does she know the astrological significance
of the bruises starring along
your wrists? if I could, I’d
run away somewhere where
the sky is silent and the people
hate honest eyes. here’s my problem,
I’ve wasted all my time daydreaming
in the universe of your scars. I wonder
if substantiality is lethal.
[when will you move on
like you know what
you’re doing with your life,
like this tiny existential
failure is only a hazard sign
on the roadmap of your journey,
like the world weighing down
upon your shoulders is an
exercise in vanity and quietude
instead of someone
lists of necessities: methods of
starvation, hours to fall asleep by, sharp
objects, words that mean nothing.
I’m sorry this isn’t better. I’m sorry
I’m not better and I’m sorry
nothing is bright anymore.
things you remind me of:
the november sky
right before it rains.
existentialism and shoddy metaphorsI was violet-cheeked and
diamond-hearted; a work
of art in reverse,
tearing between my ribs
and calling it beautiful,
and I wonder now why they
never taught me this in school;
the sepia-saturated glow life
gives out some point after
you’ve realized wishes are
for those who’ve not yet
woken more alone than when
they went to sleep,
they never taught me all
the reasons why or that
sin tastes sweet. I met
my maker once in a backalley
bar, stormy eyes and peppermint
breath, charming off a hangover;
he sighed, “I know how many
days it’ll take you to give up
completely. I know how many
dreams you’ve sold away and
how many lies you need to
swallow before you can fall asleep.
I know that you’ve never quite
grown up and I know that
you’re afraid of me” he
smiled silent and downed
another drink, losing himself
in the ramblings of a solipsistic
existence where “I” am finally all
that matters (and sometimes
I believe I was built hollow
scraps and sacramentsyou,
beautiful siren girl with melodies
entangled in her hair: you are
shell-shocked and sea-struck
even though you cannot stand
the sensation of sand beneath
you have fingers for prying, picking,
pulling at your skin and nesting
in that hollow space between
your bones. and if anyone asks,
you will swear there are monsters
sleeping in the concaves of your ribs;
there are ghosts beneath your tongue,
embittered, and you are not the words
they say there is an answer, little girl
(sometimes you begin to believe you are
a scarecrow on the border of reality
begging people to turn the other way;
and the mirror will agree)
how far have you gone? a feather in
the breeze who won’t promise to return
again; there is a wandering warmth in
the hesitation of your harbored fear.
where will you be in six months when
the future has become itself and you
are still astray? little one, no one is like you
in the way you sway to the cadence of a
dissonant night. no one knows your
breaking bonescreak, heave:
my body can do nothing
but prepare for collapse
(youth is often mistaken for health)
my blood is too water,
my flesh too soft
my ribs too cage.
what are strong are my bones—
calcium-grown, all marrow and solid
(though i have known girls
who, wanting to be like the birds,
have scraped theirs out)
there is nothing like being
this upstanding building
there is nothing like being pale blood
and ugly flesh
and solid steel.
(anyway, that was what i thought until i met you.)
i started to feel the cracks on a wednesday
after i’d smiled one too many times,
when one too many drops of acid
made my steel frame gauze.
like a great tall tower in a storm
my structures falter,
and then suddenly i am breaking bones.
now i have nothing:
i am the bone fragments and thin blood
and formless skin
at your feet.
blue-sightedi hold these scissors
just inches from
my paper lungs,
for i asked
and you responded
with your body
and the trails
left by your hands
were more labyrinthine
than any corridor
of my hideous mind,
hit me so hard
that dawn cracked
and i am blue-sighted
for your breath on my neck
control.on tuesdays you ask me
why i can't get of bed:
you say, is it because you
want control, is it because
you need control?
no, i say, i don't want to talk
about this right now
look, it's because
my mother's shoulders shook
when the alimony ran out, and
because i lied when i said
i don't want you to fuck me
in the back of your subaru,
and it's because the couch springs
are broken, i'm out of tylenol, and
there's this sick kind of hurt spreading
into my fingertips, lacing
deep down, i want this
to paralyze me
and maybe it's
because you're so perfect
from far away, so
perfect when you're drunk and
you tell me, it's because
i want control, i need
you won't let me
sleep, even though
i'm so damn
Injectedmy midnight thoughts are scratchy like old records
pauses, cracks, holes - rips in sanity
jumping to conclusions that have no reason
how could i blame the needle? how dare i
pin a fault on the syringe that keeps me alive
(although they say it dulls your eyes, kills my spark)
disjointed, unconnected, an unfinished puzzle
emotionally blank and missing seventeen pieces.
and don't lie to me; love can't complete
a broken toy like me. but don't worry, love -
i always carry my own little repair kit
(but sometimes my hands are too shaky to inject)
i've forgotten what it was to fear god and death
or to wish for better things; shooting stars
always seem to ignore me, anyhow.
they leave me wondering what i ever said,
what i did to lead myself down this kind of road.
(mother told me i only have myself to blame)
if it's my fault, then i only have one person
that i can apologize to; myself, and i try -
but i'm sorry, i think you've gone too far
to ask for redemption of any sort now.
how can i ever a
Disappearance of Anne MorganTottering in dark blue heels and clutching a gun like you know how to use it, you collapse against a tree like your backbone has turned to fine glass.
You've established that the ground tastes of oranges and tomatoes, and reminds you of last summer and the fresh smell of fruit; the pleasure of knowing that you have given birth to something, although the doctor tells you that the way you want it will never be possible. The way he said it, it wasn't awful, it wasn't the end of everything, it wasn't the end of scarlet hair; it was just another woman who could never have a child. But the way you heard it, it was the end of your future. Who knew that two words could kill you? I'm sorry. That's it, that's all you heard before he launched into his clinical speech like a rocket into space, except nowhere near as beautiful. But 'I'm sorry' is all you needed to hear to have all that awful knowing inside like a disease rooting itself in your bones and eating away at the corners of y
shoot me upshoot me up, take me back down, leave me here a while and i'm sure i will feel loved again; sometime in the next five hours i'll wake up and remember you and everything might be okay.
until then hang out the washing and take care of my daughter, pretend like i'm sleeping because i'm tired and look in on me every five minutes just to make sure, because you can't be anymore. it's deathday my love, and i thought when i'd die it would be on an elegant bed with velvet covers and my family gathered all around me but that's not what it is, it's me lying on the sofa because i can't walk anymore and you can't carry me up two flights of stairs; it's me unconscious because it's too painful for me to be awake; it's me too scared to tell my family and in the end they'll find out after i'm gone already; it's me not ready, oh god i'm not ready to die i'm not.
memories pierce through my dreams but not where i can see them. my eyesight left me a while ago, i can't remember when exactly beca
If I Should ForgetDaisy still teases me about the three years of my life where I believed I was a shape-shifter. She'll smile and recount how I would sulk in a corner and shake, pretending to shed my skin, allowing me to transform myself into someone entirely new. She'll casually bring it up over our morning coffee, her laughter running along the pier as we walk. Some days I wish she would let it rest, but her memories of me are too precious to truly be annoyed with.
"You would make the cutest faces," she would say, after taking a sip of her coffee, following up with my favorite part, "I used to try to mimic your faces in the mirror at home, but they were never the same."
This is when I would touch her arm and try my best to make some sort of face, in an attempt to recreate the memory. I always imagine the giggles that escape her are the ones we had shared during our childhood. "Close enough," she would whisper, a sadness would glaze over her voice and she would shake her head.
When the silence would we
A Conglomeration of Beautyi. My father is a hurricane making love to the ocean. When I am in love I need someone who lies below the waves, ever swirling and present, who knows I am a tag along skiff - small, but still significant. I need someone who is willing to guide me along the deepest parts of life, water coiling around my bow to pull me to safety. That is you.
ii. With summer washed words I will tell you of my past and how falling in love is a terrible way to describe the feeling. You don't settle either, you make a journey, you create something. It is something entirely too complex to find a phrase that suits it and I will cry for days over this thought. Please let me embrace this short-term sadness.
iii. In many ways I am still broken. I am not where I want to be, but be patient, I am working to get there.
iv. You don't fill all the holes in your heart, I understand that now. There will be parts of you that always need to be open because they are more than just holes. They ar
Once upon a time our stories were simple.
Once upon a time our mothers turned the pages for us, held our hands, and promised to read out the words we still stumbled over, sometimes, if we were tired or alone.
Once upon a time we were taught to walk only so we could begin that ancient human race: the desperate sprint for success, power and fame. The one where your mother lets go of your hand and tells all her friends that you can do it without falling sometimes, if they pretend they aren't watching or they shake a rattle at you; the one where coach says the people sitting at the side-lines are only kids who can't run fast enough, who didn't try hard enough, who aren't enough; the one where you are named by your number.
Sometimes we are drowning in the texts.
Sometimes definitions escape us, and questions will plague us, and it feels as if our teachers taught us words only so we could understand what we should not say.
Sometimes we are reading so hard that we forget to stop and