TogetherYour heartstringsAnd mineAre intertwinedAnd I feel like even if we wanted to grow apartThatWe simply wouldn’t be able to.
For Your Eyes OnlyWe used to talk every day, for hours- from dawn til dusk. Until you slipped up- mentioned my name, and they told you I was dead.
RosaWe are like a roseYou’re the petalsAnd I’m the thorns.
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.
Too Distant To Be SeenThe moon caressed my skin as I gingerly peeled it offAnd the sun melted my bones as they were exposedMy muscles- the last shell- deteriorated instantlyAnd the stars ate my soul without another thought.
Darkness to LastI have trouble swallowing the words youAll too eagerly whisper into my earsSo easily are they saidI can’t help but wonder if this- if us- is a script; one that you have memorizedOne that you have collaborated with others onOne that I was kept in the dark aboutWhere I am merely the clueless actress who is wondering about your lines.
EmberSummer gives way torotting dreamswhen the fire in her eyes begins toextinguish.
FaithWhy are people so hell-bent onMaking me lose faith in the human race?
Let Me Be ThereI’m not always strongSometimes I’m vulnerable around those I trustSometimes I allow myself to cry, allow myself to break- sometimes I need toBut when you need a break, and when you need to take off your armor to nurse your wounds-Lean on me and I’ll be strong enough for the both of us.
SearchingThe pieces that fellThey shine on the ground There is a smile I am not alone I understand Even though my heart hurtsThe reflection Slowly healing Nightmares are my dreamsThe lightLeading the way through the darkness Forever searching and praying
About ArtA sweet poem,warm melody,gentle painting,All but a draftrehearsal studyFor the true art called love.
MirrorThe Queen is hiding-Not imprisonedShe chooses to be on the other sideThe Queen holds the only key-And it is tangled upIn her intestinesAnd she’s not giving it back.
fabled lifei.she talks through her wrinkles,'i have no desire for food', she says.i take her plate to the kitchennoticing how the beetroot shavings bled into the skin of the chicken and brown rice.it was blood, skin, and bone,and the rice was a million starlike cells floating between.this reminds me of my anatomy textbook:we've been learning what's beneath our skin,we learned that all cells divide. some cells often don't stop dividing.other cells divide and stop when they should...but not my grandmother's.starlike, they explode, they shatter, they consumethey divide.ii.i want to be mad at my grandmother's cells,but what would that do?i want to talk to my grandmother's cells,i want to tell them they can be aliveand not kill her.but first,i have to catch the moon,i have to visit hades and bargain with beautiful music,i have to sell my voice for legs,i have to sail the ocean blue in search of a good reason why cancer can't just be what it is.iii.this is not a fabled lifean
Blood Red BywaysI dreamtI was keeping a sharkas a pet,holy asa midnight cigarette.He nibbled awayat my fingers and toesand we'd leave blood red bywayswherever we'd go.And people all around us begged,"This is killing you!""He was meant to swim!"But I called it loveand it all made sense.I woke upand the sharkwore adifferentname...I have loved so wrong.
The CliffWith the raging waters underneath meI slip off my shoes and press my forehead against the moist stoneInhaling deeply before I look up with determination in my eyes-I start to climb.
but there is nothing you can say nowWhen you returnDo you think you could take some of your precious-not-to-be-wasted-time to say hello?When you leftIt was almost literally without-a-traceAnd you left a note; one of those shitty little notes“Don’t worry about me I’ll be fine” with “but most importantly you’ll be fine without me”Written in-between each individual letter of your goddamned words.
Shooting StarsI like to imagine thatShooting starsAre actuallyDragonflies with little lit lanterns strapped to their backs.
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
intervalsin the time you've been gonei have learned to string my heart along telephone wires,to tangle my handsaround warm mugs of coffee,and count on only blanketsfilling all my emptyspacesi've taken to lovingin intervalsto waiting,curling kisses around my tongue, but not holding my breathbecause lovinglike a light switchon-off on-off here-gone here-goneburns me out fasterthan you have timeto traveland patiencemay be a virtue, but at midnight,when i am ice-coldbut burning hot for youswearing need could propel me every mile waiting becomes morethan a matter of patienceit is about conserving electricity,stopping my synapses fromsnapping straight in halfat the mention of your nameit is about thinking of you when i should be driving, sighing your name intomy morning coffeedamning every couple who gets to see each other every daybut for you, for your two a.m. webcam blu
SynestheticSometimes I taste test names;Anita – sharp citrusand lemongrassfor the ann-i,a tortilla for the taa.Brad – I likeits weight; a slabof marbled chocolatemelted on my tonguebefore the last letter.Charlotte – somethingsavory, but sweet; porkmarinated in honeyon sweet rolls.Doug – vanillatinged cheesecake;a dusting of grahamcracker shavings;an Oreo with no filling.Elena – spiceand heat radiate –eh-layne-ahh – a coronabursting fromthe second e.Fletcher – it’s syllablesmesh like mashedpotatoes, lumpy yetconsistent.Gladys – driedlemons and staleSpree candies, rattlinginside and empty pitcher.Hawthorne – brackish,the leftover remainsof a magnificent feast,the apple still stuckin the boar’s mouth.Imogen – leanand stringy. Greenbeans and chickenbroth at a small,weathered table.Jules – red velvetand hot peppers, a weekold cake with hardfrostin
After TasteLately I've felt 2AMmore as an emotionand less as a timemy heart thickensbut not with love,with alcohol(one day I'll drown you out of me)He became every letterhe hid within my inkand slept in the cracks of my fingernailsI only see him...I'll write another song he wont hearand trace the outlineof where helaid his hands last...How sad is itto be this youngand wish for deathwhen we see the stars?
immatureI am in love with youin the way that childrenare in love:incompletely, sporadically,self-consciously.you appear to meas every adult appearsto a child:faultless, omniscient,unendingly generous and honestand kind.and, as must happento every child,I will lose my god:the slightest human errorwill cause you tofall
after you diedi.they asked me if there was somethingof yours that I wanted to keepI wantedto keep your eyelashes, your breath,your bloodI said this, and they lookedsad, said they meant did I want yourclothes and possessions, your thingsI didn't know what I wantedcradling my head with my arms andquietly saying no over and overmy mouthdry with the taste of morning sicknessand old seawatera month later, I wanted all your clothesI was scrub-faced and tiredthe yellowof the walls hurt my eyes, buried in wettowels, sleeping naked on the floor everynightii.I fucked somebody elseafter the funeral"somebody else" sounds wrong nowas if you are still alive, kissingmy shoulder in the morningI'd taken cocaineand it made a sound in my ears like a hummingbirdlike tinnituslike someone banging on a door or just that tiny high pitched screamthat someone starts to make when they have grown tired of cryingso hardiii.your mother was fixing my hair in the kitchena bobby pin tucked
Something Like DecadenceSomething Like DecadenceLast night I dreamt of buttons I was a man with harmonica lips you were the number six [six] cracks down your broken spineI swam in Atlantisand pulled the scales off the tender fish I plucked them like feathers one by one so I could hear each of them screamI was watching the dirt collect under my fingernails telling them thanks for the memoriesbut I was never one for lying-------------------Last night I didn't dream of buttonsI dreamt of acid on cold pavement I was a man with love-handle-hips you were the number nine [nine] cracks no, bullets through my spine, through my heartI was drowningI was runningI was flyingand I was plucking feathers off the
KitchenYour mother wants to knowif you've had anything for breakfastand the way she talks splits through youlike an axe in a melon, nervouslike she's talking to a man with bloodthat stains his teeth. And the kettle sings,too loud, that ugly old whee-oh-wheethat makes you feel like a poet or anative, nervous wreck, a girl draggingher toes and drawlingas she snaps a cat'sneck. She asks you again, moreimpatient this time because you arethe kind of person that is hardto put up with, the kind of personthat never begins to listen, and there isa beating heart sewn into the back ofyour head where your hair meetslike a cleaved moon in the middle.The stitches hurt and the room isfrightening and sad as you pickyourself free with your nails,wishing the pulse would give out.
No Cream, No SugarBeing is like eternal patienceDays slowly dripping into that coffee cupYou don’t remember where it came frombut, like most things, it’s always been thereWhen the filter gets changed three timesand the sun still won’t come outNot to mention the brief realizationthat everyone is just getting byNot to mention the stillness of 2 a.m.
On sadness, she wrote.I’m sad all the time,and I do the dishes and wonderwhen I got to be so sad,and I do the laundryand I wonder where all thesadness comes from,and I clean the bathroomand I wonder how all the sadnessfits inside of me,and I smoke too manycigarettes and wonder if thesadness will ever go away.
voicesLast night I dreamtThat I had buttons for eyesAnd they told me I couldn’t cry no more.