s h u t u p.
Too many "fuck you's"
that morph into
drip off this
Try and make it better. Fail. Try again. Break down.
So many faults
that seem to just
turn me into someone
Look into the mirror. See nothing but a clone. Fabrication. No longer me.
I stare and want
to break that glass
so that I can also
b r e a k.
Try and say something. Turns into nothing but rage. Take it out on you.
This shattered heart
only wants to make it
and become one again.
"I want to hate you."
"But I can't."
"So I hate me instead."
"But why won't this stop?"
"Why can't you make it stop?"
"...it's not my fault."
Say what you want to say. Honest brutality.
"H E L P M E"
It's time for me to
s h u t u p.
Nor Are Boys Made of SteelIt took me a while.Nor Are Boys Made of Steel3 months ago in Valentine Exchange More Like This
Just a moment,
To realize that they are not made of steel.
Their hearts, like ours, are but of muscle and tissue,
Their bones, like ours, do not bend but break.
Their minds, are not filled with straw.
They will shatter, they can shatter,
Like cold bones,
Or frozen stems.
There is no right,
Unless there is wrong.
And in this case,
I am the latter half.
Some may argue, that I was just,
But in this case,
That does not matter.
Because they can break.
We are all, vulnerable.
Why are we fighting?
An invisible war.
One that will never end.
I never hated men,
This wasn't what I wanted.
I've often asked if we were born to love--
But the thing is,
I never got a straight answer.
That has led me astray.
There are many more like me.
We are not made of sugar,
And I'm sure you're not made of steel.
We are made of blood, and iron,
Bone, and gristle,
While Driving in the Suburbs on Valentine's DayI’m sure of nothing, no one;While Driving in the Suburbs on Valentine's Day3 months ago in Valentine Exchange More Like This
we’ll never be ourselves.
Our lone device is left to searching
through bins and vessels
on drives and circles
one by one, houses upon houses
secreting pills and thoughts and air
behind their stealthy doors and bellies.
I stab into each of their ugly little anthems.
What is mine?
What is mine.
Windows caught on Christmas trees
the pale hypnosis of television
bleeding through curtains drawn to a slit.
What dares to go on living in there?
Dawn comes drunk and begging
shrill and shameless, undiscerning
‘till the string breaks high above the plains
‘till it’s engorged on everything
the hairline crack in a potted blue sage
the lip of the gutters haunted by cats.
Houses are holding things close to their lungs
moistened in darkness, a glorious sadness
that no one's allowed. Left out! We're left out
of unholy communions, distensions of time.
I've only the rumors to cradle my demons
and only your face, sw