Infinity"What happens when you die?" The question is posed,
weighted heavy though it shouldn't be, as if the answer
determined the facets of someone's character.
The shrug that responds almost seems to incite more
questioning, "Well, you told me you didn't believe in
so what happens to you, when you die?"
She knows this is a conversation she won't forget because
she doesn't know, she doesn't know and that aches at
the deepest center of her heart because
she does know, she does know if she's wrong, she'll go to
and there will be no
to save her then.
She doesn't answer audibly, instead attempts to quell
the curiosity with another simple shrug.
"What is this life for, if not to get into
Oh, she hates this question. This question hurts her the most.
It disregards every beautiful thing life gives.
"What is this life for, if only to get into
She finally responds. Her interogator pauses for a moment,
and at this, shrugs.
"We are so concerned with what comes
TidesI tried to stop myselfTides1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
from being drawn to you
For a while I had forgotten
but then I spent a few hours with you
and they crushed all semblance of reality
like a fucking bug and I knew
then that I was hopelessly
dead-weighted underwater for you.
CiceroneShow me another way to think.Cicerone1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Show me a paved corridor through the dungeon of my mind.
I want to watch you form words with your lips;
See them take root in your mind and spread up through your throat
and bloom from your tongue. Show me you know what I mean.
Show me a new puzzle, someone I haven't figured out yet.
Ribcage SonataI am the only one here who has died one thousand deaths by my own hand.Ribcage Sonata1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
I read them like a hymnal,
burning my skin with assurances I don't really mean and God smiles down at me
as if I've done something right,
as if I've done some time for my sins.
I tell Him to live in my celiac plexus
just to get a taste of what He's molded.
He's a Cheshire-grinner, sipping a gin and tonic
next to me like He has no new appointments
and tells me to come home with Him.
I implored Him to become the wood-grain in the pew under my thighs.
He hummed and murmured that I was too fickle a congregant and would not stay sitting long enough.
He suggested that I should clasp my hands together and pray a little harder.
I countered, telling Him, "Become a woman and see how it is to be born of a Rib."
I sit at the pew and contemplate each
scar I have found upon my flesh and between
each sewn fingertip, and decided I was wrong.
I wanted Him to live in my sinuses; to whine and complain about each change in pres
Truth and Revelation in the ConstellationsYou know behind the tumultTruth and Revelation in the Constellations1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
in your brain lies the secret
to the trajectory of the stars as they fall.
How could it not? Each phase of fantasy
holds some grain of your pain.
A hollow needle pierces a portion of your torso,
a vast, whooshing gulp of air slips
into your lungs and despair instead sates you.
The cant of your hips is bound to the the answer or
a response to the angle of the moon to the tides when it's full.
Or maybe in the splay of your true ribs
resting between your fingers as they stroke
holds a thunderous truth, the
cold betrayal of trust, a heresy,
but burnt filament and dying embers only cause
a very small portion of your scars.
The others are hidden where leaves fall.
They are never meant to be rose red in October,
but here we are, counting the shades found only
in lipsticks, the palm of your hand opened
To catch Orion's Belt in midwinter.
I love you, too, but you'll never know how much I owe you.
You and I dreamt my death.
Cyclical It isn't my fault that I jump when I'm burned or if every swallow feels razor-laced. I can't help but gasp and feel bits of my soul splinter off as I grapple with what it means to be you, to be me, to be forgotten, to feel guilt for being hungry, to feeling like I need steel in my skin to feel whole. I know what happens when I am doused with cool water; the shock reddens my skin so I jump like I do when burned. It isn't my fault. I feel both endless and self-stuck like I need less to tether me down, but more to weight me because I'm filled with helium. I will drown in the anxiety that I've broken me with thirty words exchanged in angry tones over food I wanted for the first time since I could breathe again but you had to say if I ate too much I would get fat with exaggerated hand movements around your middle. Rebelliously, I stood up and told you I didn't care and you took offense like I'd let too much of my helium out without your permission and I felt lower like I had. YCyclical7 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
Cut Time Dig sonatas into your thighsCut Time1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
knowing that they're never written
for you. The ones written
in the moonlight, reeking of lust
and a cacophony of dissonance,
are the ones your mind screams
Screaming EmphasisI lostScreaming Emphasis10 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
Thirteen pounds of anxiety this week.
Body melted, melted
fingers slipping chartreuse
I am full of slipping
chain-link gums give me lead poisoning
body, gums melted, chartreuse
I, toxic, lick lips neon green
Arsenic tongue dart to nails --
Dirt, dirt, dirt, more dirt --
and thighs stuck hot against plastic
I cannot hold a pen
CANnot write eloquence or beauty
Hand skitters through page
TALKing I need silence I need
need, need, need, more needing
crushed under necessity-
The spaces of my ribs are where
my skin hides its bruises
feel like stealing-
taking hunger into my breast
full of slipping,
I do not breathe but static
Anxiety in Morse Code
we do not-
what SPEAKS makes sense
we do not-
Thighs stuck hot to the seat beneath me
Bones in my aching hand quiver,
wrapped around archaic ideals
why do they touch why do they --
If I Were Good (But I'm Not So Hate Me)If I were good, (and could love you back)If I Were Good (But I'm Not So Hate Me)1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Sundays would be golden warm again,
like they used to be when church was a weekly occurrence.
Drink to my pedantic nature (bury me gently with your fists)
Remember that Saturdays aren't always maroon,
we broke the pattern when you caught me fixing my anatomy.
I learned my calendar backwards (singing through bruises at four years old)
Safety is only refuge in a silver blue Friday.
Other days are spent lying and dying and growing too old for size three shoes.
I am bad, (and don't love you back)
Ghastly Thursdays of green murk,
of quiet alone time and cut-off circulation in my wrists.
I have swallowed my blood (tastes like familiar cooking)
Wednesday seems so long in its endless yellow. Dry like a desert with little water left,
Hiding my weaknesses while my week was almost finished.
Winter causes depression (like every day felt normal beforehand)
Tuesday sung lime of close friends drifting and the melody is of hunger setting in again.
We haven't s
Bridge-Jumping Part ThreeDear hylotheist,Bridge-Jumping Part Three9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
Some days, it would be easier to be slaughtered.
I get lost in time; it feels like I am invisible,
knowing I am not actually present, hypoglycemic
knowing I do not need to be.
I am like a highway near a residential area.
A loud, extirpation of fumes,
a purging not unlike my own.
This shade of blue makes me look pallid.
and yet I am beautiful like this.
Pale and silent.
Would it be easier to fragment my ribs and
sell them with choke chains?
Thirty-five feet up is no time for hypsophobia.
Motherhood AloneA little boy sits asks,Motherhood Alone2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
"Are you happy mama?"
She turns to him,
smiling dryly like only mothers can,
a grin not quite reaching her tear ducts,
She coughs once replying,
"Of course I am, pumpkin."
He giggles like only small children do,
curls his little hands in hers,
a curly-haired spitting-image
brown-eyed reminder of his father.
In quiet, she cries.
SaviorI could feel my staggering before you could,Savior2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
rasping out your name with fossilized lungs
My breath, aching, take me somewhere other than here.
Away Away broken teardrops
I found sobriety in the form of a new kind of addiction
oxymoron aching take me somewhere other
I am :
not whole, alone, whole together, by myself
My tongue tastes yellow like the sun, scorched.
Does this new style of living make me look fat?
I am :
so tired, awake, aware of nothing, too alone.
The sun really is only orange.
You heard me breathe your name like oxygen and
my spinal cord curled into itself with your touch and
The sun's gone white.
Migraine threadsI have a spiderweb splinter of a headache dilating my left eye;Migraine threads1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
it travels down my neck, stopping to rotate a firm
diamond of pain just beneath my earlobe.
It tightens in my shoulders, clawing and groaning past my scapula.
Here, I consist of all sharp angles and jagged edges
It clambers down the twelve stairs of my right ribs,
Perhaps it houses itself in my gut, waiting for the right moment
to spring and knead itself into my temples.
You've had to learn from my pain that I am not soft enough to hold
but once I've caught I'm permanent.
Thinking, ParalyzedYou caught the pad of your thumbThinking, Paralyzed1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
against your bottom lip, thinking swiftly.
Teeth against keratin and germs and
pulling apart fibers with crude precision,
it's really not a thought process without self-loathing.
You remembered red was your favorite color
when you were young. Overtaken by purple
once you knew how to say it properly.
There's the slightest blip where
you wonder how you went wrong.
You shove it away, tongue darting to wet your lips
Nail varnish tastes like shit;
Your nose scrunches slightly as your tongue scatters
the polish against the roof of your mouth.
You contemplate falling apart again.
Your eyes dart from one corner of the room to the next,
seeing spiders in empty spaces.
Your breath hitches at crawling limbs.
Hands are on your skin but you
don't care as numbness descends and
you're awake again eventually.
Breathing has become aggravating.
The almost-stagnant in-and-out in-and-out
synchronized with your finger-twitches.
Cold sweats are suddenly habitual.
PoisonI tasted your lip-spilled liePoison2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
as it stained your red t-shirt.
It flows from your mouth freely before you can stop it.
No - no, don't stop now,
I want to know just how far you can weave.
Before you're entangled.
Your honey-sweetened words flit past your teeth
before you clamp them shut and look at me
your eyes begging me.
Believe this one, just this once, trust me.
I nod and smile, but there's little you can do
to mend my doubts now.
My fixation is shattered on the floor.
Pretty liar, love,
your lies are intoxicating.
Before you know it,
I've been there.
I've no throat.
It's what I get for swallowing ammonia
just to get the taste of dishonesty
out of my skin, my tongue, lips.
Until you swallow ammonia,
be a liar.