.i wakequiet andblindblindblind,the darknessglowingoutside andin(he said dead was the best way that thing could ever have been anyway)
.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?)
.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)
.wish i livedlike an animal,wish i cared aboutnothingbut fuckingand staying alive(wish this was a lie)
.the world's a stagebut he saysplease,don't make a scene(it's growing boring)
.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)
.half my life sitsin this waiting room,dust on the spikeplant so thick that itfeels like grey velvet,i prod my fingersonto the sharp tips,as i sitwith a two week cleanjunkie who saysthis is terrible(i sign in, but i never sign out)
.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?)
.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)
.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)
.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)
.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)
.watching the skychurn itself thickerand thickerthe birds tireand drown asit sets aroundthem(no fight, and no flight either)
.the first time my father holds me,he shoves one handinto my mothers armsand grabs meby the back of my babygrow, roughlyraises me upwith his big clenched fistand i hang there, like a kittenby the taut pink scruffhe sayswhat a small nothingyou are(but now he is nothing, gone, dust)
.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)
.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)
.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)
just another adolescent love poemlet’s get this straight right now:there are people i can only talk toat four o’clock in the morning, whenthe line between decency and secrecybecomes just as blurred as the one betweennight and day.you’re not one of them.i’m not ashamed of you.or scared. and don’t try to tell me that’s nota miracle because i still check under the bedfor monsters and behind the shower curtainfor serial killers. i know it’s all in my headbut things like that make me terrified;i mean, i still hold my breath crossing by a cemeteryand someone else is always going to have to kill the spiders.i’m hoping that someone will be you.which i’m also hoping i’ll never accidentally tell youbecause it’s like i lose all cognitive reasoningaround you, even when we’re fighting.you split me down the middle, half of me wantingto tear out your femur and beat some sense into youand the other half wanting to give anything,even the foun
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
...and everytime i flipthroughthese empty pages,alli can seeare the blankstares glaringbackat me.[i have nothing to say .]
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.
Once Upon A TimeOnce upon a time there was a girlAnd she lived.
Endorsed By The Surgeon General.She was like cigarettes.She took his breathaway,and filled his lungs with promisesthat evaporated likesmoke.
clipped wingsI wonder if gods fear dying.
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star?Twinkle twinkle, little star!How I wonder what you are.Up above the world so high.Like a demon in the sky.The night is burning like my head,The voices whispering in my bed.The stars around me are singing now,To butcher the town and to fill my vow.So here I walk into the night.Snuffing candles, snuffing light,Above their beds I'm creeping now.Bleeding pigs to fill my vow.Twinkle twinkle, little star!Death is all I know you are.A mist above the world so high,Red as the glow of a demon's eye!
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.
.she saysdarling,you weren't madefor anything else(cutting this cord day by day)