existentialism and shoddy metaphorsI was violet-cheeked anddiamond-hearted; a workof art in reverse,tearing between my ribsand calling it beautiful,and I wonder now why theynever taught me this in school;the sepia-saturated glow lifegives out some point afteryou’ve realized wishes arefor those who’ve not yetwoken more alone than whenthey went to sleep,they never taught me allthe reasons why or thatsin tastes sweet. I metmy maker once in a backalleybar, stormy eyes and peppermintbreath, charming off a hangover;he sighed, “I know how manydays it’ll take you to give upcompletely. I know how manydreams you’ve sold away andhow many lies you need toswallow before you can fall asleep.I know that you’ve never quitegrown up and I know thatyou’re afraid of me” hesmiled silent and downedanother drink, losing himselfin the ramblings of a solipsisticexistence where “I” am finally allthat matters (and sometimesI believe I was built hollowlik
control.on tuesdays you ask mewhy i can't get of bed:you say, is it because youwant control, is it becauseyou need control? no, i say, i don't want to talkabout this right now look, it's becausemy mother's shoulders shookwhen the alimony ran out, andbecause i lied when i saidi don't want you to fuck mein the back of your subaru,and it's because the couch springsare broken, i'm out of tylenol, andthere's this sick kind of hurt spreadinginto my fingertips, lacingmy spine,and somewheredeep down, i want thisto paralyze meand maybe it'sbecause you're so perfectfrom far away, soperfect when you're drunk andyou tell me, it's becausei want control, i needcontrolit's becauseyou won't let mesleep, even thoughyou knowi'm so damntired.
scraps and sacramentsyou,beautiful siren girl with melodiesentangled in her hair: you areshell-shocked and sea-struckeven though you cannot standthe sensation of sand beneathyour toes.you have fingers for prying, picking,pulling at your skin and nestingin that hollow space betweenyour bones. and if anyone asks,you will swear there are monsterssleeping in the concaves of your ribs;there are ghosts beneath your tongue,embittered, and you are not the wordsyou speak.they say there is an answer, little girl(sometimes you begin to believe you area scarecrow on the border of realitybegging people to turn the other way;and the mirror will agree)how far have you gone? a feather inthe breeze who won’t promise to returnagain; there is a wandering warmth inthe hesitation of your harbored fear.where will you be in six months whenthe future has become itself and youare still astray? little one, no one is like youin the way you sway to the cadence of adissonant night. no one knows your
breaking bonescreak, heave:my body can do nothingbut prepare for collapse(youth is often mistaken for health)my blood is too water,my flesh too softmy ribs too cage.what are strong are my bones—calcium-grown, all marrow and solid(though i have known girlswho, wanting to be like the birds,have scraped theirs out)there is nothing like beingthis upstanding buildingthere is nothing like being pale bloodand ugly fleshand solid steel.(anyway, that was what i thought until i met you.)i started to feel the cracks on a wednesdayafter i’d smiled one too many times,when one too many drops of acidmade my steel frame gauze.like a great tall tower in a stormmy structures falter,and then suddenly i am breaking bones.now i have nothing:i am the bone fragments and thin bloodand formless skinat your feet.
resonanceidoes she know the astrological significanceof the bruises starring alongyour wrists? if I could, I’drun away somewhere wherethe sky is silent and the peoplehate honest eyes. here’s my problem,I’ve wasted all my time daydreamingin the universe of your scars. I wonderif substantiality is lethal.ii[when will you move onlike you know whatyou’re doing with your life,like this tiny existentialfailure is only a hazard signon the roadmap of your journey,like the world weighing downupon your shoulders is anexercise in vanity and quietudeinstead of someoneelse’s burden?]iiilists of necessities: methods ofstarvation, hours to fall asleep by, sharpobjects, words that mean nothing.I’m sorry this isn’t better. I’m sorryI’m not better and I’m sorrynothing is bright anymore.things you remind me of:the november skyright before it rains.
blue-sightedi hold these scissorsjust inches frommy paper lungs,for i askedand you respondedwith your bodyand the trailsleft by your handswere more labyrinthinethan any corridorof my hideous mind,that nighthit me so hardthat dawn crackedmy foreheadand i am blue-sightedfor your breath on my neck
aphrodite's stepsisteryousensuous tangle of honeysilk and white walls,falling like sand through my fingertipseyes dancing like the fires of hell,i'm enraptured"will you still love mewhen i'm no longer young andbeautiful"i clench my fists—you, the picture of youtha summer siren,aphrodite's stepsistersomeday entering the winterof your lifewishing i could trap you in a bottle,your essenceto spray on like perfumeto wear like a garmenti am dancing with decay,wishing for the best of you