.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)
.something snappedlike boneand blood floweredon the carpet(i grabbed the hand of that man, and he knew)
.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?)
.she saidcall meif you need meand i do,i can't,i cannot sleep,got ghosts workingthe night shiftas i speak i layin the bathinstead of the bed,and she sayssilly,i saywe're madeof repetitionand i know you'dsee it tooif you lookedclose enough -(charlotte charlotte, look at it this way)
.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)
.night stalksthrough the streetsand tonighthe is collecting -i lay my boneson the pavementevenly spaced, buti know that he won'treally like this,my spine whispers,i think you needto stand up for yourself -you bottomless pitof despairyou're hellyou're smallyou're small smallsmallenough to pushinto that lake -i am,i wonder how muchrain i could fit in my mouthbefore it's consideredhalf full, andhow many branches of the familyi could fellbefore it's consideredall dead,and the blackit starts in the top lefthand corner, i see it when i layon my bed,it splits itself fourthe first to my eyes,my mouth, my handsthen my headinsideon the metal, i layin the bathi breathe out and i feelmyself sink(they aren't quite clean enough)
.if you were here i'd forget you again,hack your name with a cleaver and wipe offthe ink on my apron, spend the rest of my daysstained black in the creases of all my fingersand thumbs, i know there is a lesson waiting,maybe in the summerlands i'll see a blindinglight,my funeral pyre,maybemaybemaybelost in the woods it will come to me, wings clippedand say, it's time you picked a sideand stuck with it, wear yourself down to your bonesand make it quick, he's coming, well what if i wantto sicken and die? lay my head in the hydrangeas and fadefrom purple to blue, just wither away, okay? wellyeah but not in a day, i guess i'll have to stayon the doorstep drunk, a waste of skinand time, i hearthe bark of next door's dog and wonderif he knows(too many souls)
.i have followed you, nightafter night,followed your voice, those silveryribbons of air -led me to the black gateswhere you lay,curled -i sit on my roof,and the darkness sticksout it's tongue(it says make sure you smile, they'll think you're not glad to be here)
.she saysexplain these thingsto me -i say the silence sort of ticks - my sadnesshas a face, think blue, think black and grey, think sanguinered, the end of may, he had a pulse too strongfor me to take,i killed it, stripped it bare, i carried it rightto it's grave - i say andmy lungs, they feel like frost, they're filled with silverlight and sharpness, rattling pips, a scream - i stayedinside my bed for weeks, i didn't eat, i didn'tdream - i think in fire, flame, volcano,resurrect you, keep your nameinside me like a splinterturning green(i could not bring myself to say yes, but i think you know that)
.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)
.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 wokeon theedgeof nothing,one armdanglingover theledge(numb from the wrists down)
.there are snakesthat hangin coils from mevivid redand green, their mouthslike tinydark fanged cavernsblack eyes glitteringthey see -they smellthat mother tonguethat they knowi cannot speak(if you can touch it, you can kill it, you can dream)
.what i meantto say was, somewherea siren beaches itselfin heartbreak,all the sailors outat sea have gottenwise - i meant to sayi triedto cry, i did,kept my appearance, stoodin black,and wasn't that right?i meant to sayi think the unholy burrowedinto me at birth,spread itself out likecementand hardened me,i don't deserve to even setone foot into this place -i meant to sayi had a dreami tried to hangmyself in a cave,bats laugh,no stupid, go like this,i don't thinkyou're even trying,i knowa good spot -what i meant to say was,i'm losing the will,and i don't care that youhave cut me outof yours - i wantto say i've still gotpicturesof the devil, i getdrunk and reminisce,i think it's timei pressed deleteand stop letting my eyeshurt my mind -i meant to sayi'm bitterthat he seems to agewithout me(tried to strike the lightning back, still came off worse)
.the moon shudders;silver dust landsin my hair and i sigh,knock it off -what's your problem?i'm frustrated -i've been trying tostrike a match that won'tlight for two hours,she saysyou carry a lighter,remember?
.and they knew,they knew i'd gone -when they found me outside crouchedwith a string box and stick, singingi'm going to catch me my death,make him sick -now i sit in a gown that is whiterthan white, doesn't suit me,this ghost to myself -on the corridor bench with my kneestucked in under my chin, rattlingwith green yellow blue(i've told you, i know where i'm going)
.here,here isthe mind of me, sodden,here is the mind i triedto drown -i think my mother,she gave birth to an ocean,a child unsteadyand blue, she saysthe stormy seas givethe best pearls of wisdom,i don't care, i just wantout of the water -i will take art therapywhen i am twenty one,spend ten minutes paintingmy arms blue, poke my finger intoa pile of fish hooks, imagineif that was your mouth -she says put it on paper,be gentle, be gentle,ivory, i'll always need ivory,rabbits slit down bellyto tail, here to here,i'm not a child - i draw christwith a cone on his head andsay he was pulling his stitches,hyenas, red, bloody andcackling, i draw that sonof anger and the insane dogthat bit me, leave the paperwhite white white and sayi'm not that anymore(lena says doesn't that mean you're a satanist or something?)
.chloe saysi need an angelwith big white wings and skinthat shines like gold,do you believe in angels, charlotte?i saythe plants are all dead in here,how can a plantknow something i don't?and i'm not religious but the only timei ever felt peacefulwas when i sat in churchluke comes in, and chloe saysluke, you believe in angels?he says what, like them feathery dickheadswith halos and stuff? nah i don't -then we sit and watch a fly bash it's brains inon the windowandi thinkhow strangethat it can't see what's killing itandi thinkhow strangeneither can we(the plants are dead, but we are still waiting)
LungsMaybe ifour lungsexhaled moneyinstead ofcarbon dioxide,we'd valuelifea little more(or maybe we'd just go broke).
Death Is A Reward, Not AnswerPlease, don't cry -Don't cry because I knowThe reasons why you're crying,And I'm right here telling you;They're all wrong.Please, don't hold your tears -Sadness is an emotion to releaseWhen it builds so much as it's for you,And I'm right here to express to you, now;It's okay to cry.Just, don't believe the reasonsYou're telling yourself -And please, I begPut down the pills,You don't need them.Aside from it's not your time,There isn't enough reason!How many minutes will go byAs we're both drowningIn our own tears,Screaming at each other?How many hours has it beenBefore writing this poemThat we've yelledAbout why you want to dieAnd why you should live?None the matter,Stop saying you're a loser!Stop trying to convince meThat you're useless,And just quit with the actOf saying you're a freak.Stop.Please.Just...No.You're not.A loser can be defined as oneWho accepts defeat,And let's be honest here -When have you everUntil thi
It Comes With AgeYour bonesmight as wellbe of papier-mâché,at thetragic ratethey're decayingaw a y.
aubreyYou are a three-day lightning stormthat leaves only plastic bags and stray dogsflitting through the river runway streets.You are dark purple and blue cacophonies,searing-white and shredded muscle tendrils,and seams bursting from blistering electricity—I am not afraid of you.My father has whirling weatherveins too,but my mother coaxed it to his irises and fingernails;typhoon boy, you too will find your stormchaser.She will have a flagpole straight spine and sunshineclenched in her fists like crumpled dollar bills, andmore importantly, she will make you feel okay.You deserve okay.
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.
Unpainted RealityMy brain is sick.It only thinks of twisted things.Like how we burn our eyes out,And we rip our wings.And then we sit in the dark,Staring blankly at each other.Our eye-sockets bleeding,On a wounded brother.Then we kneel down,Praying to the sun.Hoping things get brighter;But we don't know what we've done!We take our tongues out,We scar them with razors.Spitting every bladeAcross other people's faces.And if you start feeling, My words are getting dark;I'm just painting pictures But you are making them stark!And now you feel dead;Surreal in your mind.So listen to this preacher,From the land of the blind.
lunarWhen I was six years old,I decided I wanted toeat the moon.Mom with her pink frayed bathrobeand tired eyestold me to go to sleep,that I had school in the morning.Dad with his stacks of booksand prickly beardtold me that it was impossible,the moon was too distant.Well, guess what?I ate the fuckin moon.And it was delicious.Bitches can't tell me shit,I'll eat the fuckin moon if I want to.
...i stand facing the windso i canfeel the world hitme at a 1000milesa minute,to provei can take a blowstronger thanyou.
clipped wingsI wonder if gods fear dying.
.wish i livedlike an animal,wish i cared aboutnothingbut fuckingand staying alive(wish this was a lie)