.i hearthe sun hisswhen it catchessight of the moon,i see you too, so pleasedo not come any closer -i crack wordswide open to see justwhat they're reallymade of, and i longto do the sameto you, i thinka crowbar is the only thingthat would give youa more open mind, iswing then prise -you laughand saya moth in searchof the lightis boundto get burned(what are you in for?)
.i wakequiet andblindblindblind,the darknessglowingoutside andin(he said dead was the best way that thing could ever have been anyway)
.september -i've been underthe illusion it'sa sundayfor four days,i sit on your kneeat the kitchen table,roll one of thebullets under my fingercold gold andand smooth,do you know whatthat is? -yeahbut i don't thinkyou do - he saysyou're fuckin weird,you know that? fuckincold, maybe i'll juststart calling youwinter -and he doesnovember -they grace me withthree days, and i cannotconvince youto come with medecember -the only time i like youis when you're asleep,i gnaw one leg out ofa trapjust to crawl my wayinto another(it takes everything i have not to smash my bottle over your head)
.i feel in a languagei don't understand,and the wings of the bird in my kitchen, theywon't get to feel the sky anymore -and sometimes doesn't it feel good?to put two fingers round the neckof a flower andsnap,hear the petals scream fortheir withering limbs,then start choking(instinct)
.the world's a stagebut he saysplease,don't make a scene(it's growing boring)
.my grandfather died last nightand i sat on the roof for three hoursand i feltand i feltand i wroteand i wroteand theni bit the nightand the night, it bit me backand i criedand todayi am still feelingand todayi am still writingand nowi have madea decision;i am lettingmy mindoff it's leash(i'm going to let my mind chew right through me)
.i've been dreamingabout bones,ribs poking upthrough the ground,my cata white and fleshlessthing that rattlesin his sleep,haunches bare and cleanas a whisker,he wretches withthe face of a devil,he drops mea sack of lovein the morning,a stainon the carpetas well as the eye,am i showingenough backbone now?i painteda crescent moon onmy skull ofa hareso he can gazeat it even in death,i don't care muchfor the rites buthe looks goodon my bedside tablei close my eyesto those threeon my wall,i don't seei don't speaki don't hear(what is this, a fucking cathedral?)
.not nowi am too afraidof dreaming,if i do -the tidewill recoil atmy touchand then say, come,come sleep under me,look,the sky is throwingdown its nighttime sheets, let's gograb that loosegold thread and pull,let's watchthe stars unravel -i might have kissedthose feetof freyas soft and gentle,but you know if you waderight in i'mrough and heartless,the planets willalign, and then,three ghosts, one of themmy father, and there ain'tnothing holy'bout him,a starving dogwill run - there willbe red on white and i willlaugh, and i will standat the topof writers blockand i willthrow myself off(sleep please take me back i'm sorry about before)
.slicing openthe tips of my fingers,four in one strokethen the thumba little flesh hatfor the spirit in each(love is dead, lilith)
.i pass a heart drunkin the gutter trying to pullitself together, he saysi had a job,a life, that fuckingbitch -but he's a liar -she says she had to letme go -(i shut my eyes and cross the road)
.wish i livedlike an animal,wish i cared aboutnothingbut fuckingand staying alive(wish this was a lie)
.he always wants the light onwhen he's sleeping, says he's scaredbut i can't see the point;i say not all monstersare trying to hurt you, at leastnot right awayand his bottom lip goesand he screams shut upbut i laugh and i tickle his ribsand then he laughs with meand he sayslove youand i say i love you toolittle man(i love you too)
.what ifi get rid of everything -one summer i founda dead stag beetlelaying on the pavement,brittle and crispdried out by the sun,he must have thoughtthat he'd died andgone to hellthe year i got hitin the templewith a hammer, hardbut not hard enough,funny what happenswhen you pull a voiceout of its chestjust because it looksdone, slick and silverand only a sliver meantwhat it said, i feeldeflated, i wishi'd have known thenthat in a coupleof years i'd have writtenyou offas a bad dream, writtenyou off in a poemor twowith the leaves and thetrees and the moonas a fat white opal, sunkeninto the wall that divides us,the border frommy land to yours,she is nothing butdecorative stoneto me -what if all the deadopened their mouthsand said everythingthey wished they had?(i saw the stars weeping when my nose bled)
.i am childi am sisteri am baby and bitch,every name but my own stuck in my skinlike needles, thick venom slides through -my veins and into my chest, to my heart -that warm gift of your flesh and blood i gaveyou to unwrap, staleexpired -i lay in a field of opium, redand on fire, i think he was angry, he handedme salt and the tusk of a boar and said waitfor me to call you,and i did -eat the landdrink the sea, i opened my mouth and sawnothing but white feathers fall to the ground,he grabbed my hand and held it to his own lipscrying(she says there will be no more poems here)
.something snappedlike boneand blood floweredon the carpet(i grabbed the hand of that man, and he knew)
.there issomethingabouthow you can makeall the animalspart themselveswith one wave ofyourhand,make them opentheir throats andspeakand i think i willfind you sticking pinsthrough the webbingof a bat's wing,cross legged inthe garden withthe snake aroundmy neck,that's how i'd liketo go(the world will shift, a heart will break away from it's chest, tectonic)
.i unzippeda cloud and climbedinside itlike a sleeping bag,the silver liningon my skinfelt rough and itchy,i want to see youmake this one lookbetter,please sew me upinside and let me drainout when it rains,i will be birthedagain as waterfor the flowers and the soildown below -i think i lostmy train of thoughtwhen it smashed rightthrough my temple,i lay on the tracks and waitfor what i knowit brings to kill me, andi'd hate to bea cat and have to do iteight more timesto get some peace,i think i'd picka fight with ahungry fox,drop down from next doorsroof into thepond anddive,go sit in the road til shecalls me inat night, what a fucking bore,i'd like to know whather gutshave to say -and if i dont believein heavenhow can i be scaredof going to hell,i used to hope that timewould tellme but he won't,i know he's neverreally liked me allthat much anyway, alwaysended uptaking your side -and now i only sleep in thefetal positionon nights i wi
.my grandfathersays tall girl, i'm not gonnabe here in time, andtall girl, when i can't remindyou no more, please rememberhow far you've come,considering, please rememberhow far you've grown(considering)
leech.There's a dead girlinside of me,clutching to my tendonsand hitchhiking through my vertebrae.She reminds methat I will be dead one day,just like her.Sometimes she shows herself:in pale patches of my skin,in a rattling cough,in a hospital bed at age seven, where I wanted to diebefore I knew what it meant.The bitch likes to play games,too,and she always wins.she's the one in my skullpushing buttonsto see what it will make me do.I've hated hersince the day I was born,but sometimesI feel bad for her.She is lonely,and she wants meto be her friend.She's lingered inside of mefor years,hoping for the momentwhen I finally get sick of herand gouge her from my brain.
...and everytime i flipthroughthese empty pages,alli can seeare the blankstares glaringbackat me.[i have nothing to say .]
Once Upon A TimeOnce upon a time there was a girlAnd she lived.
It's not hatred, it's incredulity.when i was ten years old myteacher asked the class,"if you were god, what wouldyou change?"and i rememberbiting my lip so hardthat it bled. carefully,i wrote abouthow i would teachkids from an early age on how tolove yourself and no oneelse and that there is no such thing asan almighty power that will pityyou and answer your desperate prayersat three a.m. because you're the only onewho has that kind of control.when i handed it in she just lookedat me like i was themonsters underher child's bed. the next day iwas sitting in her office wonderingwhy it was so wrong totalk about what's in your heart at a catholicschool when that's what the priest tellsyou to do at every sunday mass andthe teacher asked meanother question, "do youhate god?" and iwanted to scream "yes, yes!" becausehow can a god let the worldslip through their fingers like this one has?but instead i answered,"no. i just don't think there is one."and sat in the chair,staring at the cross on t
clipped wingsI wonder if gods fear dying.
Endorsed By The Surgeon General.She was like cigarettes.She took his breathaway,and filled his lungs with promisesthat evaporated likesmoke.
you have seven days to live.1.the news doesn't hurt:it's his eyes that hurt you,the glimmer of his pastcreeping in just likehis father used to creep inat three a.m.with a sin on his mindand rage on his hands.he waits for you to react,but you don'tbecause he's suddenly seven again,hiding bruiseswhile mommy criesin a ball on the couch.2.you think timeis a funny thing.people talk about itlike it is an object:"I need more time," they say,like they will go to the store laterand buy more.but you know that timeis more like an ocean wave,with an endlesspounding that continueslong after we greet the dirt,and we want more time,but time doesn't want us.3.he tries to force youinto his wrists,his ankles, his collarbone.he thinks that if heloves you enough,he can save you.you know that he can't,so you cut through himnight after night,searching for an exit.4.sometimes death scares you.you remind yourself thateverything ends,no matter how much you wantan infin
asymptomaticinability to stop self hatred,migraine for almost two days straight.no phone call back from my psychiatrist.I am sweating.it takes one typed letter foryour blog to pop up in my search history;I'm not sure if you can call this poetry either,though I can call the shots on what I feel.(whether it is a burn or not - five hundredmiles does not mean that my heart doesn't ache so hard;my body is quivering. I want to vomit.)there are hickeys up and down my left wrist;though they are not from kisses but the lips ofmy nailbeds as I ran them over and over my skin.this weekend I will have to explain to my boyfriendwhy I don't use my pencil sharpener on art anymore,but instead on my thighs - I will use the phrase"a moment of weakness."but you are not a moment, nor a fault -you are caesar's downfall, though the wholeworld will die knowing that it was his own bloodon his hands.
Zero is not a size.Zero is not a size.Zero is a lack of size,a wafer-thin waistwhere your organsshould be.Zero should be the numberof girls that hatethe width of their hips.But I live in a worldwhere zero is a size,and nothing is valuedlessthan substance.
.she saysdarling,you weren't madefor anything else(cutting this cord day by day)