.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.my head isthe apple and youare the worm;watch mesquirm
.you brokea heart,convincedthat there wassomething goodinside
.he told me prayersare uselessand if i really want hisforgiveness, i should get onmy knees and beg
.pour love allover, then strikea match;the fire willburn itself out,but the ruinswill smoulder
.you were a passingstorm, a tornado scribblingyour name in the sand
.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
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.he stood on the shore,and told the sea he loved her;the jealous wind tore hisvoice in two
.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
.the shadows bruise thesunlight while the moonweeps in the darkness
.i shudderwhen you speak;your words arecold when theytouch me
.i was born with thecord wrapped tightaround my neck; itwould seem fitting todie the same way
.you pulledall the strings;now i connect morewith the puppet thani do the puppeteer
.the breathin my lungs -you tookeverything
.love grewand died repeatedly;she tore it out atthe root
.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
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.
( 4/04/2014 )Everything here is so fuckingloud and this dragon eyed girldoesn’t feel like filteringanymore.She doesn’t want to answerthe phone today, either, so-she stuffs her ears withsilence, andher mouth with newnamesas she kissesswollen knees.She’s ponderingsocks now toowiththeir mixed &matched indecency.Real ladies wouldn’tdare step outsidewearing one pink& one green sock,only,but she’s no lady.-A red lipped hermitholding a knife to herown throat, screaming-writewritewritewriteidareyou!maybe,who embracesthe sun andthe rain on her facefor the first timein weeks.Oh poets with yourpretty words andold souls,this is what truewriters blocklooks like.
( 4/02/2014 )It’s day two& I already feelshriveled, lungless,overworked.I’ve been livingout of my suitcasesince I got home,sleepingon the couch &leaving my laundryon the floor.Everything in my refrigeratorscreams 12 days too late& rent money is due.She’s slapping mein the face,you see.Depression,that heartless bitchwith the longspider legs& hot mouth-she enjoysthrowing meinto furniture-up againstthin walls& having her way with me.
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
butterfliedit is a snakecoiled in my stomach,the urge to vomiteverything inside of me, to purgeall the toxic not-good-enoughs. to retellthe same story and expecta different ending isthe dysfunction that landedus in here. I'm sorryI don't follow you intoyour dreams at night. I'm sorrymy smile is not the moon,I'm sorry I did anythingto make you noticeme at all. no fingerdown the throat could evertake thataway.
lost my voice.I wrote "I love you"in the sand at the beach.The tide swallowed the wordsand drowned thembefore I could speak.
Could I Send You The StarsCan I send you the stars?A million twinkling letttersWaiting above your head each night to be readIn gentle melody like midnight lullabiesFor the girl I dearly wish could hear them.Can I borrow your moon?I know without it your nights may feel emptyBut I envy its lovely radiance shiningUpon those two eyesI wish I could see wish I could gaze intoSo instead could I borrow your Moon?And gaze into it hoping I'll find the lovelinessOf your eyes there instead.Could I steal your Sun?And pocket it's millionsAnd millions of memoriesOf lightly caressing you with its raysKnowing the feel of every beautifully delicatePart of you for every day of every year..Could I lease your dreams?And reside there with youUnderneath our stars' gentle lullabiesAnd beneath the Moon's loving gazeAway from the Sun's prying raysWith you...Since you're all I really need.So could I send you the starsAnd hope they'll send my love too?
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.
we're all drunk and always have beennoi haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause i don't breathe poetry inand out -inand out,inand out -i write it under my eyebrowswith the precisionof a drunk snipertoasted into admissionwith irony s-st-tutter-eringdown his throat.you wouldn't take a damned bullet for me.beautiful is a word keptfor the riseand fallof her tidal chest,not my shallow breath,not my sunset, heartfelt,hollow silhouette.i would have disappearedbetween your accusing index andneglected thumb -rub me,rub me?rub herrub herdon't you feel calmer?noi haven't felt smaller than thisbefore.i haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause you found a home betweenher stroking index andcomforting thumb -i haven't forgotten,no, i still remembernow twenty two penumbrae in the pastdidn't stop mefrom settlingin one of several crevassesat the bottom of your oceanic mind;you may have forgotten,and slept inon the details,but i haven't,not yet,not ye
.i scrub loveoff your knuckles