.misery lovescompany aslong as it'son his termsand i've abetter chanceof winningif i just playby the rules
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.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
.my head isthe apple and youare the worm;watch mesquirm
.a sign reads:idle hands wanted
.little robin, wingsoutstretched in the dirt, a smearof red on your breast
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.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
.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
.tiny heart drummingin your chest, i canhear youred gravy pumpingin your veins, i cansmell youyou are such a freshmeal, and i can almosttaste you
.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
.i will bury myselfoutside in the garden;like the spare keyor the dead dog,i'm never there whenyou need me
.i was born with thecord wrapped tightaround my neck; itwould seem fitting todie the same way
.i hear those sailorslost at sea, those white winged soulsfloating in the blue
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.the sun did notkiss my skinyesterday, he sleptlateshowed hisface around noonand then went backto bed; theearth exhaled
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.
my bones awashed on the shorejonah was a man made up ofsalt and stone and piecesof driftwood he found carved withhearts and letters of teenage boys'and girls' names. he wasmore than his chicken leg bones andsagging skin, and the neighborhoodkids thought he was theghost of ol' samson, but he was justninety-eight and pushing it.jonah was a man who likedto wear his mother's curtains as clothesand used moth-eaten tableclothsas blankets during the chilly nights.he had this kind of gleam in hisold, dull gray eyes. he thought he'dbuild himself a boat andset it on the ocean and maybe he wouldfind someone out there.jonah didn't quite know who he was, yet.the neighborhood wives thatbrought him home-cooked dishes in bigpans to eat always told himthat he was no longer sane.but jonah said that sometimessanity had less to do with the mind andmore to do with the people.and on a warm tuesday,he draped his mother's old tableclotharound his shoulders and bundled up in a curtain, left h
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
don't love me until you've seen me bleed.i think thati'm falling in lovewith you.no. no, no no, don't you say that, because you've never seen meat 4 amwith my eyes glazedand my mind a battle field (and my arms paying for the weaponry).you haven't heard mechoke back sobs after midnightbecause god dammit i can't sleep,and the screams in my earsaren't helping matters,and i don't thinkyou will ever see me bre a kand shatter andfall into the greedy gripof a panic attack and then try in vainto claw myself back up. but there is that hot hope in methat tells me that youare different. youcan look pastthe scars and the tearsand the screams and the nightmares. andmaybefor once in my damn lifei'm praying that i'm rightabout someone for once.
Ear(drums)Ear(drums) “silence is a (needed) serenity but the music brings me home again”The clank-clicking, pen-pattering, the beat of it,Only the perfection of flawless instrumentation,Leave lyrics of moot matter to me. Just let the rhythm hit ‘em,And the synths carry thee to my safe haven.The beauty of music leaves dreams lucid,Visions serendipitous,I never knew that music could take me to this place.Where I lay in my bed,But still not quite in the perfect space.Until a flawless concoction of rhythmi
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.
Marinating in the Pervading Loneliness2.37 am sounds likeclenching your jawuntil a crack shoots downinto the nerve endings.The crunch of bonesplitting and separatingand shearing painup into the naive skull,that hoped for something elseto penetrate the malaisecreated by fooling yourselfwith love, with money,with smilesand words.It sounds like biting your tongue -and that flab of meatchunking onto the carpetand violating your chinwith its copperstench syrup,that stains everybodythe same flavour of red -This is what 2.37 am tastes like.Like the only warmth is fromthat cyaniatic bouillabaissecreated by swallowing yourself:your blood, and teeth,and tears,and words.
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
.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