.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
.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
.i keepbutterfliesin mystomach;pierce holesthrough sowe canbreathe
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.dead flies scatterthe windowsill, theirbodies shrivelled anddried by the suni mourn the spider,hung with his own web
.my head isthe apple and youare the worm;watch mesquirm
.i heard that eventhe dead have nightmares; sometimesthey roll in their graves
.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
.he told me prayersare uselessand if i really want hisforgiveness, i should get onmy knees and beg
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.i will notlove for fearof losingand if afondnessshould creepthrough likeivy, i'll cut itback
.the oaks crouch to greetme, i sit with the ferns andthe forest listens
.i was born with thecord wrapped tightaround my neck; itwould seem fitting todie the same way
.a scalpel fromwrist to elbow-you will not beliving under myskin anymore
.little robin, wingsoutstretched in the dirt, a smearof red on your breast
.misery lovescompany aslong as it'son his termsand i've abetter chanceof winningif i just playby the rules
.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
hometown bluesthey say home is where the heart is,but they never claimed it had to be beating.if this town is all there is to living,then I'm dead,and these dusty dirt roadsare my sad little gravestones.there's a harsh winter wind.I'm breathing,but it's the same air I've inhaledsince I first opened mysurgical steel eye to the world.remember the pale pink dressI wore to our senior prom?you held meunder the fuzzy yellow confetti light.I loved you because you were so gentle,and when I fell apart,you were the only person who knewI could fix myself on my own.you twirled me like I mattered,because you knew that one day I would die.you forgot that you would, too.you are wrought iron starlight,my crooked grey dove.you live in the sidewalk cracks,moaning my name as Icautiously step over the gorges.my mother calls, from time to time.I've learned to let the phone ringbecause her voice is not the one I want to hear.she's too tepid, unsure.she's the link strangling me,pinning me t
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.
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.
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
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
wishbones and flowers I think it’s selfish how I have compared every other kiss to yours. ( After all- good things don’t invite themselves into the lives of little girls who categorize their disorders by the scars on their wrists and who allow strangers to hang them from their necks like wishbones. ) But, no one’s hands have ever staked claim to this scavenged wasteland like yours- not even my own. And it’s hard to forget that; please forgive me. As you will always be the one who taught me that it’s okay to be sad.
I wish...I’ve been sitting on your doorstep for three days.Here are the nothings I left under the mat:i.I do not feel like a lion anymore,an alpha wolf, a hyena orany other strong-willed beast.ii. Today,I want to take my scarsout to lunch,feed them your eyes,& your tongueuntil it bleeds sorrow,and “please forgive me’s”.iii. You wish I never existedas you grind those wordsinto my wrists like they arered hibiscus blossoms.& I’ll have you knowI am a flower, bloomed,rooted deep into the soil.You are just a combinationof 26 letters-an “I wish…”
How She BurnsShe has astral eyesand the tongue of a phoenixthat scorches youshould you dismiss her.With those milky whiteswith a galaxy dropped inand spooling in the irisshe sees right through.She has asteroid eyesthat flicker so fastyou might not notice -you just might notnotice the milky waysthat a galaxy dropped inspools in the irisof a phoenix gone wildburns.
.i will bury myselfoutside in the garden;like the spare keyor the dead dog,i'm never there whenyou need me