.in a poemeverything comesto life, so i writeabout you, i writeabout you, and iam still keepingus alive(light the path then, lantern eyes, if you know the fucking way out of here)
.there are some things i've seen and heard that reallyget to me sometimes, like those birds and mice with teeth markson their little red raw thighs,rotting flowers, i recall he said this is a waste of timeand you're a waste of space, it's just impossible to holda conversation with you these days,let it go, just fucking drop it,keep your mouth shut unless i sayi think i froze to death last night, my fingertips turned blue,i heard a cloud say fuck you boy, did i come all this way for youto say that i look like a rabbit,better places i could bei've seen my shadow put two fingers to her headand pull the trigger, heard my echo laughabout it with the walls, and every timei hold a match i hear itwhispering to me,if you don't want me to burn you,then you're gonna have to blow meouti heard that you can't tame a lion just by pullingat his mane, i heard that blood feels goodon porcelain and not just i
.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
.unbutton my skinand let me fall out;(a mass of red and blue strings to wind round your fingers)
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.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)
.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)
.my demonsmiss yours(he must be dead; his eyes are closed)
.if thesewalls couldtalkthen i'm surethey'd bescreamingget out,burn usdown,we can'tbearto hold youanylonger(been too busy dreaming to get any sleep)
.confess;let thosesquirmingthingsinside youhatchand falloff thetongue(i'd rather walk myself home, bare feet cold on pavement)
.someone told the mistit clings too tightlyto the hillsand someone told the snowthat the mountains needto breathe(an idiot, a coward)
.a sign reads:idle hands wanted
.they all say,it's a good thingyou fell farfrom that treeand i can'ttake another bite;the pips insidestart screaming(spit spit spit)
.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.you brokea heart,convincedthat there wassomething goodinside
.you say youlie because youcare, and ibelieve you;i know you'duse the truthif you reallywanted tohurt me
.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
you've been dead for a year, my deari met you on december 21st,the longest night of the year.you had solstice eyes: cold, dark, alluring.i knew you were not meant to last,powerful as a gale but fragile asthe tulip stems you snapped,a sickening cycle of you,an overwhelming tidal wave.they say two wrongs will never make a right,but i made so many bad choices thati wound up back where I began.it was too easy to love you,but getting you to love me back was impossible.i clawed at your chest until I struck blood,until my nails split into shards.you were born a phantom,and i, your corpse.holding onto you felt like drowning in quicksand;i fought but always sank into your arms.i breathed in dirt, breathed in dust, andfound my organs choked with you,smothered by your existence.you sucked out my breathevery time i kissed you.i died every day with your handknotted in my hair.You left on june 21st,the longest day of the year.i bit down sorrow and deconstructedthe labyrinth within me,the one you hadn't th
vacation artifact."Last summer I took my cell phone to the beach,"she says, "and the ocean drenched it. It hasn't worked since then."She's messy, truly, a dead battery, a gauge hovering on empty.I tell her to call the phone company,get a back up or refund or some other nonsense.She sighs (her lips didn't move).For a moment I thinkshe's going to push me away again,film up like ankle-cutting sea glass."I can't replace it.I'll lose the last text messagehe ever sent me."I fall quiet because I know.Today I see the cell phone, cold and silent
i'm a paradigm of self-destructionsnap your marlboro bones &grind them into watercolors -bay-water boy, paint your brainson the wallpaper like a sinner'ssermon; you won't wilt the waythat deities do, you solipsist:you're just a suicide drone.
His BallerinaA gown of silk, flowing as a stream,Her footsteps so gentle, perhaps she was a dream,As he crouches near bushes to glare at the unseen,And she danced like ballerina.Her fingers combed her golden hair,A perfect lady who didn't careTo see the man that would never dareTo touch a ballerina.But desire grew, and patience died,As a lovely girl danced before his eyes,So he buried his heart, pulled out a knife,And tickled the ballerina.She fought his hands, in fear of death,A dirty blade sinking through her chest,For he would never settle for something less,As she screamed,She cried,She took her final breath...And the wind grew calm, barely blowing on the stream.Her voice so quiet (perhaps it was a dream).As he closes his eyes, cradling his queen...His beautiful ballerina.
how to love a boy who is lost.falllike you're jumping from a cliffinto a thrashing sea whose waters you cannot tread,dive into their depths and fill your lungs with waves.just don't close your eyes,because you have to search for him.feel your weight drag you to the bottom,feel the ocean embrace youand don't be afraid of that pounding in your chest.each heartbeat is sonara signal calling him and his calling you.learn to swim nowif you drown you cannot save him.swim to the fallen cities,the submerged castlesand maritime gardens.there you'll find him,lost in thought and studying the fish.i hope you saved some oxygenso you can breathe during the kiss.
Parentheses(I wonder if parenthesesever see all the letterscaught in between themand feel that distanceas though it is tangible;if they ever craveto be close enough togetherso they could intertwineuntil their inkscratchescollide to incoherence;if you’ve ever noticedhow your right hand ellipsesand curves just like a parenthesis,and how my left hand is its opposite.)
five second suicideand as i pour myself out on these canvasesi drip over the edges, spilling dots ofabsence on the hungry earth.they call me jane doe,and i am not art.every evening, i close the door,close my eyes, disassemble.slowly, i've become fleeting.i float, my feet don't touch the ground.how can i crash?i fade, i dissolve,but i've lost the motive to explode.there's no glory in my death;i leave no trace of the dramatic.a man on the train last tuesdaynudged me, apologized, and carried on his way.he's the last person who'sspoken to me since then.we hit a notch in the tracks,the car wobbled.i stared at him silently,counting the infinite futuresthat suffocated behind my teeth.i'm dying in my own penitentiarywith the cell door key in my pocket.
NothingI heard someone sarcastically sputter,"You are what you eat."But hearing that sole sentenceallowed me to finally understandwhy I amwhat I am:Nothing.
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
.she said i spentnine months on thiswork of art, and nowit's justdestroyingitself(it's tearing through its own beautiful canvas)