From Mia, With Lovelast night i caught her with a finger so far down the back of her throat,she pulled up her thoughtsinto all the watera refraction of light &a troutsuspended until suddenly all the water in her head sloshes(a faint inner rippleas the pain leaks out her ears, her nose)she was gasping to throw herself onto the next commabut noshe sinks or swims [the cliche, a baracuda, drags her down]but if this was a love songshe'd hate itbecause she's already written 46 on her handto remind herself she's only human & a weak gag reflex runs in her familyso walk straight in, my love& sink to the bottomsix feet under these bulimic stars
every night my hair is falling outI have heard that in 7 yearsevery cell in your bodyis new& isn't it beautiful that it will bea body you have never touchedbut I know that when your brain cellsdiefall like ashes through your skullthey stay dead& I can never scrap the memories out of their corpses
I would love to give upi.'there's a second hand that holds mine, and stuffs the words back down my throat.'she raspedher voice a crack--a croonsticks & stones breakingsnappingbetween her teethbut when she tries to find the soundher pen runs drypencils snap[can someone flip the switch to 'yes' or 'no'becauselatelyi've been so detached& my head is saying 'maybe'](i would ask myself,but i don't trust liars) ii.she tries to string the wordsdown a threadbut they always c r u mb l ehalfwaythrough(& the cinders burnwith the same old questions)but when you turnto seeshe'll be gonethere are rocks in her throat when she asks you for help.the words grind to sand on her tongue.iii.smoke in her headwet ashsmeared across her handsher fingers are broken;cr oo k e dbonesvi.she reaches for some kind oftruthat the corner& turn of each & every page(
things stay the sameStripped tinselcrushed beneath;warm lights andthe red-gold glow ofreflectionsCrepe and cellophanedrowning inhalf-empty wine glasses--tape hung overunder trash andthe re-gifted morningaftersTree-lights and ribbon-fraystracing paper andcurled toremember resolutionscrawling beneaththe bowsof years to come
I do not like you poetsI do not like you poetsbreathing into my sorry headlike the air hasn't been wasted a half-a-million timesfolding up my lungsto place them neatly into a wastebaskethow can you make me stop hurting& then just leave mea limp lettuce leafon the backside of some dirty napkin verseI am not the jealous typebut I'm going to call up Melpomene & ask her where she's beensend her drunk textsall nightbecause I'm too tired of filling up my skullwith cicada skins instead of ledwhile you make it all too easyto sleep through a heartattack or twomy pygmalion, my god, my thing of legendstell mewhen you were being taught the siren's songwas I writing myself a migraine?
Never A Clear Mindmy spiders do not pay rent& the three in the garden keep the weedsalive[in the showerstaring him down i think of you& maybe if I steal the spiders from your headyou will stop destroying itcellbycell]I know you don't know any betterthan to end up on my bathroom floorbut you are a mothdashinghislifeaway& I can't find the lightswitch
a ratio of freckles to starsvirginia,you are floating away inevery direction:a universeof sunlight & marrow bonesi want to knowyour touchhad vertigo then--a certain horse sadnessi remember how youwould swallow the stars:watch them glow through your cheeks(no one told youwhat they thought of light & dyingof being a constellationdrawn across your face)you are the milky way:a firefly drowningbut i will trail you--hold your coat above the water(a starexploding a million miles awaywith a number for a name)
our walls are too thinsitting togetheryou can hear my heart hittingagainst my chest like a broom to the ceiling& the neighbor upstairsbegins to screamthe wind breaks a hole in my skull you can hear my thoughts:words whispered in paper rooms& you have a cup to my eari am 16 nowbut sometimes we forget thatwe are not teapots or socks in the wastebasket& the holes in our heads are not signs of well-worn affection
honeythief.straw-stitched and hangingoff every word--violated:pressing my earsagainst your brittlehivesand smokingyouout
i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost, kissing stylish arsonists + I still love every sky escaping from your lips
don't tell me you're up to it again.1.i've tried to eat the dust on my wallsmy guts are already coated in the stuff, anyway;for i'll take papers i've used for nothingand burn them in the backyardthe fire smells like cigarettes,man, i could use one of those;but i can't swim in the lava i’ve fabricated like little stars burningyou know, i’ve never liked the heat.2.my lips are better off friedthan sealed,but I know I can’t stop your secretfrom being guttedOh dear,my god,what have you done this time?don't tell me you’re up to it again.3.boney fingers attached to hands shake with the twinge ofremorse i'd been warned about.but i blame it on the caffeinein that lousy expensive latte.smokey whispers course through my veins“oh dear,my god,what have you done this time?”3b.crying is a chore.because instead of the dust collecting in your stomach,it collects upon your faceand it's quite hard to see through.my vision is cobwebsand darkness nowsmoke from the fire res
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
last love (wanderlust was your home).kites flew in his mind& kept his head in the clouds,forcing me to send messages to the skyin hope he doesn't take flightwith my world on his shoulders.he was a travelerintent on conquering every mountainhe could lay his hands on,& leaving every atlasto burn beneath his fingers;like pain searing on a map of hurton his lover's skin -directionless but in motion.cigarettes were his staple dietwith beer to wash outthe bitter taste of a quick fix.his smoke & ashes injected adrenalineinto my wasted body& set my vision straightwhen i was getting drunk off of himon a monday, or tuesday(or any day mid-week).intoxication was a breath of fresh airon nights when he wasn't -the nights that i had promised myselfi wouldn't cave in to mydrunken desires.spirits gave me spirit& silenced my thoughtsto allow my body to speak for mein a language i knewhe would understand.he kept me close by his sideas he slept through the nightsthat the weather shared our bodies' passion,h
will you ever learn to love yourselfshe was deadbefore she hit the grounda cellfrazzled & 60 percent waterher friendsor whatever you call them‘seedy backwatergirlbrimming on the bus & neverwants tohaven’t you ever seen clouds before?’she threw a handful of stonespinchedsinking like balloonsa hungry ghosttracing the outlineof a breaking surface
can you tell me real thingsi didn't bother to ask you for anything this year(even if black friday lasts all weekand dirt is cheaper on christmas eve)no matter the cliche--what i want you can't find in a storethe sound of bursting glassand the strings of light out-of-focusare definitionsthe bleeding handsthe burning eyesare themeaning
cyclical decay.an apple falls and hits the headof a seamstress in a straight jacketwho ties her knots a bit too tightlyand can't crawl out of her own skin, butshe smiles like a jackal and plays gameswith the school children in the gardenthat visit her when class is over. theybring her wood and coals so she canset herself on fire when the moon comesto scold her in the night. by dawn, sheis ashes and loose threads, but has justenough time to repair herself by noon.
tar-sweetwe're rotting lace & lovingcigarette burnssugarcane black birds,purloined anthems &selenide spinessalt-water wounds;silver cicadas rattling inblue skulls
IntensityI dress in broken greyscale,In walls of smoke-charred glass:The paper-lined abysmal veilThat glistens as you pass.I live in boxed enigmas,Counting star-drenched seasUntil the etched out sigma,My breath a sour wheeze.I am the tattered sailboatAmong your wispy words;I dip and fly 'til I can floatBeside your past, lust-lured.My ceiling is a blanketYou wove with mirrored starsAnd set upon me, "take it",And carved my fledgling scars.My body is no canvasBut the artwork that you makeWithin the winds around usAnd the watered earth you break.
ocean lungsyou weigh something like gravityin my tired expanse. you aresand;(my once splendid mountain)my love is the oceanthat has worn you down.with my monstrous tongue,i pulled you in.as you fall,sweeping peacefully into the depthsand filling each crevice,i am learning to inhale shores.some would say i'm suffocatingand bring me buckets of air (only to have itescape my slippery grip).no, the tides need something heavyto make of hera home.
symptoms of red a materialist inside of you unknitting your sweater & in your dream you are a wolf eating a flower in an orange field. the world is ending. an unnamed girl stains you as if she were tea giving up to a foaming ocean. she writes a story: the unrequited blurry visions of two visionaries
whitewashedmother refuses to drink the honeyshe paints our rooms with, forcurtaining the timid female quarters of homeis just as frighteningas a monsoon-poor September.the kind she weaveswith her own words seem farsweeter than the jars they makein the farm downthe tree-cut boulevard.she hides stories in her collars, spillingonly when her honey jars are raisedto counterher red-hot honestyand our yellow, foolish,innocent laughter.the forlorn scent of industryseeps into the cheap marble floorand cracked bathroom tiles,till it reaches father's nose where itvaporizes in fear of being shunned.father will paint the ceiling bluebecause aloof girls make broken homes, sewn seamby seam to a delusional perfection.we are perfect, bent at the knees and spineto the fetus we compare tobut the shoulders we always are.we dare not tremble;his reign, unquestionable,eternal.
Melatonin Addictioncan i fill you up?on brine, boosts and bronze.I mean that literally,we'll dine,fuckand dash.The Earth is hollow but we still drill through.Space is a concept evidently named.I'm a warrior and you be the princess,you're already rescued, promised to curses.is a line is a line is a line is a lineand I'm in enigmas, sure by shore leaves.sunken ships launch from the beach frontand take their ghosts,a secret suicide.If ants drew us and we marched past,would it be any different, would it be any different?in a line to end all lines,and seductive co-workers fling their shit at me.once primal, always primal, just anthropomorphic.I'm just a collection of piss stains,wrung out and forgottenstinky and melancholic.addicted to that pin-prick well,settling for justice with a bucket,we dip our heads into water and crack the rot over bemusement.I hope you wake upoh, god i hope you fucking wake up
things I learned at 11 am while I was half-asleepiI’m spending most of my timenot crying, and I’m sorry,but I don’t think I’ll ever love anyoneas much as aspirin, or lullabies,or the cheap wine sold for two dollars a bottle, or overly-apologetic letters bending over backwardsto make a point of themselves, or the pink petalsblooming on my wrists like flesh and blood miracles,or the songs named after womenworth loving.iiRadical acceptanceis understandingthings may not change,but you will have to.iiiI am most alonesurrounded by peopleand the buzzing in my head of wordsthat should have lost their meaningback when I discoveredthey never meant anythingat all.ivDedications are only relevantto people who appreciate shitty poetry,or you. Insanity is writing the same thingover and over and expecting it notto sound clichéd.vand as much as anyone will swear otherwise,I am a statistic. A number, an example,a case study in the manipulation ofnarcissism and moving on
Beneath the RoseI can't burn the street down, the tar will fill our lungs,I can't fix the bridges, or the bolts bedded in our tongues.I can't explain the constant, buried deep beneath the rose,with all the other things I broke; death and all erodes.
Woadwaxenhoney-heat boilsunder the blued skinof the daydreamer;sun-soft metaphors hangingfrom seraph wings & in betweenyellowed nerve cells
my body's slave is my mind.it's barely summerbut i've forgotten how to breathe;i fall in love with strangersbefore they even speak.it's like i'mentangledwithin the pulsating crowdlike a fly trapped in a spider's web;questions are spunall around.inferiority screams in my ear& consumes all thoughtsuntil i can't hearall the questions that are caughtbetween threads of my insecurities,weaving around& aroundthe fabric of my being -tightening its gripwith everyone seeingmechoking.it's barely summerbut i can feelwinter's chill:each pump of my left ventricleis an exertion against will,& leaves me cripple& frozen, still -but feeling like i could runbefore you could catch me.i watch the moontrade places with the sun,racing against time,but my dayhas still not yetbegun.
a letter for someone who hates thinkingin the beginning i wrote poemsabout death and darkness andthe complex metaphysical arithmetic in whichthat would equate to the love i carried for you,beneath the headaches brewing like bruisesbetween my eyes, my ocean eyes;even after convincing me the planetswere dead gods, powerful skeletons withinternal expiration dates and the starswere their lingering parables, their storiesblinking out years before we were born, i knewyou were a nuclear angel, atom bombsavior sent to save me fromme.there is no more mysteryin the world. i sent youfive letters to the PO box you told meabout in florida, the firstwas a catalogue of everyangsty song lyric or campy postcardor description of a flowercrooked in just the right waythat reminded me of you,the second was a retellingof every dream i woke fromforgetting who i was, the thirdwas an apology-- i'm sorryfor who i'm not and who youneed and that your dad alwaysreeked of bacardi, i'm sorryfor my bukowski-wannabe complex a
I filled the sea with dirtselfish & humblewaiting for sinas the best years of my lifecrawl into the sea[the wings left no room for ribs]
It was depressing--but I kind of saw a victory in it.
Thanks! I was really hoping to grasp the amazing feeling of that end in my own words.