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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.
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 was sure I would make it with time. After the next 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 then you c
a lover's observations.when you asked me to define love,
i answered with this.
i. a collection of sighs
by remembered dreams
and rapid heartbeats
ii. fingertips on knuckles
and the hugging of thumbs
iii. making silverware
on the mattress
in the company of the stars
iv. exchanging dialogue
with our mouths shut
and our eyes open
v. cheekbones and crow's feet
vi. turning every what if
into a reality
when i asked you to describe love,
you took the answer from my mouth
with your lips.
why we cannot sleep at night.i.
we have grown so accustomed
to wearing our masks
we still wonder why
the night sky
is calling my name
and i find that
i cannot close my eyes
my corneas are stars
and i'm falling
rusted and fading,
forever switching owners
forever out of place
loneliness is a disease
the world is infected.)
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
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
the first poem about recoverymy depression is
a thousand days spent quietly breaking.
is hours drowning under bedsheets like boulders
in the poisonous sterility of hospital air
is skipped meals and skipped classes
the hollowness in my stomach and the blankness in my eyes but
i am more
than the sum total of my chemicals.
more than the razor-blade signatures
creeping across my shoulders,
the latticework of fine white scars traced over my forearms.
more than endless nights counting car crash promises
on the twisting back roads of this matchstick town.
the heavy green pills that stick in my throat like strangled poetry
fading scars and healing bruises.
blood and clay and splattered ink
shaking, scared, but never empty.
fragile, frantic, but never broken-
my smiles are s
wild thingsthere are days i
want to run with wolves.
to howl at the stars because
the moon has never done
anything for me, and swallow roses
like their thorns never
but this cage -
it seems there's no way
and i fear it's
for anyone to hear me.
life is just a zoo full of
all our monsters, and
[it's our fault] we
Pluto Isn't a PlanetI can barely breathe
and that's what's keeping me
My parents said I was a child
(Too young to understand)
And the teachers shook their heads at me.
Society told me that I was insane
and the stares in the halls told me
it wasn't right
to keep living this way
How could the burden of those galaxies
be the reason I'm alive?
"You are on the wrong track," they said,
"You need to follow planets orbiting the sun
and Pluto isn't
There is no point
if the textbook isn't open,
but I cannot lie to my
I feel most alive when my small hands
are trying to carry the entire solar system
and I break through the most
galaxies and constellations
by following the north star
and not the mathematical calculations
I copied down in my
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
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