leech jarand with a rusty scalpelleech jar5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
(which I always have on hand)
I deflower myself,
to thwart others' ungainly fingers.
I make careful incisions
on wrists, ribs, pelvis;
but this pesky skin keeps
knitting itself back together
when I and my lancet
we make poor surgeons,
my heart and I.
Grape Eyeswhat about when yourGrape Eyes5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and it's not just a
muscle matter anymore,
when all your
start to look like
and when you realize
it's too late to master the art of
sleeping without the
effluvium screamingeffluvium screamingeffluvium screaming5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
as she wrenches her ribs free from the
shrieking vultures and the
nightingales' brittle bones;
the dowagers drop,
laying themselves upon
formed by discrete empty particles
and their discrete empty words.
oh, how charming, she fancies herself a poet
on the treachery of realitybut nothing actually as sturdy as sheon the treachery of reality5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and so, bitter and maniacal,
she skirts the night with her reins
as if to draw a hero out of
the faceless flagstones.
but even her cellophane-cluttered heart
cannot search out a pattern in
their vague crinklings;
they deny, bare-faced,
that a spectre lurks below.
hyperrealityshe would go to any lengthshyperreality5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to be rid of their vile fingers,
the wretched tomes by way of vertebrae
cracking each distinct, arched hollow.
but light wakes not to find the demons
couchant in their respective eaves;
their tidy churning authenticity
leading realism to decay.
Them Good Girlsi'm hand-sewing baby-hewed petalsThem Good Girls5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
onto my night-gown,
flexing long dormant digit muscles
to smear pastels bold&bright,
dragging boiling fingerprint blood
[from the un-thimbleds]
across an antique ivory hem.
that is to say,
i'm lighting fires under gypsy toes,
that those might christen me
in my self-brutality.
those sinless are talentless,
and plunging toe-first is not "plunging" at all.
we bite the world hoping it will bite back, and knowing it won't.
lolitaher blood is upon her ankleslolita5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and they deny the ribbons that they've torn
these are the same men who ripped the wings from butterflies
the pontificating bastards
I've swallowed my dreams, if you want to know
chromium alloy scrapes at my innards
grimlyall that she has amounted togrimly5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is a defiant mockery of happiness-
an adder swallowed with grim alacrity,
a blade self-turned in grotesque
streetlights decay over ghosttrodden ground
Tired of Wakingshe scrawled heavinessTired of Waking5 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
onto slices of the moon
so she could feel light.
that one-way journey
made all of her bones dry up;
she stopped using them.
she became a leech,
feasting on prehistories
of those she still loves.
blood-letting used to
be the cure for everything.
now she is just a...
flashy, honeyed, ironic,
pretty way to die.
buddinglittle white pillsbudding5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
(swallow, swallow, swallow)
greeted only by a
slight blurring of reality
about the edges
and the sudden inability to
is this what they mean by "happiness"?
She Never Meant...this cockpit is a coffin.She Never Meant...5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my rats are (blessed) off-white-noise;
they chirp and mate on their yet-squirming feast.
no one would care that you&i are oil&water
except that we never
[used to be.]
in other words, we have not always been
s e p a r a b l e .
one imaginary window is all anyone really has.
i'm not the exception.
our treasured eyesight exists only to lead us deeper into our own heads.
technicolor bleeds from the lies we tell ourselves.
[why else do we shut our eyes upon impact,
other than to conjure a more unfortunate portrait.]
in other words,
you can only hide from your shadow in the purest dark,
and death is the only thing more real than love.
HungrierThe trees are turning by and by; we can no longer claimHungrier5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We are participants in this aging process,
So stop bleaching your face, please.
Let it flush and flake out your window.
Holding hands becomes pretentious.
We are the next generation,
Hurling our arms out of car windows,
Unfurling virgin wings as we pass everything on the interstate.
You've got me eating my cheeks
Filling cavities with blood because
I'm afraid I've forgotten how it feels to swallow.
You've got me rubbing your neck,
Just so when I curl to sleep in the backseat,
The residual smell of your tender flesh will let me
We drive until the trees are naked,
Til we come to terms.
[There is nothing left for us.]
The trees will turn again,
With the wheels,
With our wheels.
I'll finally swallow my blood.
You'll smile at the next girl who makes eye contact.
my heartmy heart (and the vicious foldsmy heart5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of its teeth,
those pale watery things)
has devoured me
like a pearl.
in my eggshells,
I scrape by like a drudge
I've just the hunch in the shoulders,
just the lowering of the eye.
I press my tongue
to the top of my mouth.
does this seem forward
I am sorry:
the poor thing is used to
having more to touch.
I am Torchesgutter children:I am Torches5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
believe our fire belongs,
raging on in autumnal glory.
[if i didn't know better,
swallowing sunflower seeds
to power night-light kidneys.
let us believe on the i-n-s-i-d-e.
Compromise of YouReproductively speaking you're my perfect matchCompromise of You5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and your suburban promises of
mediocrity and valium tempt the coward in me
easily, we could be this
typicality prop me up like a cardboard cutout
and I'll keep my hair long for you
and I love the way you love Mark Twain, patriotically
but I'm more of a Virginia Woolf
and I love the way your large hands
make me look so socially archetypal
You're my perfect accessory, dear
Imagine: you could call me sweetheart
and I'll call you honey bear,
and I love the way you love James Joyce, academically
but I prefer Proust
and I will wear your ring, legally
and you can touch my shoulder
or hold my hand even in public
I am tempted by the compromise of you
the beauty of your conventional promise intoxicates me
you would pull me by my ring finger
up out of this ditch of persecuted minority
I love the way you love me, Romeo
but I long for the poisonous lips of Juliet
So I'll stand for the stoning
and cut my hair short
a dull kind of misogynyhe tried to drown her ina dull kind of misogyny5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the rotting, peeling wallpaper
of his skin
grasping hers violently,
but her flesh is corroded by the
noxious barbarity of his breath
and he's left
raping nothing but a skeleton
regardlessshe is surging between bouts ofregardless5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
her insolent, ungainly fingers
derangedly plucking at the
sky's fragile moths.
"the gentlemen are drowning,"
she says, her mouth full of porridge
and the lurid sweat of nightmares.
the ghastly stacatto of her heartbeat
drags him out, blinking and
with lungs sultry and ambivalent.
she found poetry in his idle bones
Coffee EyesCoffee eyes rove over cream skin,Coffee Eyes5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Picking up every freckle,
Saving each nuance for later.
Pocketing memories so sweet.
Chocolate fingers whisper softly,
Dancing across tender flesh,
Memorizing the texture of love.
Gun MissingIt's the tenth of september;Gun Missing5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I'm sitting in a parking lot.
A white civic crawls past me and I think I recognize the driver.
suddenly it's chilly.
I stretch the sweatshirt out, wrapping his arms around and around me and around
The car has been gone a while.
I try to remember what my toes feel like without wiggling them.
I smoosh my eyeballs into my kneecaps ---> there's a new color there for me.
Maybe if you ground up bricks and bones!
-maybe it's that color-
Sometimes it changes though.
It's one of the spiral staircases from Atlantis.
I wonder how it got all the way up here.
I wonder how it got inside my eyes.
They needed somewhere it would be safe probably.
I'm glad they can trust me.
I think I slept,
but I don't remember falling asleep and I don't remember being asleep.
Also, I don't remember waking up.
I check for the staircase.
It's the color of her old robe today.
The one we threw out when she...
It used to have a dragonfly on the tag.
brennandii do hope all the burning is worth it.brennandi5 years ago in Letters More Like This
you know, when i fall out of my virginal stasis and crawl into the fire of your mouth,
all of your smile a big carnival sketch of a bad clown, the kind who rubs off his makeup at night and is lonely and balding and wishes he could take his guests with him. tiny child guest, doll guest. (be mine.)
his smile was for me though. i was ten and i looked like i will in three years only smaller and more full of sand than water. his smile was for me when he had a fire burning in his head. his smile was for me when i wrote him lullabies and he listened to metal instead. so i made my lullabies out of metal, twisting them into dark, unidentifiable wristbones and shoving them under my skin. hypodermic needles, ideas and ideas and ideas. i kept creeping them into pockets, under wrinkles. flaps of skin.
your fingers rake down my back and leave me marked inside for hours after the pink lust lines fade from me. my skin is pale and bare. you burned me, put me in th
not to beshe briefly contemplates the former,not to be5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but swallows anyway.
Finding AwayWe're fourteen,Finding Away5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sitting wide-legged on church steps.
The ruddy barrio kids eat out of our hands,
their wiggling coffee bodies drink sunshine between bites.
"We'll have one of those."
You say, pointing to a bony thing with fight in her eyes.
We're parents already.
The women who conceived these and the men who helped are swallowing cancer
so these children can swallow tuna and milk.
We're parents already.
"I don't want one."
I whisper, with one hand on my little sparrow's head.
You kiss me for the first time.
It tastes like stale popcorn and sweat.
It tastes better than words that threaten to slip out and break.
I let you know that I'm not the sort to resign myself.
You're bent on making a liar out of me.
Rain on RosesI can't help but sit on my porch swing,Rain on Roses5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
rocking to the show tunes that play in my head,
drinking sunny d from the thermos you bought,
kicking distractedly at winter's first sparkles...
I want nothing more than to leave this snow-globe scene,
but the possibility of kissing your sidewalk boot-prints
instead of the flakes melting on the apples of your cheeks
scares me more than the thought of my flesh
Greying and wearing away, to add to the migrating
blizzard that's keeping the wary townspeople indoors.
What if I left.
If I skipped town,
filled a quaint farmhouse with laughing babies,
two cats and a businessman.
What if you never come back.
If you lose yourself,
and bury your memories of me
in your professionally-landscaped yard.
Will you keep whispering to them about me between your sheets.
Will I keep hoping that you do.
You know I'll love you f o r e v e r,
but loving and waiting are two different things.
Two different things that you've always managed to make te
on the treachery of imaginationsurely, I must be ill;on the treachery of imagination5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I find myself
disputing the vague irrelevancies
of the folds that mottle a curtain,
the shadows that drench the ground.
the night is teeming
with changeable artefacts;
from every obstructed corner
leers the visage of a