.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.little robin, wingsoutstretched in the dirt, a smearof red on your breast
.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
.tiny heart drummingin your chest, i canhear youred gravy pumpingin your veins, i cansmell youyou are such a freshmeal, and i can almosttaste you
.when i look back atthe past, she looks right back at meshe points at thefuture, glint in her eye
.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 hear those sailorslost at sea, those white winged soulsfloating in the blue
.sleep left himexhausted;when he closedhis eyes he sailedthrough graveyards,and every nighthe threw himselfoverboard
.my head isthe apple and youare the worm;watch mesquirm
.he told me prayersare uselessand if i really want hisforgiveness, i should get onmy knees and beg
.you say youlie because youcare, and ibelieve you;i know you'duse the truthif you reallywanted tohurt me
.i scrub loveoff your knuckles
.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
.pour love allover, then strikea match;the fire willburn itself out,but the ruinswill smoulder
.in yourhead liesa well troddenpath;i want thewilderness
.dead flies scatterthe windowsill, theirbodies shrivelled anddried by the suni mourn the spider,hung with his own web
.i shudderwhen you speak;your words arecold when theytouch me
a.m./p.m.i put my handsin the stars-feathery hair, coldskin and cyanosis fed, i realize that i amnothing. born in neither winteror spring, crying aboutcherry tree spines andthrowing stones, iwas left for thewolves. it is the dawn ofFebruary, and i am so close toseventeen that i cantaste it; i am very nearly choking on age. the sky beckons me most at 11:49 pm, becauseit's hovering between tomorrow and yesterday--that destroys me. i want to burn it to theground, breathethe ashes in like cigarettes ondirty curbs. i am stuck here in a windowless town witha thousand memories stuck between my canines;into the wind, i drop words like deadweights. take me home.
SeclusionSeclusion Sometimes you need seclusion to reclaim your mind.Blacken your vision and close your eyes,Plug your ears from the outside,As you fall back, back inside of “I.”And not “we,” “he,” “she,” but me.Sometimes to find myself, I must lose everyone else.
dearly belovedthese daysyour name has been slippingin and out of my rib cageand sometimes,my heart forgets to beat.it's funny,i suppose—how even after all these months i stilldon't want to believe thatyou're dead. how during thefirst couple of weeks i prayedto a god i didn't believe in and begged to knowif death tasted sweet to you. how once,when the monsters in my headdidn't let me sleep, iwrote you three poems and thendestroyed four.you were a supernova thatlit up my life fora few radiant moments before,like all good things in thisfilthy world,you came to an end.the sinner in me hopes that you have wings now.but i think that,most of all,i hope you no longerremember what painfeels like.
blowing my teeth out the back of my skullI.we are hynagogic wasteland words, unravelingcorpses clutching at bruised throats - white gasolineII.and when your skin heals, i hope i've permeated your bones( i will never be rid of you ).
Chalk OutlineA chalk outline waits for mesometimes it slips into bed with my shadowand I can do nothing but roll my eyeslike a mis=abused and weary parent,but every night when my shadowmerges with the edges of the day's pageand blurs into a dirty midnight orangeI lie in bed and shudder;without my shadow's protection I feel it,a chalk outline waits for me.
Goodnight MoonThe battered sky bloomsas the dark teabag stainunder her weary eyes.Like the coupletstrung around her necklaceand embeddedwith teeth marks -jewels impressed intothe vast expansive skyof her laden shoulderbones.The bruise darkensand the stars seem impossible.Too far awayand smiling a long dead smile.But somewhere a pomegranate lip,swollen with the disdainthat he made her swallow -somewhere, those lipsfind the courage to sayGoodnight.
sati(ate)dit's ironic,isn't it? the waythey say "hunger gnaws"like the way our teethscrape against bones.for all thecalories that are counted,you still feelempty. you aren'tbeautiful untilyou are digestingnothing but airand maybe your own guilt.that's just the wayliving is thesedays: swallowingglass shards toslice up your insides soyou can ignorethe other kind of pain yourstomach is feeling.but when people askif you're doing okay you justsmile and nod even thoughyou can't help butthink "if honesty wastangible, i'd eat it rightnow."life hasan acquired taste andsome days you'dlike to rip yourtongue out.
9.12in a place whereonly cedersgrow, i stole shadowsfrom a jar ofpen ink. the starsnever forgaveme; i had to forgivemyself.and with high eyes and afire-tongue, the kind you get fromsmoking too manycigarettes, hecame from the ground andtried totake them back– butmy fists grewtight. i fought him likehell; and he, toohas yet toforgive me.
suicide can come in bottles.dad was an alcoholicby the time he was twenty-two.he was thirty-threewhen i was born.-i am eight years old.dad is drunk on the couch.he wakes up and tells me to buy him foodand i tell him i’m his daughter.he gets up to yell at methen, as if realizing, starts laughing.hard.i am scared.-i am nine years old.there’s a picture i don’t understandprinted out on the table.i look at the web address and type it inand there’s a site full of them.the men look like they’re hurting the women.they call them mean namesand tie them up.in the one my dad printedthere are no faces. just genitalsand i am nineand i understand.i don’t tell my mother.-i am nine years old.every night i get up when dad leavesto close the browsers open on his computer.one night,there are seventeen openand i close themone at a time.some of the pictures are scary.one woman is screaming.another is one who looks young,like a high school girl.“SIXTEEN
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
I can relate to having this feeling.
luv all your poems!!!