom,and i, your corpse.holding onto you felt like drowning in quicksand;i fought but always sank into your arms.i breathed in dirt, breathed in dust, andfound my organs choked with you,smothered by your existence.you sucked out my breathevery time i kissed you.i died every day with your handknotted in my hair.You left on june 21st,the longest day of the year.i bit down sorrow and deconstructedthe labyrinth within me,the one you hadn't th
Systematickids like him are made ofturbulence & fragmentationhe is quicksilver & vitriccanteen skull thatbrims with boric acidhe scribes apothegms inaniline colors& the words are 50/50sclerotin to discontentment.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasuresfaded verses from his wife the way connoisseurssavor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.The record needle hits the groove wrong;he stumbles over words that aren’t there,rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.He doesn’t write poetry anymoreand his confusion is strangely endearing.But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,poetic lines inserted between the daily grindof character names and who said what;voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.He doesn’t write poetry anymore –except when he does.
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
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.
Astrali'm the seraphicromanticist,a hallowed bodyswallowing galaxieslike i am hellbent onself-deterioration
kafka has been dead foreveri.I am going to cut the veins out of my neck:pull the stars from the legamentsdrown the cities in bruisesii.I am going to burn in hell:tear down the pyramids, the faces, the continentsthe weight of the universeiii. (if I live to be 20 I will know the landscape of my mind as well as the bottom of the ocean & people I've never met)
.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