.something snappedlike boneand blood floweredon the carpet(i grabbed the hand of that man, and he knew)
.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)
.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?)
.i wokeon theedgeof nothing,one armdanglingover theledge(numb from the wrists down)
.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)
.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)
.in the beginningin the bonewhite tendrilsof holy fire, the nightate away at it all,that acid tide -it ate away atthe bud in the mudand the blood,it burned their bodiesbut left their ghostsso they could beidentified -and then a wildman, a monsterpressed his thumb intothe air, he drewa cross upon his facesaid lightand nowi am drowningi am drowning in lighti am drowningin the whiteand the goldas he sitsat the end of my bedand he shouts -for somethingor someonei don't knowand i scream, god, please justlet me sleep!let me sleepin the cold barren groundof the earth,let it pull me right inthrough its mangle -and i feel a stingin the crook of my armwhen they come(and then even the wolves, even the wolves start to whimper)
.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?)
.and i have seen deer necks, limptheir bodies cold as death,hooves made of glass, hooves shattered,arrows piercing hind legsrunning sweat and crimson, i have walkeda path of deadwood, paths of black treesmoss and bark, i have felt their spines beneathmy feet, felt suicides of leavesunfolding, still asleep -i have seen eleven chestnut horsesflailing in the sea, frothing at the mouthand drowning, found themselvestoo deepand tired -goddess leant over my bed and she saidi know you, i know you from somewheredon't i? you've still got those paper lanterns driftingin the black skies of your eyes, you lay and praymy girl, you lay and pray -the hinges of the moon, they rust,don't open up to you, cos something darkit grows inside, will gnaw its way rightthroughyour silver skin -and now i sit arms out and upturned,braid the light with my split lip, and no i do notwant to talk about the overbite, the mark, i knowi smell of sterile -he said look at all these inse
.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)
.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)
.even the devil'sgot a kinder firethan you, red -was the wolfafter all that he'd eaten,it says you need to look at mewhen i'm talking to you,so i open my eyesbut i don't see,i say i understand,but i don't know -if i'll come aroundthis time to see it sittingthere, thinking -i'm dead,i understand,i understand,and maybe if i scrunch upmy eyes when i go,i'll be able to withstandthe heat(why keep feeding a stray that you don't want around?)
.i think you know of hair wound tight round a hand like ropeof thoughts that sail in and let down anchorin the night, sleep drifting away on the black tide,i think you know of god up in the crow's nest, keeping watchhis eyes have rolled at us so much they rattle, loose nowin their pits like marbles, they say he knowsi have examined the slides of my childhood, uprooted my body,yanked myself out of my years with my own gloved handlike a weed and stared in disgust, it's only naturalthat you should still want to sleep with one arm overyour head, she said, don't you think?i think the sun lit upthe world's scarsand felt bad, hung its headthrough the horizonand cried in shamenow i don't think it's evergoing to stop raining(i am holding up my mind, i am shoving it in your face)
.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)
.and you;i understand if you have towith the sun painted gold on yourtiger back bone, i won't moveeverything else is in it's place,everything -if you open your eyes up wide,put your ear tothe lungs that breathe insidebut not in mine, no not in my holy waters,my still still waters, but stillthe sea will surge overthe sand, and i will take whateveryou can give me and sleep, i will sayi want the hand of god betweenmy ribs, i want a mechanical life,i want no part in the winding evilcurling itself inside me, pleasei want no part in settling down, i wantto see stars the colour of champagne, openwrists like blind slats so i can seethe light, keep fresh insidewith cling film stretched across,go on then do it, listen, i will let you,i will take your lover's song, the blamebe storyteller to them all, sit intheir kitchens, pet their dogsconceal the fact and smileas life drags me down the aisleto that bastard standing theredressed all in black, the king of allthat dea
.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)
.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)
.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 stand facing the windso i canfeel the world hitme at a 1000milesa minute,to provei can take a blowstronger thanyou.
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
now i see the stars.there was a time when icouldn't catch my breath whenever ithought about you , (crippled lungs and-boy, you hit me like an asteroid,there's a crater on my chest now that I can't ever seem to fill,even withoceans of my tears cried onnights when you couldn't be there to sing me to sleep.thirty two poemless days after you joined the constellations,i walked out into the yard and howled to the empty sky,andfor a moment i was Gaea, rivers running down my cheeks,weighted to the ground andburied in myself, butwhere there is no light there are no shadows, andsometimes, i wonder if i miss me.yes, yes i do.i may not see the moon, but
clipped wingsI wonder if gods fear dying.
treasureI watched beauty die today.She said, "I've lived too longand now nobody knowswhat I really am."
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.
to kill a butterfly for Lindsey for as long as i can remember, my friend Lindseyhas been in love with Peter Pan.on a night of pill bottles and pale skin, Peter visited herhospital room and the green fringes of his kid-clothestickled her nose as he glided around the ceiling.no one knows that Peter actually likes school. it’swhere they taught him how clouds feel on your back,the difference between young and small, the wayit looks a lot like scratches.Lindsey carved a map of Neverland into her wrists with box cutter slashes.the winding valleys and mermaid lagoons weren’t war paint,just battle cries and bad decisions.Peter Pan taught her how to trust when he taught herhow to fly but Lindsey sobs like a metronome;so many ticks, she just loses track of time.survival isn’t something you learn in school but Petertraced the purple lines on her arms and penned-in butterflies.you are no razorblade promise, you are no fragile lung.you are Lindsey with the angel voice and a
Keep your secrets, wolfgirl.I have been suffocatingon the stars of my pastlike horny gentlemendo with innocent lookingwolfgirls at 3am- their bitefearless as thieves.My lilac lungs are breathing indust and the tears of Saturn’snameless moons,while the rest of me -well, shes warm off wineand poems leftunfinished.
Being Okay Is The Hardest Thing We DoBeing Okay Is The Hardest Thing We Do because being okay is expected,if we’re not okay, that’s not okay,what can we do to be okay?we can scribble illegible wordson a canvas made for by paintersmasquerading as notebook paper,and hope that we can sell the burnof stinging emotions for some paper.but the funny thing about that thought?is that american money isn’t paper,it’s 75% cotton and 25% linen fibers.so even the money you'd earn from your misery,isn't anything you can write onwhen you realize your money isn't made to heal. even if it does talk. but it never really ever says enough, does it?But that's okay...being okay is the hardest thing we dobecause sticks and stones do break bones,but you can hide the scars with a jacket or longer sweatshirt.or put on pants as opposed to athletic shorts.words kill, words heal, and words are so much more.and you can't hide the scars that riddle your face,the way your
.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?