.a scalpel fromwrist to elbow-you will not beliving under myskin anymore
.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
.horrors prey ondreams, and sleep cando nothing about ita lamb straysfrom the flock;a wolf grins
.fistsclench; i brush myheart frommy sleeve, thenditch thesweater
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.i keepbutterfliesin mystomach;pierce holesthrough sowe canbreathe
.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
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
.she calls down angelsjust to burn theirrighteous wings,to see them rise thenfall, those flailingdovesshe tells them, thisis what it's liketo be humanand they say judgementwill arrive for you, mygirl, you will becleansed by burninglightand i strike another match
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.i will bury myselfoutside in the garden;like the spare keyor the dead dog,i'm never there whenyou need me
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.the oaks crouch to greetme, i sit with the ferns andthe forest listens
.the sun did notkiss my skinyesterday, he sleptlateshowed hisface around noonand then went backto bed; theearth exhaled
.a spider weaveshis silver lies on myfront door, and iwalk right in;the flies laugh
.you are dead and buriedsix feet under yourself,still feeling the way you didwhen you were seventeenand when you bathe, you stillkeep your head under thewater, wrists upturned, redeyes open, trying to drown yourselfout
.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
.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
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
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.
roadkillYou told meI was November’s ambrosiasweet on your tongue.But now all I feelis discord, siegingand overthrowingthe 3,000 year old treeinside of me.-Centuries to grow so talland strong-9 mere minutes tofall.You no longer smile anymore.And I am here,silent as stone-the carcass of a dead...wild thinghoping you don't leave meon the side of the road.
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
Wistful"I am the boy who wants to loveyour misshapen words,your broken hearted pieces,andyour ink split fingers.I am the boy who wants to kissthose scar tattooed arms,that tear stained faceandmend what has been broken. I am the boy who canand willmake your heartsing poetry again."If only he would say itnowlike he hadthen.
reasons why we should be in loveif I couldI’d love you likethose couples who growinto each other and makepoetry out of body languageand wear one another’sweaknesses when they gettoo heavy and talk aboutthe weather without ever reallymeaning the weather at all;and you’d keep me fromfalling asleep in the oceanand I’d lie about littlethings, always confusingSunday for Tuesday andyou for somebody withthe same face whowas always afraid ofme. you’d chuckle andhold me and I’d cave in toyou like the hungry tideand you’d say I lookedbeautiful when I criedand I wouldn’t believe youbut I’d cry more anyways.if people were alive,you’d be the brightestone. I don’t have muchto offer but I could write youa million dedicationsin the sand, and give youpocket change when youneeded a wish; I couldtake you to New Zealandto paint water lilies or Englandto go skydiving or Italyto fall in love and mean itand I would promise youthe moon an
Awareness.She writes such lovely poemsBut nobody really caresShe hides them all the timeTo avoid the judging staresShe wrote one yesterdayAbout a boy who said he loved herBut to her own dismayShe caught him with anotherShe wrote one about schoolAnd the words painted on her locker“No one likes you, stupid bitch.You’re lucky I’m at soccer.”She wrote about her parentsAnd how she wished they were togetherBut she knows that won’t ever happenAnd forgetting’s probably betterYes, she writes such lovely poemsBut there’s so much more to thisSee, her pencil is a razorAnd the paper is her wrist.
an apology to anyone who'll listen It begins with a wishand ends with a sigh.I am in love with boys whodon't exist and girls who I sometimespretend are myself. Spineless,spiteful, and one hundred percentsporadic, I'm becoming undone.When I wasyounger I thought itwas a sin ifyour parents didn'tlove each other. Now Iknow that it'sjust the way this world works. And hell,I need you right now; to tell me that gaining four pounds in three days is typical to tell me that living in a dream every second is perfectly okay to tell me that I'm normal, that I'm still sane, that I'm not going to close my eyes one day and never open them again.Don't look at me. Please, just don't lookat me. I can't remember the last time I had no regrets.
Before I Can Become a WriterDevelop insomnia. Developproblems with substance abuse,nothing serious, but enoughthat I can say “write drunk,edit sober” and mean it.Drink tea. Write about drinkingtea. Take up smoking, ignorethe thoughts about it beinga slower suicide. Write aboutsuicide. Don’t mean it.Write about sunsets andink veins. Mean it.Fall in love with someonewho will never love me back.Lament. Write a millioncrappy poems and two goodones. Never show him.Move on. Write a few morebad poems. Fall in love withsomeone perfect. Screw it up.Fall in love with someone awful.Call him perfect. Screw it up.Cry. Cry for the inevitable,the way my family neverloved me right, the way myfirst kiss was regrettableat best, the way my therapistsays my depression is a demontaking over me. Cry for thechangeable, the wayI hate my body and my writingand everything I live to be.Use clichés. Live clichés,breathe clichés, bea cliché. Write a poemabout ho
.i will notlove for fearof losingand if afondnessshould creepthrough likeivy, i'll cut itback