SheShe wears a different colored and patterned undergarments which never fails to baffle those who may catch a glimpse of one or the other, if not both.She walks as though no one acknowledges her existence, as though she is but a ghost in a sea of living, breathing humans.She doesn’t know how much attention she draws to herself. She is ignorant in that regard but not in others.Her legs are covered in scars and bruises consistently and so she believes she isn’t beautiful, because who wants an abused doll?A doll, who, is afraid of intimacy and who doesn’t know what it feels like to be loved- despite her past filled with suitors, but they lied about such precious things.She wonders if she should seek out those who are broken like her or perhaps strive for those who are “whole”.She focuses on the smaller things of the bigger picture, silently painting the bigger picture on the ceiling of her skull.She wants to travel the world and see with her own two eyes
tongue-tiedIt’s far from overHe would whisper against the delicacy that is the space between her collarbone and shoulderAnd she- she had no words.
between the two of usi do notwant tolove youbecausewe bothknewlong agoyou couldneverlove metoo.
disappearI taught her how to grow a backbone—How to fight the battles that mattered mostHow to say no and goodbye—I taught her how to leave without being noticed—How to fade away day by dayHow to merely cease—&& she used this knowledge against me.
Cancer StickIt was 4:36 Ante Meridian when the wind violently ripped the cigarette from between his lips, like Mother Nature herself was scolding him for poisoning his body at such a young age. He was barely twenty years old, which meant he was old enough to buy his own cancer sticks and smoke them as he pleased.It was 3:57 Ante Meridian when he walked along the lines of freezing sea water, struggling with his lighter as his hands shook violently. The stars twinkled above him yet they were insignificant compared to the light of the moon. He exhaled lightly as a flame flickered to life at the end of his cigarette yet right as he was about to take a deep inhale of nicotine and tar, a wall of salt water drenched him to the bone. Exasperated, he turned and walked back the way he came, disappointed with the lack of smoke filling his lungs.It was 11:11 Post Meridian when he felt like someone was watching him as he pulled a cancer stick out from his back pocket. It was squished a little from where he f
Beneath The SurfaceI think I’d like to run into the seaAnd let the salty depths engulf me.
maybe i should have stayed silentMy heart is heavy with words.
Reach OutI want to reach out and-Press my hand into yours and-Give it a reassuring squeezeA sign that you’re not alone and-That maybe things will be okay sometime soon.
Is GoneEvery minute of the day is d r i f
Forced ResponsibilityShoulders collide as wewalk a line that stretchesbeyond frost and delicateglass expectations;the discontented hum of the massesexacerbates headaches causedby the ever-rising tide ofa standard of living.Is it really too much to considerthat the things that are spinning outyour patience on a broken spoolare the very same things thatsave rubber and spokes from disaster,and your heart from rupturingunder the pressure of forced responsibility?
The Problem With Elia.she could have been a violin;born a week too late, she hadmelancholy in her bones: doctor lizbettook time out of her schedule to pluck hernewborn strings - calloused sanitation againstmottled pink-and-yellow flesh & thrashing limbs.in three more years, she will havenothing in her bones at all: doctor estairdiagnosed her with iatrophobia to fuel herinstinctive chords - ripple-free shells of liquidlobotomy & a capsule to callous her pink-and-yellowflesh against the thought of just getting over it all.ten years after that, her mother willfind her face down and thrashing: her dustbunny bones will flex as she retches up her memoriesfor display - lawyers will spend the next few years pawingthrough them with clawed hands and heaving breathing untilone day, they find lizbet and estair huddled amid the rubble of her bones.
On Wanting Everything to Be RightYou got too comfortable,forgot he could make mistakes,and set your consciousness asideso he could mend the thoughtswhich have remained disorderedin your fumbling sobriety,despite the years of learning to copewith the pace of regularity:scraping the mailbox with his key,dining out every Sunday,setting the thermostat to sixty degrees,and changing despite every effortto remain apathetic about his plans,how your name became a constantin his living equations,the variable which defined the function.On the morning you leave,only your luggage and body will movethrough the summer shadowsof oak leaves shaking in a breeze,and only your barest senseswill know the satisfaction of hearinghis footsteps behind yours,cicadas composing another song,a car door slamming shut,the engine firing up,though your muscle memory isn't enoughto bring you peace or independence,money or place or dignity.When you turn onto Justamere Road,you'll picture the nightstandon your side of the
ImmolationImmolation I’m on my knees like I’m committing sin,And put my hands together like it’s midnight.If You swallow my soul,Let my body weep.The good die young for a reason.
The WriterHe lived through prophetic fever dreams.
ManiaMania I have a lot of fears.You know the cliché,Afraid of being alone,Afraid of being forgotten,But I’m already aloneAnd they can’t help but not forget you-But this,And that,And everything in-between.I feel like this doesn’t make sense. But I’m afraid my paranoia,Will seep through my eyelids,As bands of streaking colors—Every color that refuses to mix well.Turquoise, brown green,Burnt orange and lilac pink.I’m afraid I’m in too deepOf the waters of another human—Not afraid of intimacy,But the thought of being so open,That honestly worries me.And I’m afraid I’ll spiral out of controlAnd way too into love.Just to be pushed out.And I’m afraid I’m too paranoidAbout being too paranoid.So caught up with not being so,I am too much. I’m so afraid of a back stabbing,That I’m worried about being shotFrom the front. I’m afraid of being afraid,An
words for the anxiousinescapable fingers curled cage upon her facelips, red and parted, shine through phalangeal barsgentle nostril flair as she expels airand inhalesfluttering hair draped, touching tangled thoughts draining darkness creeps up her throat , encompassingher whole being to shake muscles aching and tensed bymuffled murmurs (indecipherable, unimportant)her trembling chingiving in to terror of some unknown threat still present and reflected in wet eyestears trapped in surface tension shimmergasp over the lump in her throat obstacles for oxygenmind is losinglost
Coming up For AirTired hands covera face matted with sweat andtears from decades lost.
sleeplessnesswhen i leave, i can still smell you onme, a musky, oceanic scent thatclings to me in this hurricaneand while i am homeless until ireturn to your arms, there's alwaysa period of anxiety, a pacing (if you will)i want you to mourn for me theway my father does, but you'venever loved someone with my kind of hurti want you to spend dreamlessnights the way i do, with ringsbeneath my eyes, wonderinghow love could ever lastbut i have come to know theemanation of despair as it barksat me like a dog that's seen another of its kind -and i miss you the way i miss myself -sometimes, or not at all.
to nurse doe (whom we all know) i watched her blood orange heart cleanse and suture through old bullet wounds and new bouts of lilacs, lime, and blue her alcohol and aloe hands hold
We Traded Our Hearts for StarsFor every boy I ever kissed,the trembling of her lips matches yours.(Poet, breathe now.)I should write this down,the last piece I ever write about you.You’ve been gone findingconstellations, ambitions, and things in between,and this is me being brave,dancing on the fire escape.(I wore you like a bruise.)
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
love, and other natural disastersacres of barely concealed tragedyare sprawled along the vacant beach,spreadeagled like a group of starfish ora colony of dead Vitruvian men.hair becomes whip-like in windas shorelines burst onto squeals of water,each one a hideous screechfrom gaping jaws, a cry that echoesfor hours while stars tick-tock overhead.i could swallow entire mouthfulsof the pale sun, feel them explodelike lightning strokes in my aching bellyand still think like a deserted seashore -the only signs of liferuffled seagulls picking at dry oyster shells.the earth is a sphere and the coastis a box of empty prayersheld together by a couple loose endsof fishing wiresharp enough to slit throats.
Something(someone) Smallmy curious ivoriestucked between these lipsbeg to see what kisses taste like,to feel what love looks like,but dampened downbetween safety and soundthe tiniest bones in my body, in my ears,vibrate with a fake smileand the nod of my dainty doll headas i lie (with you/to you) againand grimace; i'm okay.
you're hurting mePlease. My bones do not bend.
bulletproof loneliness, at best can you hear my muted, mutant screams? it is in a form of cry shriveling up my lungs leaking foam from my parted lips and panting tongue drying up my eyes and making me collapse (in the coal mines of my mind, all the goddamn time) you once said that you had heard my voice being whispered in the evening winds carried by the cooing doves like my name was your song (forever calling to lost loves) until the last stretch of its infinitely looped three-minute play i held unto false hope, every step of the way
Alla RabiosaScorpio's tail slips low—a mari usque ad mare:from sea to seaover me, a devil in the sky above;and the Huntresspeels dawn like an orange.(Fling meamongst the stars:the Mad Queen's cosmic mirage.)
onco genes couldn't kill youyour frameworkof calcifiedneoplasmsand well-rested bonesstretched outof their own comfortshave caught my fancyandyou need to knowyou're deliciously vulnerabletonight,but surprisingly,it is youwho has the powerto endme;frighteningly,my dear, i willalwayslet you.
the amount of ache is unreasonableIt’s really quite the familiar ache of- - ghosts biting down on my bones- - Of their claws sinking into my lump of flesh that pumps oxygen in my blood to my body partsOf all the things you used to say slowly taking me apart.