.the world is protesting;screaming and shouting andshaking and heaving, pouringit's molten red heart outand i do not want to be laidto rest with a great grey slabweighing me down, and i willnot be burned again, so i thinki'd like to sleep in nature'sbed, yeah he can take me, removemy layers one by one and powdermy bones with lichen(the world doesn't like waiting for anyone)
.at night, something madclimbs into bed with me andi go to war with myself -words i do not want sit on the tipof my tongue, so i bite the wholething off - crimson droplets fallfrom the sky, and i start bleedingrain - dead babies, their heartbeatsslipping through the cracks in myfloorboards - kettles abandoningpots and then finding that neithercan function properly - white sheets,pillowcases, walls and white faces -a rabid cat clawing at the inside ofmy temple, let me out - krill in thebellies of whales, their hearts likeempty lockets - suffocating in thesilver lining - secrets giggling likechildren in my mind, a game of hideand seek i don't think i want to win -a lamb frolicks around the body of alion and i reap something i nevereven sowed in the first place(you idiot, you idiot, what have you done)
.she told me i had soft palms,i said yeah but i've got a hardheart, because wheni was young i got giventwo goldfish, and one day thebig ate the littleand that's when i learnt i'dbe fucked by the world, it woulddo the same thing to me too(i heard the language of evil and i started to speak it, saw the actions of evil and i started to be it)
.my mother said it's rudeto write in red, i said wellplease tell that to my skinand please, take a look at thisrose on my wrist, at the eightpints that flow through the stem(can't drag myself out of my body, so i won't drag myself out of bed)
.misery lovescompany aslong as it'son his termsand i've abetter chanceof winningif i just playby the rules
.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
.my demonsmiss yours(he must be dead; his eyes are closed)
.i laid in the flowers andi listened to them hum,i think i loved your handsthe most, even when theyflayed me to the boneand i don't think i'msupposed to talk about -the devil, he said i'velived one hell of a life,you see, just read myname out backwards,and god ain't nothingbut a dog, so don't youeven go wasting your time(i left my conscience pining outside the door)
.i wanted to bathein fire; for the amber tonguesto lick me clean, pure
.the birds don't singanymore, they sigh -a magpie shouts, i thinkit's time you heard this,god you really are a stupidgirl, if you saw thingsfrom up here you'd understand,see - some kids they don'tever hatch, don't meanthat it's your fault, and ifyou hold on to the shell ofem you're the one that's gonnacrack - so throw it out yeahjust get rid of it i'llhelp you if you want, i'llscoop it up with one swiftwing, and i won't bebringing it back(things might be picture perfect but i much prefer the frame)
.my thoughts want toflee, but there is no fireescape, no guide to theexit of my head, and theyconsider digging a holethere, i feel it, maybe acrack just wide enoughto crawl through, drop arope through the backof my neck and climbdown, prise open theearth - a tremble turnsinto an avalanche, anda snowflake in the flurrywonders am i the same asall the rest? he coughs andsplutters and chokes onit - i wake in the earlymorning, heart lodgedin my throat, that redbird in that chimney, he'sgoing to starve there andi'll be spitting feathers;i won't claw the insideof my neck again fornobody, i'm past that,pick me up by thescruff and drop mewherever you're going -but wait, when lightningstrikes a tree, well isn'tthat love? and when therain pelts the ground,well what about then?when you miss the acheof wounds as they'rehealing, is that it? wellwhen your nose bleeds,that's still love right?cos i've got an entirepack to get through -and what a funnything it is
.how am i feeling? well todayi'm a phoenix, doc, here get mean ash tray i'll show youand please i just wanna sleeplike lena does, i got a brainlike a ten ton weight(and i'm still holding what's dead because no one else can carry it, and i can't get into bed until i find somewhere to bury it)
.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
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.sleep left himexhausted;when he closedhis eyes he sailedthrough graveyards,and every nighthe threw himselfoverboard
.he said there are a lot of things in lifethat don't make sense,i said i know,like that time i laughed so hard at the wakei had to stay out in the garden making small talk with the smokersfor the rest of it,like the time i shut myself in the garage and went to sleepin the backseat of your car,and how i'm not at all religious but i sat in church that day withmy hands clasped andi prayed,how i kept the windows shut that sunday so what i prayed forcouldn't get in,like the time i watched her throw your stuff out on the driveway,and when she managed to smash those plates even withher broken wrist, how most hearts start to sink when tempers rise,and the time i wanted to cradle that dead pigeon i saw at thetrain station, and you told me to answer the phone and i wouldn'tbecause i knew it was you,and when the night comes calling i always let him in,i'm never quite sure who he is, but he sayshe's paid for it so now i better fuckingdrink it,he says haven't you learnt by now
.he told me prayersare uselessand if i really want hisforgiveness, i should get onmy knees and beg
he called it the art of destruction.she had nice eyes,the kind you liked to drawwith watercolor tearsand ink like the moon'sstolen glow.he had memorizedher midnight lashes,the half-closed shuttersand memories locked awaybehind a pupil,and his pencil was thekey.yellowwere the specks in heririses of emeraldsprings;everything she touchedturned into gold,everything she toucheddiedand rose anewlike budding flowersafter the blizzard.his pencilcould never do the same,he knew;but he'd give those eyes awayfor a dime apiece,ignoring the factthat ebony charcoaland half-dried acrylicswere all that she wouldever be.
Titles Don't Belong in the First LineTitles don’t belong in the first line,teacher says,and poetry is not made of end rhymes.The ventilated fluorescence and Iflicker at the incongruenceand I want to tell hersometimes east is lefton the mapif you hold it right.
multii never thought words could dieuntil i heard themfall gently from your lipsand plummet to the ground.i'd always assumed it was your canvas,but it turned out to bea graveyardand now i use it asboth.
tapping on death's windowshe never knockedon death's door;she climbed in throughhis bedroom windowwhile he was asleepand spent the nighton his sofa,watchingwith her silvery eyesthe riseand fallof his chest.
And There Was Lighti.He was seventeen when he died.I never went to the funeralbut I walked past it the day ofthe service. His motherwas in the backseat of a blue Dodge,door open, head in her hands."My baby," she kept repeating."My baby." It would go from sobbing, toscreaming, to a soft whisper thatI could only hear being carriedon the wind.ii.It was a Wednesday afternoon that they foundhis old red pickup truck parkedout front of Slim's, two beer bottles inthe back and the windows cracked to let the staleair out.I heard that his dad told the police he wasgonna take that old truck and fix it up, becausehe had promised his son before—because it's always in the before—he died.And in the after, his mother never had dry eyesand I'm pretty sure my mom told methat she saw his dad at the bar every night,drinking his sorrows down because some people can'thandle the stress.Some people can't figure out why their son wouldkill himself.iii."Some men just want to w
From Mia, With Lovelast night i caught her with a finger so far down the back of her throat,she pulled up her thoughtsinto all the watera refraction of light &a troutsuspended until suddenly all the water in her head sloshes(a faint inner rippleas the pain leaks out her ears, her nose)she was gasping to throw herself onto the next commabut noshe sinks or swims [the cliche, a baracuda, drags her down]but if this was a love songshe'd hate itbecause she's already written 46 on her handto remind herself she's only human & a weak gag reflex runs in her familyso walk straight in, my love& sink to the bottomsix feet under these bulimic stars
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.
fool's goldshe told me lieswrapped in golden cellophaneand truthswith a heart of pyrite. she gave me a necklace for my birthday with a sapphire pendant and i have never worn it. she told me with her eyes that it wasn't normal to get chills when you're writing, so i became numb instead when that feeling of freedom came and i trapped myself in words. she gave me joy when i thought i'd been done for- all that makeup and beauty and fashion
six steps to fixing youstep onecry. scream. bang your fists against the wallsthat keep you locked inside.kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupidand wrong and that you've never loved her.cry. scream. apologize via him to you.let your tears catch on your lashesuntil you can no longer see anything but your owndemise. taste the bitterness left inyour mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.step twobreak a mug. break two. kickthe pieces around the kitchen floor and cry some more.break a plate. break a cup. break a bowl.break a finger because nothing can take away thissort of pain. you are empty and yetyou are filled with so much anger.break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.step threeyou are okay, you tell them.you break three days later and you liein bed, unable to move.step fourstart picking up the pieces. clean up the messyou've made and he's left.use windex to polish off the dirt and
.karma sits on my sofawhiskey doused, eyes rolled upto the top of his head, and he saysjust do whatever the fuck makesyou happy, mate, just dowhatever you want(what a terrible thing to be full to the brim with emptiness)