starsi pray that someday soon, in a lonesome winter, your bones will cease to ache.regrets will no longer break your morals like glass figurines,you will not ask God to pardon your sins.you will forgive yourself.i hope, for your sake, that your butterfly-flutter eyeswill only be dampened with tears worthy of shedding.your glory will shine out of those 2 crystal windowsand you will finally know what freedom feels like.one day, in the midst of a dreary december, i wish for your wings to open wideand carry you to heights far past any you have ever experienced.your lungs will become blooming forestswith snippets of poetry carved into the tree trunks.you will no longer be broken, but instead, crack into miniscule piecesof yourself until all of the grace & goodnessburied deep within the crevices of your fleshis soaked up by the atmosphere.i am awaiting the day that i can finally lay next to someone i call lover and point up at the stars to show himfragments of you scatte
swimming in spacelet's ask the stars to build us a castleso we can rest our shoulders like royalty -put the weight of all these wordsdownfor a few millenniaand just breathe.our lungs could use a few hits of truthto open themselves up to the calming hymns of the heavens;breaking ourselves apart shouldn't be too difficult.(our wrists mean war - forests of insecurities & impatience)wait a few more monthsfor distance to build itself a bridge between our arms,ache likesaturn is stretching its rings across your chest,deeming you responsible for all the black holesand stray planets enveloped in the universe.i went swimming in your blood stream,couldn't breathe,no diver came in after me.i dreamt that i was drowning in your veins,the chill of september's rains still haunts my bonesfrom time to time.colors without names flash before my eyesmaking themselves a mantra of sins under my skin.we lifted our heads in unison and crafted a tragedyfrom all these mistakes.the riverbed & jesu
forest firesmy signature scrawled across allof your sentences like a stain of apologies:i'm sorry for anchoring you to my hiplike a one-sided promise, like a flood of insincerity.i'm sorry for collecting you like a well of wishes,for whispering you into every crack in these walls.i do not have the depth to tether our limbswith the tautness of our smiles, but i willbalance you on the edges of my knees untilyou slip away.i have been kneeling with my arms outstretchedwaiting,but the divinity of your touchnever graced my expectant stance.our bones built forest fires together,but it was always my tears putting them out.
truthsi.there are 2 things that not even the mostforceful of rains can cleanse me of:-memories-mistakesii.sometimes, i feel like a caged lion.only with a lot more impatienceand a lot less resilience.iii.i have yet to discover what it means to be content.i am either too stagnant or too fluid.no middle ground.iv.i have mastered the art of leaving.it's the idea of moving on that still haunts me.v.i fear that the light in my eyes is so dim that it will burn outbefore even i have a chance to see the world with it.vi.i am not as clever as i pretend to be.vii.someone needs to teach me thati don't need reassurance; i need self-assurance.that someone should be me.viii.my greatest fears are loneliness and cancer.the second because all my beauty is in my hair.the first doesn't need an explanation.ix.i am still discovering what it means to be a woman.everything is confusing me.x.i am secretly afraid of massages.feels like i'm being stabbed.we all know how that is.xi.
water stainsmy father's silhouette painted onthe canvas of wavesassures me thatwater stains are not permanent.darkened fabric means nothing more thanthe fruit of possibility spoiling on countertops.i ask grown men for more answersthan there are chandeliersin my parents' abandoned mansion.the creases of my grandmother's foreheadskitter over concern andland on laugh lines.i've always been a clever joker,spreading lips like a contagion.they could never catch me;my intoxicating serpentslithering through sidewalk cracksbreaking backs as children do.my limbs may have expanded,but i am just a hot air balloon.if there is anythingpavements & dark rooms have taught me,it is thatbroken means i'll be okay again.
kingdom animaliawe crash into each other like embers,fire-flakes falling to our tip-toes.we've been burned far too many timesto recall so you collect me in your armsand we dance a slow dance.we've mastered the steps to distance and Lionel Richiehas a voice like gravel but our fire-branded soles step to itwith ease like experience taught our souls to teach our feet.you taste like winter, all sharp and forcedwith your tongue cutting corners, exceptwe were born on the edge of a cliff neitherof us had the guts to jump over.your summer is a half-finished book & a fireworks display,and i don't know who this "they" is who does all the saying,but they've told me that if the world condensed itself ontothe top of Mt. Everest, then everyone would love each other10-fold more.so we gaze downward like the pressure of the bloodflowing through our eye sockets can b-r-i-d-g-e theg a p between us and potential.eventually, our bones will cease to swing-set us homebut our hearts will carry the weight
02. nomad, nomadi set my good intentions downfor an impossible duration tomake myself sleep sounder.i strip myself naked & rough;my frail convictions flow outthe window,scattering themselveslike acid rain dropletson the sill.and i am not a breeze, but a sharp gust -wind blown into an envelope like a29-cent secret never meant to be keptcaged-inand you were not a mistake, butdestroyed yourself beforei was given the chanceto undoubtedly do the same.what does it mean to lie in someone's wake?to be in the ever-presence of another human,to feel breath short and isolated against an empty chest?you showed me patience,but never how to recognize hopelessnesswhen you stretched it like a glove,testing my hand at tolerance.i march across Chicagofrom bus stop to bus stopattempting to prove resilience.i am fooling no one.i wish i was colorblindso i could experience you in black & white.admire your ink-stroke eyelashes like artwork,read your cracked-skin palms as if they were poetry,an
ashthe first time i looked into your eyeswas one year after meeting you.my toes barely dipped into the pondof blue before i realized there wasn'tmuch to swim to.i fooled myself long ago into thinking thatif i was ever brave enough, i could plungeinto your endless depths and bathe in purity.soak up your little-boy grins and weave laughterwith you, creating the most infinite soundtrack.but when our irises finally connected,i felt the make-believe ropes i had loopedthrough your fingers snap like convictionstoo heavy to maintain.it was the first time in a whilethat i had a name for the reasoni was broken.i shook in a rhythm so violentour bones couldn't dance to it.instead, they cracked in halfand crumbled to ash; remainsof what we never were.
to the gunman of a school shooting in newtown, CTthe black man on the television screen spits reform,but parents of dead children plea gun control in thewake of the destruction of 20 children, 26 lives total.adam, don't you realize it's christmas time & theseparents will be burying bones instead of caroling songs?the black man on the television screen admits:our heart is broken.but there is no beauty in the unity that follows robbingof innocence. adam,you sprayed the school with bullets bursting into shrapneloff the shattering skulls of children.20 little bodies hauled off in white sanitation bags,stained red with crusty blood and shouting mothers screamingto the heavens.there is nothing clean about the way 26 connecticut familieswill be washing the salt water off their chapped cheeks eternally.you drained them internally. in america,to know change you must create it, but we havea cabinet full of ornate teacups not willing toblow the dust off their porcelain edges.you'd think we'd learn from our mistakes, but adam
slingshot words.there are a million worlds living in your head begging to be wrapped around your tongue and released like a slingshot into the heart of some stranger you may never meet.
calamity.the poor boy got a lecture from deaths secretary"deaths busy enough as it is without walk ins""but it was urgent," he stutters."it couldn't wait, it was now or never"he was simply told"take a number, and wait over there with the restwho 'couldn't wait' "
white noise.sometimes i turn off the greasy yellow lights and run the water lava hot.the quiet porcelain is an untouched coffinfamiliar as the look in your eyes.i can hear my heart beat in my earsand i stare at the ceiling until it darkens and blurs at the edges.my body is heavy as leadi cannot remember the weight of movement.sometimes the closest i can get is the suicide between each breathand the apology unspoken on the inhale.my skin is a ladder i keep climbing,i can see through the rungs to the fat cells that weigh down my bones.sometimes,my hand becomes his when it creeps uninvited over the landscape of my bodyand across the staircase of my ribs.i can't erase the feeling of his body pressed like a bookover my flower.my head is white noise that bleeds red,but i'm tired of all the blood.tired of all the memories like channelsi keep flicking past.sometimes i wonder if i cut enough slack in my skin, &
Things I'll tell you when you're older.The monstersdon't fit under bedsanymoreand neitherdo we.
7.I ate your absence for dinner.
A Short Love StoryI counted your teethwhen you died,all twenty-eight of them,because it gave me more timethan counting your toesand fingers (and thumbs),or just looking at your faceand telling the coroner:he's the one.
eight things that hurt more than a broken boneone,i have never had broken bones,but i imagine it would snap,splinter, pierce my skin.i imagine it would bethe pieces i cannot put back togetherscratching their way out ofthis body bag.i imagine my demons wouldnot rest until my arms are tornby the claws of my inside.i'd imagine broken boneswould not hurt as muchas broken confidence,conviction, trust.two,her faith.(my lack of it.)three,fluctuating positions in life.the backbone of a dreamerwho finds nightmares her companion,the fingertips of a mother,pressed against feverish foreheads.the lips of a teenage girl,forgetting what truth sounds like.four,bones heal,i cannot remember the last time i did.five,knotted hair pulled out at the roots.nail polish remover spilled into wounds.lips chapped red.beauty. expectations.six,burned at the stakeof accidents.dying on a scaffold,unable to speak.seven,numbers on the scale,tick-tack-toe on my wrist.every blistering insecuritythat sends me spiraling.eigh
SurrogateI stopped using his full titlebecause it started sounding too formal,and it’s hard to be standoffish with someonewho swaps albums and memories so generously,who loves German chocolate but hates the smell of oranges,who knows me by my boneless,drowsy form on the couch and by my words.And maybe one day he’ll askme to drop the title altogether and call him Brad,but I won’t.Because it sounds too much like dad,and I’m afraid of slipping up.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasuresfaded verses from his wife the way connoisseurssavor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.The record needle hits the groove wrong;he stumbles over words that aren’t there,rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.He doesn’t write poetry anymoreand his confusion is strangely endearing.But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,poetic lines inserted between the daily grindof character names and who said what;voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.He doesn’t write poetry anymore –except when he does.
wallflower clippingsthere's scar tissue in her throat,swollen around the words she never said;dark rings around her eyeslike planets unremembered, anda staleness to her touch,the crystalline Dead Sea.she's living like a storythat's already been told"if no one loved youwould you mean anything at all?"in that moment,we forget to exist.
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.tonight,i am covered in the bruises of your hand tonight, your ghost is in my bed. i can't sleep there,so again- again i find myself miles from homewishing 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 textslike 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 coldas hours escape like small birds set free. i forget to open the blindsand paint my fingernails black and stare at the too-big numbers aligned on the scale i can't stop stepping on.my th
virginity is like an envelopemy mother said her mother knew.i wonder if she stumbled home like i did,fifteen and beer-loosetied to the door like a thunderstorm with black lipsand i wrote a story about disaster,a quiet two sleds long.a box full of beads, i swallowedfifteen needles, mommy. don’ttell me i’m not sorry.don’t call me a whore you bag of bonesyou lock-loose suitcase do you evenrecognize me look at my face my toothache skini am not the one with the knife.my mother never slept with a boywho didn’t love her never let a boysleep on her while she lay awake beneaththe shroud of his skin breathing onlywhen her voice-box gathered too much dust.you have to know i didn’t doit on purpose. he slid beers down my throattill i felt like a landfill.i was not yet a crescendo. maybe i was a polka-dot.you couldn’t tell. i got homewith my legs full of nightmare.the doctor said xanax.i said i am a ruin like the oneswe saw in peru.a balloon in a funeral poem.
001 i am a whirlwind of bruised knees (purple) an aching heart (dark blue) twisted guts (red) & a regret that could crumble mountains. (green-green-green)
Confessionsthere’s a lot I never told you1. I have a habit of lying, aboutthe simple things (like, yes Iforgot to remember and I swear bysoul mates and I’m in lovewith your susurrus voiceand no, I’m really doing fine).It was not an act of infidelity becauseI believed it, too.2. I’m infatuated with the conceptthat I am more or less fictional, thedelusive beauty a million men willdedicate novels to: I am fragile,a dust angel sent to save the worldfrom commonalities andmyself.3. Since I’m not allowedto remember your nameI will commemorate youin acts of escapism,killing off the piecesof the person you left behind.4. I believe in a past lifeI was a bird with a tendencytowards tall buildings; the sorry kindof bird with heavy bones and crumpled wingswho never quite learnedto fly away.5. I miss you. I used to thinkyou were a person, but now I knowyou’re the happiness I will neversee.6. I'm sorry.
by association.don't shoot the messengershe told herselfbut her aim was unsteadyand the wind blew her off targetthey were all rotten anyway.
zeroi sworei would never number the poemsi wrote about myself because thatwould be like ticking off the daysuntil my breakdown;i was a moth, unapologetically throwing myselfat any gleam of hope; wasting my wingson industrial promisescolors always felt much moreappropriate for the purple boilingbeneath my heart and the pallidpurposelessness of my head,but i was born into a colorless world--no one sees me behind the metallic scarsof my skin and iron grating of my voice againstthe grain; no one sees me as more thangray regret or monochrome mistakes,no one sees me butall i ever wanted was for afallen god with feathered heelsto believe in me: to pray uponthe monuments i built forbroken dreams and to baptize mein his tainted tears,i just want him to be real. morethan anything, i want to be real, i wantto be more than an imaginary friendto various mental limitations; i wantto trade my liquid skin [evaporating]for a chance to bei am a moth and you are the lighthousei
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you? i. summergirl,you are crowthroated and tumblingthrough the aspen grovehair on fire with sunrise, lungsfull of sky.eyelashes like wildflowersand every morning bringsa new spray of frecklesand a sharper curve to your collarbones.the cornfields hold no shadowsfor your lighthouse eyesand there are no endings in thatsurefooted smile. ii. you have grownso fast.autumn finds you with broken anklesleaning on an oak branchand watching the skies.crow to sparrow--you are quiet.summergirl, there is peace in silence,perched treetop,fallen antlers in your hands.you will come to mourn your deer.keep them close. iii. by winter you have paled,and like the streams your eyes have frosted over.you feel the chill--there is no need for sight.summergirl, th
fast-forward through the goodbyesthis is the beginning of the end“i know you,” he says.and he looks defeated, he looks sad, he looks likehe's a boy who may one day realize how muchhe cares for you, so you cut him off and say,“minus all the secrets i don’t tell anyone.”“well, yeah, minus those.”“then you don’t know me at all.”and then you tell him,i love you. but you don’t use those wordsbecause those are taboo. are jinxed.are knock on wood three times fast.instead you press him in a hug and say,i’m sorry, knowing he won’t understandthat this is the first time you ever cared for somethingenough to try and fix it after you hurt it.you hope he doesn’t ever realize what you’re sayingand his response will always be ‘what for?’ becauseif he figures out he loves you nothing changes.he’s just going to be in love with a corpse, a memory,a pair of trigger happy hands,
confessionalthey say sad girls change their hair colorand forgive their monsters.i change my moralsand become one.