losing my mindi have mastered the art
of hiding my emotions,
they neatly tuck themselves away
in the deserted creases of my mind.
slowly, they grow old and cold,
happiness falls through my fingertips
[ N U M B ]
darling, do not be confused,
for hiding does not mean forgetting.
these despairs unsteadily stack one upon the sorry other
my mind is a trembling mountain of unforgiving thoughts
and self-destructive motives.
[ E A R T H Q U A K E ]
oh dear, they’ve gotten the best of me.
dreams of death Jump!
He sucked in a jagged a breath, peering down over the edge. His body trembled.
Blue eyes were hungry yet fearful; begging yet hesitant.
Jump! The snarling voice repeated, more vicious and forceful this time. Just a split second and he could be gone. Life was so fickle in the thought of how fragile it truly was. People were often ignorant to realize that all it took was one second – one feeble little moment – and life, everything, could slip through trembling hands like sand.
Seth gnawed his lower lip. Power rested upon him like a crown upon a king. The choice was his: would he live, or would he die?
Death. How long had be been dreaming of it? So many years. Years of pain and grief, of striving for that relief, yet when he was handed the chance, he stood undecided, fearful, unsure.
In grief, you blossomed.When a wind tousled the hair
spilling from your hat,
though the sun was hot
and radiant in your eyelashes,
gleaming on your copper cheekbones,
shading the angles of your neck
with sharp virtue,
we walked two miles
to the bus stop.
"Do you ever think about how people like Eric
can turn out okay? But I don't really know what's different
between someone like that and someone who
sees shit and repeats every stupid fucking mistake,
because I don't think it has anything to do with strength
or willpower or opportunity or fate or God or whoever's been peddling
the newest life-affirming snake oil."
"What do you think it is?"
"I don't know."
"You've been thinking about it."
"Maybe. I guess. But I think it might just be
how close death seems to you."
It was dark
before the bus arrived
and you asked me for a cigarette,
which you smoked with sweet
a guide to her sadness.her wrists are wishbones she breaks for luck,
not knowing there is no luck in the break.
her veins are unanswered prayers
her lungs an apology sent as letters to heaven,
hoping God will forgive her for being a continual disappointment.
her head is a phonebooth for all the thoughts nobody's picking up on.
the the sadness is sinking her again.
so when she leaves at midnight to longboard to the ocean,
go with her.
when she tries to climb bridges,
don't let her.
when she's drinking cold tea and playing daughter,
it means she's trying to pull her head together.
when she's in the bathroom praying to the toilet,
decide to knock.
when she avoids you,
hide her blades.
she doesn't have the will to fight anymore.
so on the bad days, fight for her.
bad days.on my bad days,
i open notebooks like bibles and hold pens like lifelines.
i keep opening the book of my memories
just to see if it still leaves a bruise.
i am covered in the bruises of your hand
your ghost is in my bed. i can't sleep there,
again i find myself miles from home
wishing on stars i can't see
and spitting memories into the ocean like watermelon seeds.
i sit on my longboard like driftwood and send my shivers into texts
like letters i never should have mailed.
on my bad days,
i wear cuts like ropeburn,
like i just don't know when to let go.
i get lost inside the sadness and hold tea thats long since gone cold
as hours escape like small birds set free.
i forget to open the blinds
and paint my fingernails black
and stare at the too-big numbers aligned on the scale i can't stop stepping on.
Maps Not Meant For FollowingI bet you missed me when I went away. "You’ll come back," you thought. When I didn’t you bit your lip, but you were sure I would make it with time. After the second day, and the day after that, the doubts started to creep in. You caught yourself sucking in a painful breath whenever you saw something of mine lying around. Bits of my life left with you would slither into your sight when you least expected it the same way the memories would swamp you if given the slightest chance.
When days turned into a week, you entered into a hush drunk state: eyes bleary and sore from holding back any semblance of emotion. You were quiet, but not calm. Your hands became tumultuous storms when you'd glance over at our picture, fingers becoming tidal waves as you would toss it onto the bed. You were tired, but not nearly tired enough to forget.
On its own, you would find your body shaking at the brush of your own fingers across your skin, a reminder of where I touched you last. And the
This, TooI point to the hair on my knuckle
and you say, “yes, this, too, I love.”
It is longer than the year before, curling
a little farther from my body. I say so
and you say, "I know."
I pull it out to two options: am I angry
that you saw my body betraying youth,
that first little slide, and did not tell me?
Or, do I pat your rounding belly and say,
“yes, this, too, I love.”
why i never wrote you a poem.last summer i tried
to use the words that you fell asleep to
to write you a love song but
every time i tried
my fingers froze up.
i failed the test of describing you
in a paragraph
in a sentence
in a word
there is nothing in my head adequate enough
to describe how you look
on the train station platform
when you smile at me.
i can tell you that
my heart climbs into my throat and
my body prickles with heat and
everything disappears, for just a moment, but
the thing i cannot describe
your mouth caresses my name
like it’s the most beautiful sound
it’ll ever know,
like it understands me perfectly,
you are not made of verses.
you have no meter.
you are not written in stanzas
that i understand
and i find myself captivated
at how beautifully complex
your language is.
you say i’m the mesmerizing one, but, baby,
you've stumped me.
you have left a girl,
a person who wants to build their life
I'd sink faster if you held me, you know.someone once told me
the saltwater i tasted
was not the ocean-
but my tears.
someone once told me
that my rolling waves
tried to wash away guilt-
but determined seaweed
held too tightly.
someone once told me
that he knew how to swim
until the day we met.
he said he could only sink
when his eyes met mine.
someone once told me
that we’d meet at the bottom.
either of my heart-
or of the ocean.
Alone Beside You9.15.13
I told you once,
I wished I was a nebula.
I said I didn't feel quite
You squeezed my hand
as if to reassure me
that I was.
I told you I would
never find peace
I don't know if I meant
that little glass
cube in the sky that
I know you dream of,
or unanswered phone calls
and noncommittal responses.
I am discovering that
home is an ache in the chest,
leaves you with a head
full of screaming words,
a hollow mouth somehow
incapable of making sound.
Home is a heart beneath
Because you can give
everything you have for love
and it not be enough.
I never believed it,
but darling, I'm too tired
to be your little
optimistic bird this time,
and I am too much.
I am a shooting star
rushing to love, knowing
it will only burn
me up in the end,
but you can still wish on me.
I hope you find the peace
you're looking for.
Without a VoiceWith nothing to look forward to, I won't get out of bed
Rather, I'll just lie here and wish I were dead instead
Fighting all the hollow thoughts that root inside my head
My old escape has called me back
And this is what it said;
"You'll never live to see the many things you wish to grow to see,
and you'll always be a slave of all the painful memories.
Once again, I'm calling you to go pick up the knife,
and once again you're master of the mess you call your life.
Heed these words I say to you (as if you have a choice)
because pain's the only outlet for a kid without a voice."
My darkest thoughts are never far behind me anymore
When I think the way I do, my entire life becomes a chore
When I've lost the very people I'd been staying strongest for
These feelings rise up deep inside me from within my very core
And when they speak to me?
That's when I lock my bedroom door
And I collapse onto the floor
Whether I'll survive the night or not,
nobody can be sure
why we pity angelsto him;
you are afraid of phonecalls. you
are afraid of your own voice, and
opening your ribcage to let
your heart come live on your sleeve.
you are afraid of living without caffeine
or alcohol, whatever the day calls for;
you are afraid of being real
without laughing afterwards, becoming
everything you worked so hard to get
away from, acknowledging all
that you still are. know this:
I am afraid of loud noises.
I am afraid of honesty and drowning,
people I don’t know and words
I won’t say. I am afraid
of growing old and living alone and
you not accepting me. I am afraid
of myself. In that, we are the same.
I have the compulsion to grab you
and cup you to me like you are some
half-alive bird, like that sound
as the lazy sun paints you a portrait is
your hummingbird heart and not my own
shallow breaths. in the beginning,
you were my peace of mind. you traced
the contours of my being with a scalpel
and held me up, a shadow puppet,
as the darkest, blackest figures I gav
bird without wingsto the future me
(wherever you may be):
you may have heard that life is a journey,
and the thing is,
it's quite true.
and like all journeys,
you will be homesick, no matter
how grown-up you feel,
how many times you get on an airplane,
how you tell yourself you need nothing and no-one.
you will be alone many days,
and it will take effort to hide the misery on your face
and to keep the smile pasted on
because you don't want the pity of strangers.
so don't be too proud to call home;
they won't ever be too busy to answer,
and likely they will be missing you too.
and don't be shy to plant rosebuds
in your shabby apartment
(or hyacinths, or violets, or forget-me-nots)
if it reminds you of postage stamps
and fading memories.
don't forget to write letters,
whether they be to parents
or close friends
and if you ever feel tired of wandering the world alone
remember you are always welcome home—
it will be waiting for you, even
to the end of the world.
she didn't mean to be a roseshe is the age of innocence, staring longingly at the sarcasm she'll wear when she's jaded, but she isn't quite there yet. she says she's big enough, old enough, but when she tries irony on for size it pools off her egret shoulders, on to the floor, and she must stick with secondhand sincerity.
summer peach drips down her arms and she doesn't know what to do with her hands as she's dreaming, dreaming. head so high in the clouds she comes down in antarctica, confusion in her eyes made up songs in her ears, peach juice freezing on her skin.
when she lies in bed crying, her eyes perfectly dry, her hands not-quite-enough-enough fasten soft around the bars of her headboard. morning dawns red spiral imprints in her palms, pressed to the condensation windows, blood hello to the sunrise.
it's not that she's lonely, it's just that she's alone. small pale press against the worn fibers of the carpet, with only those lights on in the whole world and her face lit up blue with anything, though reall
Because Writing Keeps Me Human Just because it is burning my mind, and it holds a grenade that blasts everything I have into remnants of his musky scent; because I feel like I'm gagging, except that I'm coughing poems and vomiting metaphors; because words can be a crumpled piece of paper drowned in tears, and every poem written can be blended into fiction; and because my limbs feel like they had been devoured by the lava in the words and the music notes I play sink deep between the piano keys, and apparently banging the keys does not help silencing the empty screams at night.
Because the clock seems to slow down whenever I am planting your name in ink and paper; and because nobody ever listens to me the way poetry do; because poetry sees the "warning: fragile, handle with care" sign on me and knows that I break easily; because I can sculpt him into dreams and heavens and he will never know he exists in poems
unrealistic ideologies of an
are toxic; breathing
is a chore. there is
a careful warmth in the
combined effort of
we are the forgotten.
we are the tangled limbs
and childhood stories for
a more sensitive future; we
are the longing, we are
we are measured
in the people we touch;
and I will love you
in the UV light of
hide and seek paranoia.
I love you in the red shimmer
of harbored dreams, I love you
in the industrial gl
an ode to whimsyi. contemplation
i've wondered sometimes:
when should we take off the princess gowns
and pack away our toys
and pack up a suitcase
don't want to grow up.
at least, not
i kind of want to be afraid again,
not of financial situations,
needles and bagged white powder.
i want to be afraid of the dark,
or of the monster under the bed,
or of the villain from peter pan.
i want to be afraid
of being told on,
of being caught during hide-and-seek,
of being left alone.
(i still never want to be left alone)
the first time i traveled by myself,
i cried myself to sleep.
i was told later on that this was
normal, yes, you'll get used to it.
so i don't do that anymore.
because it's just not something
that grown-ups do.
apparently as a grown-up,
i was too fat, too round,
too chubby, too plump.
so i stopped eating for a while,
just to prove to everyone
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
let's find the poet's paradiseso i was thinking maybe we could run away with our thoughts. you know, and leave
our shadows behind with the wind?
only we won't run from somewhere, we'll run to somewhere. where you can catch the raindrops in your palms and they'll run down the lifeline like hot chocolate down the side of the mug when you put it down too hard. and where you can chase the sun beams with butterfly nets and keep them in a jar by your bed! don't worry about getting there, i've got the map scratched in the backs of my eyelids. (that way we can't lose it, see?)
think of it now, soon we'll be breathing starlight and drinking up melodies!
i hope when we get to this place, wherever it is, you can teach me to tuck the birdsong behind my ears ('cause you know i love watching you sing to the sand).
& maybe sometimes our memories will catch up and we'll have to hide in the soil like sycamore roots,
(but then you'll just whisper them away like shards of glass or dandelion seeds.)
wanderlust.00. she was afraid if she held him for too long, shed lose this feeling the rise and collapse of weak lungs, butterflies numbing her brain and tricking her vowels into slurs, hearts flooding and spilling over into messy red and white pools of affection.
01. shes all eyelashes, splintered bones and eager dreams, while hes just newspaper print, rough lips and hopelessness. they met in the turbulent center of a hurricane, swept up in disaster and lost in the redorange flames of another blazing skyline.
02. forever was seven letters too many, three syllables too close to smothering him. words didnt matter to her anyway, shed much rather have his fingers rack her ribcage in the rhythm of could-be verbs and his cumulus eyes lock her into a cloudy state of moving and being, of acting and re-acting, of loving and being loved.
forever was whispered between inches of flesh and heat, between bedsheets and silk.
03. he hates even numbers and speaks in ru