black roses into dustmy swollen heart mimicked sleepbelieving dormancy to be bestand you recalled my cells being an utter wasteand i trembled before youbecause you are the one feari cannot face
a slice of realismhe cradled the neo-cities in his hands,impenetrable (perfection like you're not)inescapable (irrationality your most wicked foe)and i,an insignificant speckin the graveyard of themost desolate metropolis,cowerthe remaining ghostscaress my every moment -living and dead -and strip me awaytill i am nothingbut the sum of my fearsand a husknevermeanttobeloved
wreckagelife, he is more than an afterthought...yet he withers,rattling aimlessly in his own infinity,and i can only observebehind barriers of sobrietymy god, why has heabandoned me
fiveeating your cancer would heal me
fourteenmisery knits itself between my ribs,compressing the sum of my fears intoa smoldering ache-it burnsbuti feel more welcomein nirvanathan ever before
six thousand four hundred and forty-one(10366 kilometers, you remind gently)even from that lengthardent arms never smother,grant me asylumyour voice resonates fromevery crevice,the tenderest of ghostsi am old as the dawn,caretakers far beyond my tenure,yet your sighsyour butterfly kissestuck me in nightlyand i would not trade you foradulthoodspider-girl aches for youmore than she can sayin your favored tongue
i'd rather be beautifully tragici.the desire for my pancreas was stolen the instant i was informed about yours:though offered many times in meager sacrifice, the gods refuse my offer; your immune system refuses my dna flourishing in your bodyii. wanted: spinal column, barely usedmine has nothing but cobwebsand can barely support me:i would donate immediatelybut somehowi must be kept erect and breathing
four"the only unsung song pulsates in your eyes,day-child";i clasped your wolf-warrior's heartbetween my timid lungsyou surged life at one hundred million voltsanda smile that would liquefy the sunto the smolders of yesterday
prelude to a phone call i. don’t linger at its side (inanimate objects are not worthy of solemn vigils) ii. tears cannot heal broken messages embedded in the static iii. make sure dignity is always present (can’t shoot the messenger)
how to discover a justified reason for lovei want nothing more than to visit italy.i do not want to see the crumbling colosseum,nor do i want to fall in lovewith a charming, dark-haired italian boyworking at the gelato place in sicilywho compares my eyes to stars in broken english.i want to see the tiny townwhere my grandmother was raised,to know the rolling hillsthat lie between the church and the horizon,to see the house where she and her mothermade large loaves of bread to be given out to family,to listen to the sounds of birdson the farm she gave up multiplication tables forwhere the men drank wine and played accordionsand the women shook tablecloths and laughed haunting melodies,and where soldiers marched and searchedand marched and searchedand marched and kickedand shot and left.i want to know why she traveled,a family of smiling emigrants in tow,to a country they'd only ever dreamt of dreaming.i want to hear the whispers of an eager familyfrom before it was left divided by the bitternessthat they
GangrenousThe bloated tongue full of heliumthat escapes the ephemeral and lifts up, skyward –is stuck in a congealed throatdraped with the closed curtains of bile and bloodsouping a dam across her vocal chords. No more words.The hair is brushed, later, out of its nooseloopsuntil it is straight and lies flush with the velvet,in a box only just big enough to bury the dreams of a lifelived without painbubbling out of the now dead lips with each breath.Skin soft turns hard – in the way that all girls do as they agebut she does not age.She couples only with the wooden box, painted falsely white,that covers her body and face.It is the concealer, the mascara, the war paint never worn.The chemicals of her unusually sewn-together body,combine in a way geneticists cannot explainto exude the only smell it can. Of her –but it is not the familiar any longer. Not the smell of milk and dust.Now, the acids boil together, to purge her of her pain.The familiarity of her fades
please answer meI'm trying to keep you alive.
smotherher spine was dusk and unmade nests, but he tried to live there anyway;he was neither nocturnal nor a dawn-believer, so he suffocated in the birdhouse of her ribs.
Things I would Tell Her--C.I want to tell her the thingsI'll tell her when she’s older,but the information terrifies her.In order of importance:she has luna moths in her head,monarch butterflies in her stomach,and a feral fetus in her womb.Her handsare collapse-clasped and foldedin her lap;she holds her elbows like wingsaway from her ribs,ready to flap,to flutter,to fly.I want to tell herto keep one hand in her purseso she can always find her keys,to keep an eye on the doorand the door always openso she can run if she doesn't feel safe,but her cheeks are rorschach-splotch redand the tension in her shoulderswarns me she's not readyto hear this.And there is the possibility thatmaybe I’m not ready to tellthis fourteen-year-oldnow woman,I’m just as devastated as her;that she is surrounded by friends and familywho are violated by a communitywhere no man can say yes all men.
the only timei say baby there’s too much weaknesswe bled god to death like a dried up felt-tip penit is time to find another excuse for our shortcomingsbut when your gutter vessels shudderunder pockmarked blotterit is guiltunderscored in red-this vibrationdon’tthe sellotape the tear ductthe paper knifethe whip of risk the bodies at your feetthe every inherently senseless sacrificecouldn’t satisfy this-i say there’s nothing to apologize forbut sometimesthe yellow in the sky feels datedas i walk away
Think on PapaThe crickets breathe softin the dampened leaves,and the wind smells of winter(but only under the moon.)Nights like these make me thinkon Papa.(We would climb into the minivan,the air would smell this wayas I turned to see his silhouetteat the window,reading in his plaid armchairwith the paper in his lap.)Odd memories.Not what I think I'msupposed to associatewith late grandfathers,but I find myself yearningto drive to his headstoneand whisper to his ashes,thatturkey smelled better in his kitchen,a spice we didn't have perhaps.Every broom resembles his mustache,and I read misheard lyrics in his voice.Second-hand stories are sustenance to his memory,humorous annotations to mydictionary definition of his person--Papa (n.)Dad's father--deceased, 2004. (Heart disease)Made you hotdogs and mixed fruit cups,(in which you lost your first tooth)sometimes noodles with butter and cheese.thought the mole on your face was chocolate (twice.)Sneezed louder than the engi
Branches of Your HeartYour roots have dug into my soul,clung to the underbellies of my fears;cradled my regrets with leaflets.I watch as birds flitbetween the branches of your heart.You tell me that they always come back tothe ones they love most.There are flowers peekingbehind your shoulder blades,blooming brilliant petals while vineswrap into the nooks of your skin.With a sigh you decidedto move mountainswith your bark covered arms,pressing the swollen earth fartherfrom you, creating a valley whereyou and I can touch.
day teni. alpha i. omega i am not ready to grow up, i am not ready to grow up, but dissonant chords, memento mori, but the promise of independence, autonomy, and the date of my birth and of making something of myself clamour sharply at my senses keeps me moving along the path, abusive, aggressive, morose - terrified, uncertain, hopeful - i wonder how other people i wonder if i
because i'm like a relapse (of you or youth)baby blues cannot cure suicide agendas.all these poets do is wither, wither,waste - decomposing bones justenough to trade them in forwords & kill themcell bycell &conversations bloom between my tongue &teeth or two choice vertebrae; thoughtsburst like blood vessels,like self disgust(i am more catatonicthan i am catastrophic).
Things I Would Tell HerI want to tell her the thingsI'll tell her when she’s older,but the information terrifies her.In order of importance:she has luna moths in her head,monarch butterflies in her stomach,and a feral fetus in her womb.Her handsare collapse-clasped and foldedin her lap;she holds her elbows like wingsaway from her ribs,ready to flap,to flutter,to fly.I want to tell herto keep one hand in her purseso she can always find her keys,to keep an eye on the doorand the door always openso she can run if she doesn't feel safe,but her cheeks are rorschach-splotch redand the tension in her shoulderswarns me she's not readyto hear this.And there is the possibility thatmaybe I’m not ready to tellthis fourteen-year-oldnow woman,I’m just as devastated as her;that she is surrounded by friends and familywho are violated by a communitywhere no man can say yes all men.
but don't you dare complaindo I owe you a consequence, gift giver?when life is caught in my lungslike drifting cottonwood seeds,and I couldn't wish to breathe any lesswith the salt-sick stress of the words you sungit's true, I only love you out of greed in this summer of discontent, I shivergreat gardener, it's a job well donewhen my cold-cramped hands toiland heart is carried heavily to the living soilpounding against ribs as if it were an inside-out drumbeating a terrible rhythm for the faraway sun
october bluesi'll have you knowthat i burnt both of mythumbs learningto light a lighterso i could smoke youout of my lungs.
cutleryfall up the moon,and talk if you want(but she might not talk back).one word to use but fingershailing with skins, and bones, andmaybe even the veins of a poetsaying there's not enough razorsto open her lungs.fall up the moon,and talk if you want(but kneecap lettersand river-run wrists might never talk back).
100 proofi.It's easy enough to traipse through memory,accelerant in hand, almost gracefulas you pour gasoline or alcoholover memento mourningthat already feels afire;easy enough to toss carelessflames over a hunched shoulder.To let the world--to let yourself burnfor just a littlerecompense,or revenge.It's a tired adage,but all fires must go out.ii.I want to advocate the harder road,the furtive glances behind.The padlocked doorseams warped by bitter days;butweren't the days meant toget better, eventually?iii.Surely there should come a daywhen you can smile at the shadowsand mean it.Surely there should come a daywhen 3 AM fades almost to mythology,when the vices don't hold you downto drown.iv.My head is a war-torn fieldall a-litter and trembling;and I cannot help but wonderhow I continue to burn,when
on storms, trust, and frozen yogurtmy mind has beenquite the storm, recently.it's not a refreshing thunderstormin the middle of summer.my mindis a blizzardin a smog-riddencity, caked with saltand that disgusting brownslush you find on streets.i can'tnever mind. sorry.i wishi had a typewriter,so i could destroy wordsmore poetically.but anyway,"where are we going again?"i spokewithout really meaning to.i know that she'sprobably told me approximately57.5 times where we're going,but i can't be botheredto remember."your brother's house,then to the frozen yogurt place."right."why?"she says something in reply,but i'm singing the lyricsto an incubus songand can't be botheredto listen.for all the bothering i doto the people around me,i can't really be botheredto do much of anything anymore.wow, i amreally freaking annoying.my mom always yells at mefor walking too loudly.(it's weird, i know,but she's a micro-managerand i never listen.)it's not my faulti'm heavy and te
Post-It Notes to Send Back in Time (part 2)i.You own your own body.Your life is yours.And don’t letanyoneevertell you otherwise.ii.It’s okay to believe in God.It’s okay not to.And it’s okay to go back and forthbetween the twobecause no god worth believing inwould punish youfor doubt or disbelief.iii.Learn how to take a compliment.iv.Invisibility isn’t so bad.When people notice youthey scrutinize you.If they don’t see youyou have ultimate freedom.So don’t be afraid to hide in that corner.Own that corner. It’s yours.v.Pay no heed to art snobs.vi.Don’t be an art snob yourself.vii.Remember how you were toldthat every time you “sinned” it wasequivalent to crucifying Jesusall over againso every mistake you madeno matter how smallmade you feel like you’d killed someone?Yeah. That was bullshit.viii.It’s okay to not have a boyfriend.It’s okay to not want one.ix.Hate is not the problem,it’s what you h
cancer-eyes, cancer-eyes,(i think i had wings, once, back when theworld still looked a little lighterthan the darkness--)i.they told me, darling, we've gotsome news about thatsickness in your bones; but not to worry, notto worry, we'll try our best to find a way...ii.i used to think 'our best' was good enough, backwhen i could stand on my owntwo feet without slipping and slidingas the world turned sideways; back when i was youngerand staring at the pillows on the bedat the fallen-out hair lying on the crisp whitelinen; and as tears rolled through my eyelashes the apologiespoured from parent's lips, whispering promises thattomorrow will be better, it will --iii.i'd spend hours staringat my skin, wondering what code, what sequence hadgone wrong to cause a sickness without a cure -my veins were black, not blue, and theyonly carried poison; they were crossed wires, held togetherwith glue and stitches and strung up againin the wrong order when they stopped working awhile -i learned
the requiem, ready to be tolledmy surrogate bloodis running dry