.the oaks crouch to greetme, i sit with the ferns andthe forest listens
.i opened mymouth;you showedme yourteeth
.a spider weaveshis silver lies on myfront door, and iwalk right in;the flies laugh
.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 sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
.when you claim your slotin the ground, it will claim yourbody in return
.he told me prayersare uselessand if i really want hisforgiveness, i should get onmy knees and beg
.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
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.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
.hangman, could you showme the ropes? i'd rather doit all on my own
.a scalpel fromwrist to elbow-you will not beliving under myskin anymore
.i was born with thecord wrapped tightaround my neck; itwould seem fitting todie the same way
.when i look back atthe past, she looks right back at meshe points at thefuture, glint in her eye
.i will notlove for fearof losingand if afondnessshould creepthrough likeivy, i'll cut itback
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.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
lung canceri will die with your name on my lipsbecause there is nothing else i'll need to say.you are my coffin, my funeral pyre.as my bones disintegrate, popping and snapping,you will greedily swallow my ashesuntil nothing is left of me but secondhand smoke.i've danced with you, love, across hospital tile,the scent of antiseptic cloying as valentine's chocolate.you dipped me into unconsciousness,and i willingly closed my eyes.the intrusion of your scalpel teeth no longer scares me.you, my rigor mortis soul mate, always take me under.your tent of frostbitten shelter pulls me down, an anchor,while i gag on pills too abstract to save me.forgive me, lungs, of my cigarette abuse,but i've found happiness in a reaper's cloak.i find comfort in these carcinogens.i've made my nest in a swaying tree,my body destroyed by the nauseous rocking.they smile at me with pity in their eyes,scribbling nonsense on those jaw-like clipboards.their crisp, stark white world still has faith in me,yet
i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost, kissing stylish arsonists + I still love every sky escaping from your lips
NothingI heard someone sarcastically sputter,"You are what you eat."But hearing that sole sentenceallowed me to finally understandwhy I amwhat I am:Nothing.
all of your lives have been addictsmy cathas turnedmy front porchinto a graveyardas if to say:this is what we needbut tonightshe tried to lick my clawsback to hands& I said to her:"I do not have 9 livesto spend on the bathroom floorwith 13-hour insomniacan't we just kill the mockingbirdspull the concreteout of our throats& get this dyingover withalready"butshe's got 8 lives down& doesn't answer questions twice
Poetry,you’re atemperamental bitchthat moans when I go.You comparealcoholto happiness.You creepfrom throats& boneslike somehungry monster.But Poetry,languagewas inventedfor you.You awokea rhythmbetween myfingertipsthat stilltauntsme.You’re either avital organ,or blood.However, Poetry,are you cheaperthan the womenin the empty spacesof my life-or the secretsI writebetween my thighs?Poetry,I am Fifty Shadesof girl.Why should I feed you?Do you knowwhat to dowith my bodywhen you are merelyink stained fingerssoaked in passing& the feversconjuredwithin burning stars?I didn’t think so.
we're all drunk and always have beennoi haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause i don't breathe poetry inand out -inand out,inand out -i write it under my eyebrowswith the precisionof a drunk snipertoasted into admissionwith irony s-st-tutter-eringdown his throat.you wouldn't take a damned bullet for me.beautiful is a word keptfor the riseand fallof her tidal chest,not my shallow breath,not my sunset, heartfelt,hollow silhouette.i would have disappearedbetween your accusing index andneglected thumb -rub me,rub me?rub herrub herdon't you feel calmer?noi haven't felt smaller than thisbefore.i haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause you found a home betweenher stroking index andcomforting thumb -i haven't forgotten,no, i still remembernow twenty two penumbrae in the pastdidn't stop mefrom settlingin one of several crevassesat the bottom of your oceanic mind;you may have forgotten,and slept inon the details,but i haven't,not yet,not ye
Bad HabitI think I was your drink of fine wine,only used when needed from time to timeI'd get you tipsy, as stars collideYour drunk, slurred wordsblending in with mine(I couldn't even comprehendwhen you said it wouldn't happen again)I think I was your cigarette breakwhen anxiety filled,from me, you'd takeOne puff here, and one puff there(I could barely hearwhen you said, "I'm sorry, dear")I think I was your line of cocaine,thinking I'd be there to ease your painI'd bring you higher,head suspended in clouds(So I knew it was fake,when you said, "It was my mistake")I think I was your bad habit,and ignorantly, you were mineYou continue to relapse, my dearBut rest assured:I won't this time.
Cancer has a smell.Old classics,lilac air-fresheners,the half cup ofpeppermint ice creamthat’s beensitting in your freezerfor weeks, and cat litter.He won’t eat anymore,but there arepiles and pilesof dirty dishessitting in the sink.He’s slowlydisintegratingbefore your eyes.You can wrapyour whole selfaround his tiny bonesnow.You can hold himlike he used to hold youall those years ago.And you are angry.You try to findsomeone,or somethingto blame.You hate doctors,and you hateNovember now.November meansbirthdays, diagnoses,chemo treatments,and realization.You have to force yourselfto stop crying,every day.This is the one personwho’s always had faithin you.He’s read every poemand hoarded every awardyou ever won.You ignore statistics,because rosesthey alwayssmell nicer.
For Two BoysI have imaginedhow your hands would feelplaying my piano key spineand my cello-curved hips,and how your lips would feelbetween the plateau of my shoulderand the slope of my neck—I hate myself for it.I can mouth all of his stories,read all of his expressions,and tell you all of his favorites,as if he is the languageI have spent years studying.I don’t even knowyour father’s nameor your favorite season,and some girl could havethe lines in your hands,freckles on your face,and baritone of your voicememorized and playingon repeat in her mind.Even though our class swearsthat we’re madly in love,I have not once wonderedwhat flavor his lips carryor how his body would feelpressed firmly against mine.I don’t even deserve youin my wildest fantasiesif she knows you like I knowShakespeare’s sonnetsand Plath’s poetry.Sometimes I’m afraidthat when he catches my eyefrom across the crowded class,it’s because he wan
.the sun did notkiss my skinyesterday, he sleptlateshowed hisface around noonand then went backto bed; theearth exhaled