.i opened mymouth;you showedme yourteeth
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.he told me prayersare uselessand if i really want hisforgiveness, i should get onmy knees and beg
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
.he splits hearts likeoranges in themorningsinks his teeth intoripened flesh, andleaves nothing but therind, too hard toswallow
.hangman, could you showme the ropes? i'd rather doit all on my own
.little robin, wingsoutstretched in the dirt, a smearof red on your breast
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.i keepbutterfliesin mystomach;pierce holesthrough sowe canbreathe
.when you claim your slotin the ground, it will claim yourbody in return
.i scrub loveoff your knuckles
.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
.she became a seabed noanchor could grip, with ahabit of turning everythinginto a shipwreck
.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
.horrors prey ondreams, and sleep cando nothing about ita lamb straysfrom the flock;a wolf grins
.my head isthe apple and youare the worm;watch mesquirm
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
a.m./p.m.i put my handsin the stars-feathery hair, coldskin and cyanosis fed, i realize that i amnothing. born in neither winteror spring, crying aboutcherry tree spines andthrowing stones, iwas left for thewolves. it is the dawn ofFebruary, and i am so close toseventeen that i cantaste it; i am very nearly choking on age. the sky beckons me most at 11:49 pm, becauseit's hovering between tomorrow and yesterday--that destroys me. i want to burn it to theground, breathethe ashes in like cigarettes ondirty curbs. i am stuck here in a windowless town witha thousand memories stuck between my canines;into the wind, i drop words like deadweights. take me home.
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.
sati(ate)dit's ironic,isn't it? the waythey say "hunger gnaws"like the way our teethscrape against bones.for all thecalories that are counted,you still feelempty. you aren'tbeautiful untilyou are digestingnothing but airand maybe your own guilt.that's just the wayliving is thesedays: swallowingglass shards toslice up your insides soyou can ignorethe other kind of pain yourstomach is feeling.but when people askif you're doing okay you justsmile and nod even thoughyou can't help butthink "if honesty wastangible, i'd eat it rightnow."life hasan acquired taste andsome days you'dlike to rip yourtongue out.
Can We Just PretendHey...Can we just pretend ?Like we did when we were kids?I can pretend to be strongAnd use these twigsTo build a mansion for youSo large and beautifulThat you'll have everything you need.I can pretend to be smartAnd I'll teach you new things every dayGently widening you eyesTo the world around you.I can pretend to be a musicianYour own private concertoSing lullabies to you each nightWith the few notes I know.I can pretend to be funnyAnd have a witty criticismFor all the things you dislikeAnd sweetly teasing youTill you gift me with your smile.I can pretend be wiseHave an answer for all your problemAnd advice that never fails.I can pretend to be a cookAnd delicately createMudpies for you to eatAs though they were gourmet meals.I can pretend to be someone I'm notSomeone who's beautiful or amazing or kindSomeone who won't let you downSomeone who won't break your heartSomeone who can give you everythingYou could ever want
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
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,you are notthumbed bruisesor honey bones& you have onlyever been a godinside of your own head
Astrali'm the seraphicromanticist,a hallowed bodyswallowing galaxieslike i am hellbent onself-deterioration
bomb broker.there's a boydown the road;and at night, when the bombs fall like snow,i imagine him thinkingof anything butthe walls shaking.the people acrossthe street hid a Jew, and the boy down the road(i don't know hisname, only thathis hair is the colorof candle wax, the moon, thesand) cried when they took the womenhiding awayand shot her outside of the church. sometimes when i'min class, i sneak glances at himand wonder whathe thinks ofthe war and the stench ofdeath (it's so heavy in the air, now).he salutes likeit's no trouble, buti think he's just smart. two years after the war is began, he kisses me while hedies. it's the first timei've ever been kissed, and i tasteblood on his lips andin his words as hesplutters out hislast request:"don't hide, Leslie. don't you ever hide."
i was doing so well at this happy thing.from age fiveto twelve, it was the constant voices (at homeand in my head) telling me that i wasfat. and then for 3 yearsi was nothing.i was the child that dyed her hair andtold her dad thatshe didn't want to get marriedbecause it was alltoo much.for 3 years,i was the girl whowrote stories and folded them up inpaper cranesto hang above my bed. now,at 16 years old,my dad tells methat i'm too thin. i don't eat enough.and i know that it's nottrue. i eatwhat my body needs. and i had finally gottento the spot where i felt comfortable. no-- fuck, i felt good.but nowwhen i look in the mirrorall i see is my dadtelling me that i am a mess(even though he never said it) and that when he was my age,he didn't have anxiety attacks and my brothermay be a fuck up butat least he'smentally capable (sort of).no matter what,my dadwill always be betterand so will myalmost-dropout br
.winter gavebirth to a baby,cold and still
Oh my god-
my thoughts exactly!!!