.i opened mymouth;you showedme yourteeth
.the oaks crouch to greetme, i sit with the ferns andthe forest listens
.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 wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.i will notlove for fearof losingand if afondnessshould creepthrough likeivy, i'll cut itback
.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
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.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
.my head isthe apple and youare the worm;watch mesquirm
.i was born with thecord wrapped tightaround my neck; itwould seem fitting todie the same way
.you say youlie because youcare, and ibelieve you;i know you'duse the truthif you reallywanted tohurt me
.the sun did notkiss my skinyesterday, he sleptlateshowed hisface around noonand then went backto bed; theearth exhaled
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.i will bury myselfoutside in the garden;like the spare keyor the dead dog,i'm never there whenyou need me
.he splits hearts likeoranges in themorningsinks his teeth intoripened flesh, andleaves nothing but therind, too hard toswallow
.dead flies scatterthe windowsill, theirbodies shrivelled anddried by the suni mourn the spider,hung with his own web
.a spider weaveshis silver lies on myfront door, and iwalk right in;the flies laugh
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
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
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.
five second suicideand as i pour myself out on these canvasesi drip over the edges, spilling dots ofabsence on the hungry earth.they call me jane doe,and i am not art.every evening, i close the door,close my eyes, disassemble.slowly, i've become fleeting.i float, my feet don't touch the ground.how can i crash?i fade, i dissolve,but i've lost the motive to explode.there's no glory in my death;i leave no trace of the dramatic.a man on the train last tuesdaynudged me, apologized, and carried on his way.he's the last person who'sspoken to me since then.we hit a notch in the tracks,the car wobbled.i stared at him silently,counting the infinite futuresthat suffocated behind my teeth.i'm dying in my own penitentiarywith the cell door key in my pocket.
you should be home by nowlast tuesday the house took my hand & said,it's more of a hurricane than a firesince he broke in & burnedmy curtainsmy floorsmy bridgesmy selfbut sometimes I see her with a lighter& she finishes what he didn't do(I think she's afraidof settling in,being quiet)but last tuesday I realized that she kept the lights onto frighten away the bridges & the peopleso no one will come inside& smash the teacups, steal the pipesbecause since he burnt her beds outno one lives there anymore
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
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.
Road SideI want to have an impactthat lasts longer than the lifeof those petrol seeped flowersplaced ad memoriam at the road side.Let my memory last longerthan the roses.
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;
.a scalpel fromwrist to elbow-you will not beliving under myskin anymore