on unlearning how to diethe space between intention and
inaction has been redefined. they say
the first step to sadness is
to be happy. the second step
is learning loss. they tell us
depression is an abundance of emotions
but everyone here is a balloon
deflated with time, a sun
dimming as years eat away years
and everything changes but
nothing's really different at all.
we drowned before we even saw
the sea, dreaming of that cemetery
a million miles deep; and still,
I cry for the people worth forgetting:
the girl who couldn't take enough
sleeping pills to live her dreams,
the boy so doped out on an inability
to live that he told us about his trips
to Jupiter and back, and
expected us to believe him. the girl
with a ghost smile named after the prayer
she was born to forget, the boy
who slept like an angel and cried like
a fallen, and me, me
choking on gravity and the ever-growing
weight of my own fucking inadequacy
tied tightly around my neck like a noose
not quite designed properly, right,
because I survived.
no,what is shared between meno,2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
and my blades
is all but a secret.
late nights, alone,
blood stained fingers and
having to replace the pillow
case in the morning,
because my parents will never know
what i have started again.
and when they see the
commercials on TV,
they silently think of me.
CompressWhen I was young, my motherCompress2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
taught me how to draw the curves
of a profile.
Strange to think, of course, that
the side of a head is easier to face
when I, as a child, rarely saw more
than the pointed chin of an adult
looking down their nose. How I
wished, so innocently, for her approval;
to know that she would love
the fruit of my juvenile efforts
so that I would always feel
her arms wrapped around the
angles of those brittle tooth-pick
boxes I kept for shoulders.
My father, she drew him once –
the silver gel-ink sketch still sticks to the
fridge door. Perhaps she feared
that I would forget him.
Maybe I would have.
Maybe I have.
And sometimes I think that nothing
has changed, that I’m still a child
with a hole for a memory, because
I’m still facing life side on, and
vying for my mother’s approval so
that she’ll never leave.
people talk so loudit's not one of those songspeople talk so loud6 years ago in Scraps More Like This
i can listen to on a rooftop while i watch
for the sun to breathe its last.
or i can read poems about
post-orgasm boys written by girls
who hardly know what that means.
or sleep without pillows
in an unfamiliar country,
in an unfamiliar city,
in an unfamiliar neighbourhood,
in an unfamiliar house,
in an unfamiliar bed,
in unfamiliar arms.
or write letters to people i know
will never receive them because
i will never put them in envelopes
or pin them beneath postage stamps.
it stops me in my tracks.
suddenly, i'm not moving anymore.
i'm not thinking,
i'm not breathing.
i'm a deer in the headlights
but the headlights aren't on,
a spider sliding along the
window under the
watchful eyes of a cat-
sometimes, i'm crying.
i feel what it's like to
be a song.
and I have loved silence.You never said you wouldn’t lie,and I have loved silence.2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
just that I’d had enough.
(I always assumed I knew what that meant.)
When happiness couldn’t come
swiftly, and when love came less than softly—
when ticking clouds could no longer sustain,
I tried to fish my heart from
the crosshatched lips of unknown faces;
you simply held my hair as
I left the poisons I’d ingested
at the bottom of porcelain bowls and sinks.
You said love was leaving
but it was okay, because I’d
never love enough;
my heart would leak lies
through varicose love
as easily as my veins
overflowed at wrist-bound docks,
and I would never be able
to love more than silence.
To You...Words… they were just words:To You...3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
They could never be held
between ribs, engraved and memorized
with the sacredness of biblical verses
and loving confessions.
No matter how I drew
your devoted breath,
the beauty of words spoken
their use was for mounting
for surmising emotions only
fleeting and cold…
They never were tools to court,
s o f t l y ,
and to worship,
they never gave to closed
hearts and eyes: They never made to feel.
words were frivolous—trivial
(and I was nothing but a rambling fool)
Ancenstrybitterness about fathersAncenstry2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
is passed down across
my face contorts
in the same grimace
my father's face
when he talks about
it is not a cycle
of abuse, it is
it is something more
subtle, perhaps more
it is the number of times
late from work,
the number of days
missed from life,
the number of words
he did not hear.
it is the passive
withering of flowers
in spring, the
chilled descent of
quietude of a
death that creeps
up too soon.
i see his shadow
in every man's wake,
and i cannot escape
his stunted ghost.
AnnaYou're stronger than you know, than you let yourself believe,Anna3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
You never see it show, but you don't see what I see.
You see all the tears, and you see all the pain,
But the one thing you just don't see is the composure you regain.
Every time you're down, you're then back on your feet,
And every single frown, is met with a warming greet.
Every tear, every heartache, it's just another day.
Every fear, every heartbreak, you're smiling all the way.
Your insides may be rotting, and you may be crumbling all the while,
But I think you've forgotten, that you can even manage a smile.
The tower of so many, we look to and lean on you,
But love doesn't cost a penny, and a light shines in the blue.
Tears are not a sign of weakness, tears are the proof of your strength.
And though life is filled with bleakness, don't hold it at arm's length.
I remember that you told me, it was okay to feel,
All the feelings that befall me, and your words made it real.
So now I'm telling you, allow yourself thi
reveal yourselfIt's taken me all this timereveal yourself1 year ago in Scraps More Like This
to realize that
the flowers in your hair
were actually weeds,
and your promises
were already broken
before you made them.