.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
.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 wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.he told me prayersare uselessand if i really want hisforgiveness, i should get onmy knees and beg
.when i look back atthe past, she looks right back at meshe points at thefuture, glint in her eye
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.you brokea heart,convincedthat there wassomething goodinside
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.sometimesthe voicein my headdecides tocurl up inmy throatinsteadand sometimesthe beat ofyour heartdecides tomake itselfknown throughyour fists
.i shudderwhen you speak;your words arecold when theytouch me
.you're afraidto let anyonestoke the firein your chestfor fearyou will burnthem alive
.you are a walkingcoffin; there are sentencesburied alive inside you, all thethings you could not sayand they will fester therelike maggots, eat you fromthe inside out
.dead flies scatterthe windowsill, theirbodies shrivelled anddried by the suni mourn the spider,hung with his own web
.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
.sleep left himexhausted;when he closedhis eyes he sailedthrough graveyards,and every nighthe threw himselfoverboard
.throw my boneson the fire justto warm up yourownthen sitthere and wonderwhy you're alwaysalone
The Dead SeaThe Dead SeaI offered water to her,but she was a seaI offered love to her,but she was deadI offered words to herand she hated me.
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
So SilentSo silentIt was so silent on the hill,She could hear her steps,Her breath...A look at the watch;Time's not passing,Not going away,Like a friend who waits, insists;BegsThat she must do something at last.
While It BurnsWhy does a moth flyDirectly into the flame?Perhaps its captivatedBy the beauty to be foundIn such pure recreationOr perhapsIt flies so surelyInto its own deathBecause it believesThe flames of rebirthWill allow it a second chanceAt metamorphosis,And perhaps that this time...It will appear a butterfly.Perhaps this is the only thingIt can force itself to believeWhile it burns.
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.
disorder"mirror, mirror, on the wallwho's the fairest of them all?"i whispered to my doleful reflection,but this was no fairy tale:this was a small town on a cold, foggy night.my skeleton was so beautifuli wanted to showcase it,give onlookers a glimpse of my impendingdeath through my very flesh.i could picture myself, edges carved awaylike a cored apple.i just wanted to feel real.everyone around me chewed and swallowed so easilybut i just gnawed on my lip until itasted blood, and leta piece of myself die.the flavor made my mouth wateras my stomach ground out hoarserequests for expansion, for meaning.i held nothing within but pathetic yearning,hollow with self-hatred.i could only feel affection with pain.perfection became my obsession,consuming me alive the way i would haveloved to consume anything at all.some part of me believe i could be a super model,and living my life on ambition and emptinesswas the way to do it.every day i watched the little numberson t
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
The MonstersThe monsters were neverunder my bed.Because the monsterswere inside my head.I fear no monsters,for no monsters I see.Because all this timethe monster has been me.
I can't write poetry for dead girls.there are toomany pills in thisworld and toomuch misery inthe human heartbut that didn't meanthat you could justup and leave whenwe both know itcould have gotten betterand i miss you likea wolf misses her packor a goddamn dragon missesher fire and i'm sorrythat i can't give youa bouquet of jasmines(they were yourfavorite, after all,because that wasthe only princesswith a pet tiger)because poppies aretoo cliche and i'msorry i wasn't therewhen all you neededwas a hug and for someoneto whisper "it's okay,you're perfect enoughfor me, don't listento that junkie bitchwho just happened togive birth to you" and didyou know that i'm still waitingfor a reply to that oneemail about the world'sbest puns because fuck,there's a stubborn partof me that still refuses tobelieve that you're gone.
.you say youlie because youcare, and ibelieve you;i know you'duse the truthif you reallywanted tohurt me