.i shudderwhen you speak;your words arecold when theytouch me
.pour love allover, then strikea match;the fire willburn itself out,but the ruinswill smoulder
.sometimesthe voicein my headdecides tocurl up inmy throatinsteadand sometimesthe beat ofyour heartdecides tomake itselfknown throughyour fists
.you brokea heart,convincedthat there wassomething goodinside
.some thoughts get so loud thatyou cry out for them to leave;they scatter like birds startledout of their trees, before landingagain where they wereand after a while,you just have tolet them sing
.love grewand died repeatedly;she tore it out atthe root
.and if you evermanage to get inside myhead, i'll wish you luck
.a storm breaks insidehis mouth; my name washes upon his tongue, stranded
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.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
.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
.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
.you were a passingstorm, a tornado scribblingyour name in the sand
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.when i look back atthe past, she looks right back at meshe points at thefuture, glint in her eye
.my head isthe apple and youare the worm;watch mesquirm
Cancer has a smell.Old classics,lilac air-fresheners,the half cup ofpeppermint ice creamthat’s beensitting in your freezerfor weeks, and cat litter.He won’t eat anymore,but there arepiles and pilesof dirty dishessitting in the sink.He’s slowlydisintegratingbefore your eyes.You can wrapyour whole selfaround his tiny bonesnow.You can hold himlike he used to hold youall those years ago.And you are angry.You try to findsomeone,or somethingto blame.You hate doctors,and you hateNovember now.November meansbirthdays, diagnoses,chemo treatments,and realization.You have to force yourselfto stop crying,every day.This is the one personwho’s always had faithin you.He’s read every poemand hoarded every awardyou ever won.You ignore statistics,because rosesthey alwayssmell nicer.
Keep your secrets, wolfgirl.I have been suffocatingon the stars of my pastlike horny gentlemendo with innocent lookingwolfgirls at 3am- their bitefearless as thieves.My lilac lungs are breathing indust and the tears of Saturn’snameless moons,while the rest of me -well, shes warm off wineand poems leftunfinished.
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.
Sundiveri.When I was six a phoenixtried to drown me.Underwater I grabbed for fire.Like Icarus, I was reachingtowards the sun.I hope he still hasbald spots. I hope he stillcradles searing scars.He was death,I was the bird.ii.My uncle knows plastic-wrapped soaps as wellas he knows fine wines.If he drinks enough,he thinks it’s love-carved names rubbingthe silver drain smooth. Diver: 28 dayssweating, ship black againstsea. Like it had been peeledfrom amber tongues.iii.On my fifteenth birthday, the boywith stars on his fists and Saturn’srings in his eyes told me I was pretty.It was the first timeanyone had said so. I learnedhow to hold my breath,how to apply foundation,how to crywithout bleeding tardown my cheeks,and how to wear my bonesquieter.iv.He says he does it for the money.He says you have to come up slowlyor else something inside of you will explode.I didn’t understand what he meantuntil I realized my throat was stillsomewhere in hi
you should be home by nowlast tuesday the house took my hand & said,it's more of a hurricane than a firesince he broke in & burnedmy curtainsmy floorsmy bridgesmy selfbut sometimes I see her with a lighter& she finishes what he didn't do(I think she's afraidof settling in,being quiet)but last tuesday I realized that she kept the lights onto frighten away the bridges & the peopleso no one will come inside& smash the teacups, steal the pipesbecause since he burnt her beds outno one lives there anymore
why i never wrote you a poem.last summer i triedto use the words that you fell asleep toto write you a love song butevery time i triedmy fingers froze up.i failed the test of describing youin a paragraphin a sentencein a wordbecausethere is nothing in my head adequate enough(worthy enough)to describe how you lookon the train station platformwhen you smile at me.i can tell you thatmy heart climbs into my throat andmy body prickles with heat andeverything disappears, for just a moment, butthe thing i cannot describeis you.your mouth caresses my namelike it’s the most beautiful soundit’ll ever know,like it understands me perfectly,but you,you are not made of verses.you have no meter.you are not written in stanzasthat i understandand i find myself captivatedat how beautifully complexyour language is.you say i’m the mesmerizing one, but, baby,you've stumped me.you have left a girl,a writer,a person who wants to build their lifewith words,speechless.
You asked for dark poetry.i will neverbe niceto my enemies.i will devour them all.slowly.methodically.with a fork.
How to love a poet: Expect them to be flawed, a field of wild flowered- imperfections, sticky metaphors & an inability to speak. Love them anyway. Know that when they look at you they are noticing the little things.
Moving OnAll I can tell you isI haven't gotten farwalking throughtwenty years of yesterday.
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave