because i have toimpaled& wreaking havoc on theseyoung bonesmore than endorphins &planes out of controlpretending that ifnot-so-masochisticallyi--p a r a l y z e d:a manifestationinstilled in bedsheets& ghosts
you make me write bad poetryi made you upfrom pillows and comfortersand anything that stuckits tongue out frommy drawersand slept innext year i will shy awaylike a childwhen you touch me--whichif you know me(and you probably do)seems very in-characteranyways--but it's not like whathappened in the bookstore whenyouput your teeth against my earand everything feltlike it did last weekin the treehouseexceptbackwardsit all seems so out ofcontextlike i am a little girl againplaying houseand pretending i know what thosefunny words that tastelike soap and dirtmeanand what we are
the long way hometoday i threw half myfridge awayand waited for 25'000to starvepeople like youjump off roofs andstick their headsin ovenssmile-face stickersdon't frown(even when you put themwrong-side-up)life's already hard enoughwithout trying tofindwhat all your curtainsmeani am guiltyof forgetting aboutmy teathe kettle boilslike my head on a pillow you will neversee them againor the fears that wonderabout you
i can make you love mewriters,what thoughtsdo you bend inthese cathedral-ribsshaking with leaves?(self-conscious,headache) shopping neonfora sinner's devotionor that boyin the other aisle (i hold your booksand stroke the pages,suddenly frightened) 'excuse me'they haven't arrived:(that was forty-fiveminutes ago) blushing andhoping no one noticesthat i've read thisbeforeas i watch himslip behind the counter (i devised a plan tovolunteer on fridaysand trap him) as i readsentence threefor the fifteenthtime
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
passion is a sinA faith-healerA sermonA misunderstanding A bastard child--no father, no son, no holy spirit No virgin motherjust passion as a godlets the writers get it wrong
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(
hungry ghostsswallowing the morning glow andquiet pills:fawn-eyed and rabbit-eared towatch the warmth of limbotouch thecitygoing down down downto where nothing alivecan seethe palls of grey hangingfrom streetlightsand i try to find a metaphor1. (hide your eyes frompenny candy and laughter--white caravans anddirt)2. something less complex than nonsense;simpler than art and noble habitspurging in the alleyways all thevirgin snow and eyelights3. maybe it was meant to be this way:the cold wakes the neighborsas fate meets destiny to conspirea way outa religiona brothela murder that wasn't meant to completeme or the manifestationof exposureand the trees bend beneathlike there's a hurricane instead of snowflakes
we will never grow old togetherwe will never grow oldmuscles loosebeneath holy jeansdivine and baptised a thousandtimeswhen did the nervesgrow soft?rain fallen on the hairof cleopatra &tennysoni didn't think about itwith ears pressed to the treesthe universe expanding& pulling my lifein every directionthat 103 and dyingon my birthdaysounded so romanticbut less than32 promised an eternity
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,
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
after you diedi.they asked me if there was somethingof yours that I wanted to keepI wantedto keep your eyelashes, your breath,your bloodI said this, and they lookedsad, said they meant did I want yourclothes and possessions, your thingsI didn't know what I wantedcradling my head with my arms andquietly saying no over and overmy mouthdry with the taste of morning sicknessand old seawatera month later, I wanted all your clothesI was scrub-faced and tiredthe yellowof the walls hurt my eyes, buried in wettowels, sleeping naked on the floor everynightii.I fucked somebody elseafter the funeral"somebody else" sounds wrong nowas if you are still alive, kissingmy shoulder in the morningI'd taken cocaineand it made a sound in my ears like a hummingbirdlike tinnituslike someone banging on a door or just that tiny high pitched screamthat someone starts to make when they have grown tired of cryingso hardiii.your mother was fixing my hair in the kitchena bobby pin tucked
crow comes courtingresplendent in a black glossof feathered robes...crow's morning clicks of courtshipecho through downcast mists thatbead upon bowed shoreline willowsand genuflect in the wakeof his purposeful strutone hesitant step before the next,his head cocked this way and that,listening as distant ticksmessage back a reply-the visage of his agendasuddenly unfolds in a wingspreadthat lifts above a watery canvas,the guttural sound of pulledstitching sends love notes recedinginto estuaries, and rippleswhere tadpoles skip and dartbeneath lily pads in the random andrapid blink of each tiny vortex
Milk CartonThey found youon a milk carton,a stone's throwfrom the tarp leftmildewing on the pool.Your face was sleepyand they did not recognizeyour shirt.Who dressed you that morning?Who gently combed out your hairand zipped upyour yellow bootsso you could squash puddlesin the garden?Mother will tell storiesto the empty bedand pretend it is your shadowplaying on the wallAnd father will waiton the porch,praying the lightwill come back to the sky.
CheatsThe light makes cheatsof us both,so we change clothesin the greedy darkwithout lookingor thinking twice.We do not touch,our skin afraid to loseor breathe too close.We pass in the streetbut do not acknowledgeeach otherin buildings'reflections,in the glare of taxi cabsor the stiff pull of elevators.We do not rub elbowsor let our shoulder bladespress together.But I would know youanywhere - any placethe sun is uneasyand the skin of uswears thinor strangers are toldto breathein another direction.
no one is ever going to want memaybe oncethis would've beenpoeticbut i'm crying &there's nothingprettyor wonderfulherei thinkmy face is scrunchedlike a red ragin the sinkslumped beneath a leakyfaucet &my hands are shakingmaybe i could makeitsound nice--highbuzzedlustfulbut what i haveyou won't likememoriesand do you want them too?stealing & payingpressing bottles andpictures to my sternumthe heatthe coldmaybe it's the silencethat hurtsthe stumblingthe tumult of words downthe sink andacross the floorthe empty heads&i was pretty thenbird-legs and stilted poemsso nicenumbering stars andcrushing books betweenmy teethbut no not todayi'm a huska balloonwaiting for everythingto destroy meto prick a holestart an earthquake
wanderlusti was all sex and stitcheswith every color on a TV screen;(and between me and you)your teeth, your tongue,your ferret-hands and knowledgeable mind--they scared me.the foreign worlds beneath your skin:the contortions of your spine andorgans;you wanted to conquer; to claimand plant a flag--and i--i wanted cancer
lilith's childthe grass in eden istrampled& never growshe is a strangerto the wet warm seasons& jackal nightsshe is an animalbitten& sucking the venom
maybe you never belonged to meI can still feel the weight of your lips on the curve of my collarbone. Sometimes, it feels paralyzing, crushing, absolute. Sometimes, it feels like home. Like everything.I once heard that when you can't fall asleep it means you're awake in someone else's dream. I wonder which one of us was dreaming that night, because everything was too quiet, too easy, too perfect. You used to fall asleep next to me, your body curled against mine. It's a warmth that's not easy to forget. A hidden smile tucked into pillows and sheets. It's easy to think these things will last forever when you're tangled up together. For me, the strings of my life will always be tangled up in yours. Forever tied to you. No matter hard they attempt to fray. To fall apart. To sever.--It's snowing for the first time this year. Soft and gentle, glittering in the sunlight, falling in large flakes, easy and quiet – nothing at all like the storm that rages inside of me, turning up the corners of my heart, throwing shrapnel
you lied the night you kissed me.there is a thick exhaustion in the pit of my stomach, spreading to my shoulderstill they hang and to my knees until they buckle. and I will sleep for days on end,and when I wake up I didn't really.I hate you dear, I hate you so.because there is so much to do, I could travel to the other side of the country andpaint a portrait of a stranger and I could sit on top of someone's roof and look at thestars with a boy I don't want to know and I could fall asleep in his bed and listen tohim playing guitar without clothes and he'd take me out for diner and anywhere I'dwant to go and we'd have sex in his car and on the trampoline in my back yard andwe'd eat at my grandparents with Christmas and it would never be enough becausehe's everything you weren't.I think I lost myself, I think I fell out that time you ran away holding onto me and myskin tore. I looked for her in that empty hole in your chest cavity, but all I found waslost so long ago, and you wouldn't show me where it went b
when somebody says your name for the last timeoneone of the first things she learns is that ghosts cannot cry.this does not stop her from trying.there's a house.not a home. barely a building. just beyond the part of town parents don't let their kids near after dark.it's empty. it's been empty for as long as anyone can remember.in the upstairs bedroom, there's a queen-sized bed and a chest of drawers and a chandelier. they are covered in dust and cobwebs. they are rotting. they are bug-infested and falling to pieces.in the upstairs bedroom, there's a girl.she wears a long, white dress, and a shroud of grief, and a bullet wound in her chest.she is rotting. she is sorrow-infested and falling to pieces.in the right light, you can see straight through her.one of the first things she learns is that even if she could cry, it wouldn't make much difference.no one can hear her.no one can see her.no one even knows that she's there.he runs away, and she isn't quick enough to follow him. she doesn't know if she can haunt
Between You and Me.I never believed you,I only wanted to......Lying back to backI was counting your breathsto make sure your lack ofheartdidn't leave youdead.....Like a ghostthe fading memories of your touchkept screamingwhat I was trying to forget....Oh, why did I give it up to you?..I know it's my fault.My expectations were greater thanwhat you were willing to offer,and I got scared.I tried shutting you out,to gather myself togetherbehind a shield of apathy,but only ended up inself-destruction..Your kiss never tasted asintoxicatingly bitteras the last timeI made love to you...
we are all astronauts in the dead of nightminds far away on clandestine escapade gaze into tenebrous pools of shining universestars upon stars, dust of the ages drifting through years, burning light interlaced with frigid spaceworlds floating unknowingly carry beings smallwith wishes in pockets and thoughts of loveall the same ache drips like meteoric rainin the heart of every galaxy
by association.don't shoot the messengershe told herselfbut her aim was unsteadyand the wind blew her off targetthey were all rotten anyway.
the world is only gonna break your heart.You allowed me a glance inside of you, opened your ever-shut mouth so I could leaninto it and look down. It was ugly. It was a total mess down there; it was all yellow withbitterness, and knotted with heartache. And I just wanted to climb down past your tonsils,down your larynx and into your chest to clean up the mess. I could untie you, or at leastI could try to. You know I don't like cleaning much but I'd scrub your walls and fix youup and let in a little sunlight. Still you closed your mouth and when you opened it again itwas all tongue and alcohol and hunger for mine.You never allow me inside, you never allow me past the front door, leaving me like alittle whore in the alley behind your house. We've been there before, sixteen times ormore, but none of this ever changes. I won't stop wanting you, and you won't stop runningaway, and I won't give up and you won't stop fucking me up or over or on my mother'scouch at 7am.Now it's 6am and we're in your best friend's apartment
preludesi.blue rose into the city backdroplike balloons, a million for themorning sun prelude.ii.i've not slept a dreambut i have cried a salty faceand letters spilled like beansinto my moleskine,almost as virgin as i once waswith few stories between my covers.iii.the kettle's belly boilslike my head upon a pillow.iv.i am guilty for rarely finishing my teaeven when i use the small mugs;pour, rinse, repeat.v.perhaps today i will play dead.vi.perched behind my blindsit dawns on me that i am surroundedby walled neighbours, strangers,they're just preludes to loversthe way i am alwaysprelude to the one.
it only lasts a little whileat the bottomthere islovelittle handsdissolving themselvesin the desperatesunlight & wavescut by shipsand continentsopensuspendedtrembling as the waterpasses throughhollow bodies restless& agilewaiting for the sun