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.
this won't end up as a suicide notethere aren’t enough momentsthis won't end up as a suicide note in Free Verse More Like This
to love you, or words
in the English language to call you
beautiful. there aren’t enough
heartbeats in me to dedicate you
something you might deserve.
you can no longer lie.
a vengeful earthquake births itself inside
your unkind frame-- bones and skin and
muscle knotted together as an attempt
at something durable; but when you scream,
you don’t wake up. your world
collapses in mounting seconds. words
are a currency and you are
finally rich. you have lived
in the mouths of ghosts for so long
that you can walk through walls;
you aren’t here, you’re choking
on other planets from a lack of oxygen
and understanding. but I will love you,
I will love you; dear wallflower,
your petals are not wilted. dear
anonymous, I could give you a name.
dear hopeless, there are not enough words
in the English language for how beautiful
you really are.
casual blasphemyfor the past four yearscasual blasphemy in Free Verse More Like This
I’ve been in love with a boy
who’s too busy loving life to notice
I exist. I don’t think he’s ever seen me
past his tunnel vision living--
I’m in love with a boy who
wears black gauges and swears
he’s a deist who’s fed up with
the backwards-fucked system
that governs our lives; he talks to me
about the symbolic importance
of hunger and need and rebellion
and isolationism and death as
Orwell and Golding must have written it,
and, god, I just want to crack open
my ribs so he can see the literary
starvation destroying me, the not-quite
metaphoric devastation of my liver and
paper cuts scarring my heart. I want
him to talk to me about the reasons
we ought to avoid college
and capitalism and commitment and explain
to me what this all really means.
[I want to be so unflinchingly honest
with you that it will be as natural
and sinful as all the others
before, just without the glare
of bare skin and self-hate. I want to tell you
things I learned at 11 am while I was half-asleepithings I learned at 11 am while I was half-asleep in Free Verse More Like This
I’m spending most of my time
not crying, and I’m sorry,
but I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone
as much as aspirin, or lullabies,
or the cheap wine sold for two dollars a bottle,
or overly-apologetic letters bending over backwards
to make a point of themselves, or the pink petals
blooming on my wrists like flesh and blood miracles,
or the songs named after women
things may not change,
but you will have to.
I am most alone
surrounded by people
and the buzzing in my head of words
that should have lost their meaning
back when I discovered
they never meant anything
Dedications are only relevant
to people who appreciate shitty poetry,
or you. Insanity is writing the same thing
over and over and expecting it not
to sound clichéd.
and as much as anyone will swear otherwise,
I am a statistic. A number, an example,
a case study in the manipulation of
narcissism and moving on
in which I try to forget my dreamswith Sunday-heavy lips, she calls mein which I try to forget my dreams in Free Verse More Like This
selfish and means it. I remember
dreams better than people, strangers
greeting me in the grocery store over
a common past and sorry selection
of red grapes. I remember Katie
being beautiful and happy and
wearing the same abnormal toe shoes
and being a few decades older than time
would allow, I remember Emily
being alive. I remember me
escaping to France to defy logic
and stow away in a pretentious,
overpriced tourist resort where
I’d learn to speak a language
I’d never use and love people
who’d never know me; I remember
she tells me trust is not a virtue.
responsibility is gained and
taken away when you prove
unable to learn to be normal and
defiant at trying to breathe. she says,
I love you, but I don’t understand,
and she cries, saucer-eyed,
and this time I can’t
unfilterediunfiltered in Free Verse More Like This
i’d tell you I hated you
if you had a voice or a face,
or any sense of tangibility aside
from the spider fingers you use
to crawl through my brain
you are not beautiful, like
all the other poets protest. you
are the red in my eye, like
a pen bled; the ragged to
my fingernails, the hitch of my breath
when it catches in my throat.
before i go, i’ll write a million letters (a million
pennies for my thoughts, bitter, embedded
under my tongue) and send them to people
i’ve never met, telling them how my eyes were blue
when i was little but now are the same gray
i’m choking on, how i am maddie and how that’s short
for a name i was never graceful enough for, how
i tell myself stories of lives i’ll never live so i
can go to sleep
because when i’m really gone, that’s all that’ll be left
(it’s funny what people
try to justify with words)
you never loved me,
you selfish thing, i wonder why
i wasted so many nights relivin
a letter for someone who hates thinkingin the beginning i wrote poemsa letter for someone who hates thinking in Free Verse More Like This
about death and darkness and
the complex metaphysical arithmetic in which
that would equate to the love i carried for you,
beneath the headaches brewing like bruises
between my eyes, my ocean eyes;
even after convincing me the planets
were dead gods, powerful skeletons with
internal expiration dates and the stars
were their lingering parables, their stories
blinking out years before we were born, i knew
you were a nuclear angel, atom bomb
savior sent to save me from
there is no more mystery
in the world. i sent you
five letters to the PO box you told me
about in florida, the first
was a catalogue of every
angsty song lyric or campy postcard
or description of a flower
crooked in just the right way
that reminded me of you,
the second was a retelling
of every dream i woke from
forgetting who i was, the third
was an apology-- i'm sorry
for who i'm not and who you
need and that your dad always
reeked of bacardi, i'm sorry
for my bukowski-wannabe complex a
what I forgot to sayto the girl who lives like a hurricane:what I forgot to say in Free Verse More Like This
don’t expect to tell me about
your addiction to self-harm and
Nyquil and have me smile;
although, as I shiver from lakewater
and things less tangible, I seem to
acquire a talent for glossing over the list
of things I need to tell you--
is an asshole. California does not
begin and end in a tiny town where
people operate like clockwork around
the same happy working song. I am not
a fountain of wisdom, and, to be honest,
I can barely understand you over the
thunderstorms in my own brain.
you are beautiful and you are
to the girl I left back in time:
purpose is not a given. I am
the same teenage angst who used
to wear too much eyeliner and
complain about my future
as I’d foretold it-- loveless and whiny,
like me. I am her plus a few more
self destructions and minus
a lot more days to continue striving
alongside you for simple goals and
simple friends and simple memories
I won’t remember.
to the girl who see
what we're not supposed to talk aboutI could make a story out ofwhat we're not supposed to talk about in Free Verse More Like This
this. The blackout epiphanies
blinding me like a total eclipse
of any sense of rationality I ever
stole out from my parents' blind spots
when they turned the other way. The
boy I fell half in love with and
my therapist's unassuming questions
about why he was different, the way I
was never beautiful to him but he
still looked me in my bokeh eyes,
betraying and quiet, so that was enough.
My vain addiction to anything
permanently damaging and
more or less glamorous. The dreams
I can’t swallow no matter what shade
of delusion they come in, about
the imminent death of stars named
after deader lovers, and places
where the air is intoxicated with
the promise of Ecstasy, or whatever
name heaven goes by after you begin to doubt
the reality of putting one foot in front
of the other will get you anywhere at all.
I could write novels about my path
to self-martyrification and the moments
I cried for no reason except that
I had no reason tor cry. I could write
Growing Upit seems that by now I’ve been diagnosedGrowing Up in Free Verse More Like This
with a mild case of weightlessness, mindless
drifting past empty homes and the emptier people
that purchased them. I remember conversations
with you about existentialism
and the almost intricate fabric of my mind and
everything in between, and you-- the way you
paused before making a point as
the words defined themselves in your head:
I remember the day I told you I was God.
Creator of all things unimportant, trapped
in the body of a girl with nothing left to give, you
it must be a beautiful place
inside your head, with a world
that revolves around hope and expectations
the way it was supposed to; all
storybook-perfect like the
wars promise we’ll one day
[I’d like to think that every great leader
once cried themselves to sleep wondering
if they’d ever mean anything and
did things to stand out like smoking
or drinking or pretending to be someone
they’re not and every morning they’d tilt
everything I'm becomingtwo weeks until the end of the world,everything I'm becoming in Free Verse More Like This
and i’m busy stockpiling all my regrets,
writing letters to flaws i don’t care
to fix, and trying to learn to draw
infinity. it’s time for two truths and a lie:
1. i was drunk for an hour on
good vibes and loneliness and
that quote “from the moment we
are born we begin to die”
2. and god, Bianca, you still show up
in my dreams; glaze-eyed and
more vocal than you ever were
when you were half-alive
1. (how close i came to arctic happiness
when you froze in my mind,
snowflake breath lingering like
the soundtrack of my breakdown)
now, she tells me she is sick
of the clothes stretched tight like
a second skin, and the gaping silences
between her ribs, and the singsong
unimportance glazing over her
hollywood-hangover eyes. she blossoms
like an earthquake, finally
growing into the goosebumps
and hollow bones her father
gave her-- i want to cure the world,
use a freeze ray to halt time
and kiss every empty wound;
.you are dead and buried. in Free Verse More Like This
six feet under yourself,
still feeling the way you did
when you were seventeen
and when you bathe, you still
keep your head under the
water, wrists upturned, red
eyes open, trying to drown yourself
.he splits hearts like. in Free Verse More Like This
oranges in the
sinks his teeth into
ripened flesh, and
leaves nothing but the
rind, too hard to
.and god-. in Personal More Like This
i saw the moon
leaking into the sea,
a great big silvery slick
on the waves
and as i held my hands up
to the hole in her side,
she smiled and soaked
(gentle, gentle, she doesn't have long)
.you still got. in Personal More Like This
a heart that beats in halves?
a mouth like a bear trap,
don't kiss me -
that anchor tattoo
on your foot, it still holding you
down to the earth?
that skull on your chest,
you still dead in there?
i told you i wouldn't
but i kept my eyes fixed
on the exit,
and if i'm being honest
i spoke in the tongue of my own,
i was out of that door like a shot
what a buzz -
a hive full of angry words,
queen of the nest
full of hate but the honey is
sweet when you smoke them
all out of the way,
get them drunk get them
leaving my mouth
(hope it stings)
.he said there are a lot of things in life. in Personal More Like This
that don't make sense,
i said i know,
like that time i laughed so hard at the wake
i had to stay out in the garden making small talk with the smokers
for the rest of it,
like the time i shut myself in the garage and went to sleep
in the backseat of your car,
and how i'm not at all religious but i sat in church that day with
my hands clasped and
how i kept the windows shut that sunday so what i prayed for
couldn't get in,
like the time i watched her throw your stuff out on the driveway,
and when she managed to smash those plates even with
her broken wrist, how most hearts start to sink when tempers rise,
and the time i wanted to cradle that dead pigeon i saw at the
train station, and you told me to answer the phone and i wouldn't
because i knew it was you,
and when the night comes calling i always let him in,
i'm never quite sure who he is, but he says
he's paid for it so now i better fucking
he says haven't you learnt by now
.got eyes so. in Free Verse More Like This
out your heart
like a pip
.i like to feed things in. in Personal More Like This
through my mind and then pull them
right out of my chest when they're
put it on paper and call it
a poem, feed it
back into the brain
and repeat, but
anxiety says just
let this stuff go -
cough up those words
that you've got in your
chest and dust off the
shelf in your lungs, feel
them one last time if you want
but please, send them away in
their poems, and quick
i'm just not
done with them
i can rip
from the back
of my hand
and my neck,
from this one
(chew it up, spit it out)
.i often ask myself questions. in Personal More Like This
and answer them too,
maybe tell your
that i'm the wolf in the woods, i just
saw red and couldn't help it, what
can i say i've got a
temper, i couldn't wait
to grip her neck inside
my jaws n shake it, snap
it clean, cracked like a twig,
you see she was a bitch she was a
whore, she had it
coming, with her
sweet laugh and her lips, her
swaying hips inside, she carried
a rifle in her cloak, she wanted
my pelt for the angry winter,
and her old gran? i sucked
the meat from
her lame ribs like she'd have done
the same to mine, i licked my
chops and got in
had good sweet dreams until
that axe man, that old drunk,
who thought he had some bigger balls
came stumbling in through her front
they found his guts
on the hall floor,
and i can still
smell it a
but what i'm saying
kids, the moral is,
there's nothing little bout the amount
of red you're gonna see in
life, it's all about whether or not
you've got the stones
to fucking stomach it
this is not a suicide notewhat would change if i left?this is not a suicide note in Free Verse More Like This
would you wear your sadness
like a bullet-- raw and fresh and
slung, chafing, into solemn chambers;
or would you swallow it down
to poison your lungs,
steal your breath & dissolve
the remnants of me?
would you smoke yourself out,
a pyre of anger in one fist
smouldering with resentment--
unfueled but hot and bright and
burning our love to ashes;
or would you hang it,
trailing, coiled around your neck
where it will catch, untenanted,
on shards of me and tighten
to choke you?
would you throw in the towel
and jump, too, unfettered
without my soul;
or would you just breathe butterflies,
an exultation of relief and gratitude?
suicide riski.suicide risk in Free Verse More Like This
you are six shades of sadness
on a too cold, too big seat,
a shrunken apostrophe and
paroxysmal, the balls of your feet
strumming the hours gone
("i want to go home,
please, please, i just
want to go home").
it is your relief and your regret
that she knows you so well.
It is she who brings forth a doctor
then, when you are past talking-down, done,
wrung out and horse-footed in your need
("let me go home, please,
please, i just
need to go home")
softly accented words spoken off to the side:
"Yes. Let's keep her voluntary now,
it will be quicker: but if her wings sprout
and itchy feet sample corridors,
we'll make it an order."
("if you go home,
the police will return you,
please stay a little longer")
you are seven hours of waiting,
free to leave until you try and
another doctor says
"I can't get a read
on her lethality and
there are no beds".
("let's go, please, i want
to go home, and they
don't want me here")
she is concern coated in fury,
a righteous expletive
ghost eyes and disparagementbear witness to the tragedies i cause:ghost eyes and disparagement in Free Verse More Like This
dancing on the fire escape,
confessions, paranoia &
eighty cents (metaphorically speaking).
i am trying to be honest,
scraping the horizon
on morning's birth.
it's not enough.
(we all are the) monarchwe are not born noble.(we all are the) monarch in Free Verse More Like This
instead, we are thrust out
squalling and naked,
feather-dust fur instead of wings
and crowns built of flesh & bone.
as the caterpillar into her chrysalis
we begin lowly that we may grow.
Writing mental illness (a short guide)When incorporating mental illness into a piece of literature, the most important tool you need to use is research. This is true whether you want the mental illness to play a large part OR a small one, and it is true whether you know someone with mental illness or not. In fact, it's even true if you have the illness yourself, because no two people are the same, and your character may display different facets to you due to contributing factors like experience and personality.Writing mental illness (a short guide) in Reviews & Guides More Like This
That said, research is not the first thing you should do, because before you get stuck into that research, you need to look at WHY you want to include mental illness in your literature. If you think it would be cool or fun, you might want to rethink it unless you're prepared to put in a lot of work because living with mental illness is not either of those things (generally) and what you're doing for a bit of fun has the potential to negatively impact someone else's life in a big way because stigma & misrepresentatio
PlunderedNailing shattered umbraePlundered in Free Verse More Like This
to the bodice
of a ghost ship,
I am finding too-little
(and still, somehow,
far too much)
of an unremembered
turn to cannonballs
and I'm yet to discover their purpose:
will they anchor
or destroy me?
voices carryone.voices carry in Free Verse More Like This
as a toddler, it is mummy,
reading stories, tuning
the stereo or carefully
an old record;
standing on my brother's shoes
and dancing in the kitchen,
raised up and outstretched
through the ceiling cracks
into the sky.
later, it is mum,
pulling hair and screeching
in a fight we both lose;
makeup on the windows
and my brother's name etched
in furniture. still, there are
cartoons on the weekends.
as a preteen, it is my father,
blasting the news and pointing,
shouting at the television that
this is what's wrong with society--
somebody should step in
and push the lazy bastard,
he'll never jump.
later, it is bullies in the schoolyard
empty provocation, pushing
my limp-kneed body
or a softball to the head;
swirlies and bruises,
burbled taunts from
it is my husband, next,
choosing my clothes and hair,
tuning me like the radio
and turning down
the 'weight' knob;
ladies are slender
no more chocolate,
your teeth leave different scarswhat they didn't tell me--your teeth leave different scars in Visual & Found Poetry More Like This
the amnesiac is
61.8% water &
on watching the night
close its eyes on you,
I only know beauty;
maybe Anne Sexton was onto something
& for the woman shamed,
arise and breathe. Seabones
with taciturn eyes
after we lost him:
mermaid thirst for
Your virginity is like an envelope,
a lover's observations on
post-it notes, cupping rice
always, and always.
the god-turtle carries four elephantsstop asking methe god-turtle carries four elephants in Free Verse More Like This
this is not a time for breathing
this is not now, it is not
this is one second after
one minute after
one moment after
one minute after one
this is ad nauseum and i
don't ask me to breathe
are too heavy
to breathe through
she reminds me of myselfI'm sorry, Alice, the looking glass lies.she reminds me of myself in Free Verse More Like This
Flowers don't sing
and hares don't keep time.
Your world of wonder
is all make believe -
Why else would your reflection
giggle and wink?
You aren't a child any longer, my dear.
Have a matchstick for your dreams
and a hammer for that mirror.
Our hands may be calloused
as we coddle our pasts
but delusions are enemies
and wistful muses pass.
I will wait for you, darling,
I will write for you, lass.
I will capture life's beauty
and contain it in glass.
Though, the singing that lingers
is the voice of my own.
The fragrant flowers are dying
even while their seed is sown.
ocean lungsyou weigh something like gravityocean lungs in Free Verse More Like This
in my tired expanse. you are
(my once splendid mountain)
my love is the ocean
that has worn you down.
with my monstrous tongue,
i pulled you in.
as you fall,
sweeping peacefully into the depths
and filling each crevice,
i am learning to inhale shores.
some would say i'm suffocating
and bring me buckets of air (only to have it
escape my slippery grip).
no, the tides need something heavy
to make of her
justi am everything i never wanted to be.just in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
it's funny to realize,
five years ago i would've looked at me and thought,
are the worst kind
of lost because you don't even know it,"
i see that's what i was before.
but i'm still just a fraction
of an idea
that tries so hard to show itself.
but i was born with vocal cords covered in
my fingers curled in,
with my arms pushing against my chest
in an x
because it marked the spot
i often fight to fill,
everyone else was armed with pitchforks and shovels and i clutched tightly
with my fingernails
at the moon's blood-orange light
that ran into my mouth and down my throat to bloat
and carve its name into the nest of space that was meant for my heart.
a work of art
just a work of the everything's wrong in this time;
just a girl
born with just enough
to want a taste of love
and for the world.
Keepsakes and AnathemaI boxed up the remnantsKeepsakes and Anathema in Free Verse More Like This
That remain in my heart
And waited for you to commandeer them.
But six days you lingered instead,
A wind-whipped shadow
On the fringe of our burning garden;
Tiptoeing over fresh wet-stones
In hopes of breaking my hope-brittle spine.
Your Genesis of betrayal;
Adam’s obsessions filtered through
And somehow I now bear the mark.
There, but for the amusement of God, go I;
Branded and baked, as I shovel soot.
I'll whisper to each flake
Fallen upon eyelashes.
Today, coupled with regret,
Weighs muddily grey on my eyes.
I'll trudge forever through your vicious memory.
The GameI melt at their words.The Game in Free Verse More Like This
I call to their bestial senses.
I am the forbidden prey;
Even still, they chase and I give way.
In my prime, I prowl;
Mistress of the game,
I have yet to be tamed.
Locked in my cage, gnawing at the steel, I release a lonesome cry.
Gallantly, heroically they advance, beckoned by my shrill report.
Yet, all I want is to be free.
And, with zebra skin behind these bars they'd love to keep me.
I will break f r e e when you least expect me.
Ease a bit closer, my daring, my darling.
Nigh is your pet, nay, your knave.
And, with key in hand, here I shall keep you;
Saving pretty things for rainy days.
clipping imaginations like clipping wings"Little girl, what is it you want to become?"clipping imaginations like clipping wings in Free Verse More Like This
"I want to be a ballerina!"
"How about a stripper, instead?"
"I want to be a doctor!"
"What about a street pharmacist?"
"I want to be a painter!"
"Would you settle as a tagger, perhaps?"
"I think I'll be a writer!"
"And those bathroom walls
will surely be scribed quite well!"
-dream too big
the stars are dead
-play too long
the dark has come
-build fires in your head
the voices are almost gone
when you fall we'll catch you
we're all expecting you to fail
and when we say, "we told you so,"
you'll know we meant so well
and as I plummet to the earth
from heights you've never been
please catch the pieces of your dreams
that I've cocooned within
as you swoon in melodies
made from your jaw dropped awe
my feathers will flood your open mouths
I'm learning to fly; you're bound to crawl
summer homei've rearranged the rooms of my chestsummer home in Free Verse More Like This
to make room for you.
i won't say it didn't hurt
to make myself your Adam;
until you found a comfortable perch.
there, beneath my unguarded breast,
you construct your nest of
every lovely thing you've come to love
(while the rest of me flaps wildly
like moth wings against the cold walls
of my exposed heart).
i should've known you'd leave
when winter froze me.
don't apologize [for the ache].
you kept the beautiful bits of me
(while they died).
i'm falling away with youI am the wayward child.i'm falling away with you in Free Verse More Like This
Tacking on wings months too late; our legs didn't break -
Fate gave me a flower; snowflakes and granite
by any other name.
I am home.
Your eyes of forests, branching away.
Defeathered, dust settling;
if you don't see it, you can never walk away.
snowglobe songIt grew in lightless dissonance. The perfect balance of warmth and wetness which would deform any suckling and birth putrescence. Here, in the dank depths of hope deferred, it grew.snowglobe song in Short Stories More Like This
They formed it with their broken voices and it strained to hear every lost syllable. Between the fragmented sounds, a constant; a muffled whisper of a melody. It sank as though it were made to exist beneath those muddy refrains.
Little mocking bird, born without a song of its own. It stapled grounding reasons to each feather and chirped a scratched-out song to dandelions in the place of clouds. Rough notes swept across the seeds. A coarse melody was reborn in those colorless tufts, which suffocated every living thing on the small bird's horizon. The sullen snowglobe burned brightly as creatures tried to breathe under the ungodly weight of a once insignificant song.
barrenthat was the day god decidedbarren in Free Verse More Like This
to take away my voice.
it was more painful
than the day they taught me how to speak
with my eyes
and shy, please don't look at me
lurched from my belly and into my throat.
this isn't mine
i thought, as my hands clutched the knot.
but my smoggy, starstruck head
told me to speak
and so i spoke
in disjointed lines and tiny text,
the more i said the bigger it became,
taking different shapes
and names -
but it was never mine.
and it still isn't.
115 words.a bright summer's day;115 words. in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
there's something about the yellow of the sunlight and how it soaks through your hair, turning it golden, that makes his heart blossom. sometimes he wishes he could look at you like a normal person does, so his heart doesn't falter like it does, and he'd be spared the trouble of restarting it. bet you didn't know that, did you? the quiet laughs always present on your voice never ceases to makes his lips curve up ever so slightly, but when you hold him still with your eyes and tilt your head, yellow-golden hair falling to one side, he's mesmerized by the sight in front of him.
and you are, too.
message in a bottle."i never did realize how lonely the dark could be," you say matter-of-factly, your tone of voice somewhat ruined by the spherical drop of water running down your cheek.message in a bottle. in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"i guess i'm just not used to it. it never was dark with you here," you continue, brow furrowing and fingers twisting. you dip your toes in the icy seawater, and allow shivers to run up your spine.
you pull your jacket tighter around you and walk on, toes pushing on sand and the moonlight kissing stray strands of hair. as you stop to fiddle with a shell on the ground with your big toe, you spy a shimmering, green bottle bobbing up and down in the water. reaching out as far as you can without getting wet, you manage to hook a finger around its neck and pull it in.
washing sand off the bottle and drying it, you settle yourself down upon a rock and play with the grooves. "wouldn't it be nice to be able to bottle up love? i'd have bottled up yours so i wouldn't be missing your love so very much right now."
you prop the bott
don't let go.when we were three years old, you would push me on the swing with all your might, but i'd only rise a few feet off the ground. but then again, back then, it seemed like a hundred feet, and we were both exhilarated, and happy.don't let go. in Short Stories More Like This
when we were eleven, we would spend a weekend just running around the garden, making mud pies and 'discovering' treasures 'hidden' in the dirt. when our mud pies would fill the steps, we'd upturn them back onto the earth, and we were both dirty, and happy.
when we were seventeen, we would climb to the top of a hill on weekends and stay there till the sun rises, accompanied by lingering touches and mums' food. when sunrays blinked into our eyelids, we'd half slide, half laugh our way down the hill, and we were both tired, and happy.
when we were twenty-three, we would sit cross-legged from one other in your apartment, not daring to look in each other's eyes, and staring at our fingertips instead, which were centimeters apart. then one of us would reach out of pull
sing a song of love.you set your finished cup of coffee down on the table and head over to the kitchen counter. picking up your keys, you washes down the coffee with a gulp of water and a mint. checking the clock hanging above the doorframe, you fish around in a drawer for a stick-it note and a marker. writing him a little note, you sign it off with a heart, and stick it on the coffee pot. as you pull your jacket on, you hear a trilling voice coming from the bedroom. standing still, you listen. your lips curve up into the widest smile as you see him dance into the kitchen, singing a made up song with lyrics consisting of i love yous and your name. he cuts the song off with a squeak, a reddened face, and a soft, "i thought you left." you continue to point your blinding smile in his direction.sing a song of love. in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"you know what? maybe i won't go to work today. come on, let's go for a walk." you shrug your jacket off and fit his hand perfectly into yours.
"and you can sing me your new song while we walk."
your tears don't save a soul.[it took him 129 days to finally stop breathing without you there.]your tears don't save a soul. in Free Verse More Like This
on day 32, he bought flowers and slid them into a thin vase
on the windowsill. a petal fell off and floated to a silent rest
on the water's surface, and a single ripple weakly faded away.
he threw the flowers out that night.
on day 58, he woke from a nightmare, clawed at the pillow
your picture was on, and his fingernail snagged on the paper.
he gazed wantonly for a minute at the ragged shreds, then
promptly turned on his side and shut his eyes.
the torn-up paper drifted off into the cracks between the floors.
on day 99, he thought you came back, and he cried out in joy,
only to watch as the tears washed away the blurred image of you.
he clutched at the wadded up napkins in his hand, and teardrops
fell, blending into the many there before them.
he saw you again that night, and wished himself to wake up.
[on day 129, he lay six-and-a-half feet under the ground,
white daises scattered daintily around the freshly mounted
moondust.we live in a world where our lungs are black and outlined with angry streaks of red. we plant diseases and destruction in the holes of our stomachs and watch them grow they shoot up fast and clog up our throats with ashy leaves.moondust. in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
our fingernails are ripped, jagged edges digging into pale skin and leaving white hot lines in their wake. our wings are crumpled, feathers bent and pressing into the expanse of our backs they're the weights on our shoulders, and there's no space left for anything else.
your tongue is cracked and so is mine. words no longer form, sounds no longer rise. dreams and wishes fall into the cracks as nightmares rush past them out into the open. that breathtaking sequel to life you were hoping for no longer exists we are now aimless, hopeless, and craving for sin.
we swallow moons and exhale moondust; we stray from orbits and into vacuums. but all we ever wanted were the touch of lightly powdered lips against our flesh.
spare change.so i dreamt of you last night.spare change. in Short Stories More Like This
as usual, you are with me, but as usual, i can't find you. so i scream your name, again and again until my throat goes raw and i wake, with my fists clenched, swallowing my sobs.
and i see him there, lying peacefully on his side, stray strands of hair fluttering under his breath as he sleeps. i look at him and your name pops into mind, but it's wrong.
i fear i'll say something i shouldn't, and he'll just love me more. i know when he wakes, he'll flash me a smile that breaks hearts. he'll ask for a morning kiss, and that's when your name will run repeatedly over and over in my head and spill over onto my lips. and i'll pray he doesn't taste it there.
he'll run the tub for me, somehow knowing the perfect temperature and amount of soap suds. he'll wash my hair for me, fingers trailing along my skin, and my tears will fall into the mixture of warm water and bubbles, leaving no trace, just a little extra salt.
he'll make me coffee, a pot of warmth and c
land of the envied.there’s a cross inked down the flat plane of his back,land of the envied. in Free Verse More Like This
one thick line of black punctured by the jut of bone,
but a shrug of fabric later and that’s all gone –
was it ever really there in the first place?
the lone paper bag in the corner of the room
has wrinkles all over its front and back,
trademark symbols of wisdom and serenity –
gone through mass production and rough hands.
a still body of water slowly clouds over in the tub,
the temperature warm enough to fight away goosebumps
but cold enough for you to want to sink into it and never rise –
one slow trickle is all it takes for empty gaps to fill up over time.
a three-legged chair supporting its own lopsided weight on
a pile of ashes that will never feel fire ever again.
constellations reflect light down towards the masses and look pretty –
but that’s all they’ll ever be.
things are always beautiful when they’re doomed,
when they have an expiration date, when they’re sure t
tunes of heartbreak.someday, the world will be silent, and hearts will break.tunes of heartbreak. in Free Verse More Like This
it might be the hauntingly melodic
tunes of shattering glass, quietly
only to hover just before hitting the ground.
it might be the vibrations of over-stretched
heartstrings as they play out
the tune of heartbreak.
but sometimes, although unusual,
it might be the sound of
fallen souls chasing their dreams
as they shoot over the blackening
but most definitely,
it's the sound of you
trembling frozen on my cracked lips
back into the hollows, where
countless whispers of your name
twine together to form a single
Sun Child,I am freezingSun Child, in Free Verse More Like This
& I am hungry
for fever’s lips-
her inky fingers
a dry stomach.
My body is an ocean,
my limbs, but oars.
My tongue & teeth,
a life raft
keeping this madness
from sinking into blue.
Offering up 102 degrees
You would think
I had something to say.
I wish...I’ve been sitting on your doorstep for three days.I wish... in Free Verse More Like This
Here are the nothings I left under the mat:
i.I do not feel like a lion anymore,
an alpha wolf, a hyena or
any other strong-willed beast.
I want to take my scars
out to lunch,
feed them your eyes,
& your tongue
until it bleeds sorrow,
and “please forgive me’s”.
iii. You wish I never existed
as you grind those words
into my wrists like they are
red hibiscus blossoms.
& I’ll have you know
I am a flower, bloomed,
rooted deep into the soil.
You are just a combination
of 26 letters-
an “I wish…”
Sad poems need pretty titles.April was lungs weak of blue, andSad poems need pretty titles. in Free Verse More Like This
scalpels held in heartless,
You told me you were no coward
that the seas and the oceans
whispered in your ears and told you
only the bravest of men
deserve to kiss their beds.
May passed too quickly.
No time for mourning
when I gained ten pounds
of pure muscle
holding up your stars.
People asked too many questions.
People told me I was strong.
One day in June
you woke up to a skeletal frame
that wasn’t yours and the biggest,
strongest ribcage I’d ever seen.
I had cornfields in my eyes;
You misplaced your anchor
and your mind.
NecromancyShe thinks there are nebulaeNecromancy in Free Verse More Like This
in the rough of my gutter bones,
some stargazing sanctuary
for lonely outcasts to lay their heads.
I am but a car crash,
& red inked corrections
on crosshatched skin.
Made up of moans,
the clutching of bedsheets;
I am contemplating
ripping my ribs apart
I never had a heart at all.
But my moon shy love;
she is determined
to try & wake the dead.
No wander about it, just lust.You were a mid-morning train wreck,No wander about it, just lust. in Free Verse More Like This
the embodiment of poetry.
& my clavicles whispered too many nothings
about your summer storm hands,
folding like paper cranes
to make wishes upon themselves.
wishes are for the weak-
do something about this quaking heart
& freezing fingers.
I think I found God then,
whiskeyShewhiskey in Free Verse More Like This
in one slow,
I heard it plunge
into the gaping
emptiness of her.
drank the sun
from my fingertips,
licked me from her lips,
look better dead, plucked
from your November pores."
"They go down smoothest
with Writers Tears."
hyenas make the best lovers.i need to stop lookinghyenas make the best lovers. in Free Verse More Like This
for death in every body
my fingers touch.
i have been force fed
old lovers, & slices
of the moons lying dust
i am messy poems;
i am fractured confessions.
i am laughter
my jaws ache
with the taste of
i am still hungry.
give me your sugar;
I will share my breath.
you are still made of starstuff,
& i am no longer caged.
Writer ScarsI have told my secretsWriter Scars in Free Verse More Like This
through loves ink -
painted them to my skin
with watercolor defiance.
& writers, we sometimes
write about our scars
in riddles, layers upon
layers of thought, -
care for them
on the warlands
of our bodies.
we give them faces,
we give them names,
we give them gravestones.
We kill them off
in our stories,
make them villains,
make them heroes.
I have wrists that roar,
& I will be damned
if I don’t let them
tell their stories.
NaPoWriMo: Day 3Today,NaPoWriMo: Day 3 in Free Verse More Like This
I wanted to pluck my ribs
from out my chest &
hang them about my house
like wind chimes-
a taunt for hungry wolves.
I didn’t grab for sharp objects,
I just wrote about it.
I never knew
I wanted to be a writer
until I lost something.
I still don’t know what that is-
(my mind, maybe.)
they fill gaps
that had no stories
to keep them
from hollowing out
in the first place.
Her eyes scream fill in the _____.They saidHer eyes scream fill in the _____. in Free Verse More Like This
she has starving
little poet fingers,
the heroic hearts
of nameless protagonists.
But, she cries
tears of Saturn
on too-little-sleep nights,
& coffee ringed mornings.
They call her vanilla.
much too ripe to fall
with freckles on her
WhisperI want to create an aromatic sea of jasminesWhisper in Free Verse More Like This
and stardust mountains of silver and —
Inkblot skeletons with paper mache
hearts, whose bones shall burn with one glance at the
sun; gravestones of blood diamonds and tears of thistles...
Harp strings ringing in grotesque harmony, screaming
for slender fingers to pluck and caress with devotion.
I want to write
an apology to anyone who'll listen It begins with a wishan apology to anyone who'll listen in Free Verse More Like This
and ends with a sigh.
I am in love with boys who
don't exist and girls who I sometimes
pretend are myself. Spineless,
spiteful, and one hundred percent
I'm becoming undone.
When I was
younger I thought it
was a sin if
your parents didn't
love each other. Now I
know that it's
just the way this world works.
I need you right now;
to tell me that
gaining four pounds in
three days is typical
to tell me that
living in a dream every
second is perfectly okay
to tell me that
I'm normal, that I'm
still sane, that I'm not
going to close my
eyes one day and never
open them again.
Don't look at me.
I can't remember
the last time I
had no regrets.
ashes to ashesi am the girl withashes to ashes in Free Verse More Like This
more faith in myths than in
there are more dead bodies in this world than the living.
and if that doesn't frighten you, then i
don't know what would. i guess you could
say that graves are just the closets in which
we hide our skeletons in.
there are ghosts all around us.
and i think that maybe,
i'd rather take my chances down in
the underworld with them than up
here where the earth is slowly
all because of the living.
handle with carethere are 206 bones in thehandle with care in Free Verse More Like This
human body. it only takes one good
squeeze and your neck can snap as
easily as a twig.
once, when i was at the grocery
store, i came across a crate of
peaches. they were on sale because
every single one was bruised and it
made me think, "we're all just pieces of fruit
left to rot. as soon as we've been dropped on the
floor, no one wants to help us back up."
i've forgotten how to think in poetics.
three months ago i would have
compared people to roses. pretty little petals
that can be crushed with just
one little pinch and thorny stems that
whisper "don't touch me."
i think we're more like
together like suffocating sardines in tiny
wooden boxes decorated with red
paint announcing across the sides
"danger: this side up."
pretty little poet fingersfabricated gods rest between thepretty little poet fingers in Free Verse More Like This
languid crevices of
her fingertips, scribbling profanities
all over her skin.
she's just mismatched bones
& blue bruises, telling of forbidden
love through archaic letters.
a tongue made for
wanderlust, & eyes made
for the stars,
even the devil fears her.
Hey.You are beautiful.Hey. in Personal More Like This
You are important.
And don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
On those days - the ones where you can't even cry because you've used up all the tears - just try to stop and think. Think about the people who do love you. Who do care for you so much that if anything happened to you, they wouldn't know what to do.
I just want to write this somewhere for people to see because goddammit, I know. I know how it feels to feel like you're in a constant black hole. I still do. And I have been for too long now.
But I will not give in because I know deep in my heart, someday it's going to get better.
If anyone ever needs to talk, I'll be here. It may take a couple of days to respond, but I'll try.
And why am I posting this?
Let's just say that something happened today and I felt compelled to reach out because I know that even a few words on a screen can make all the more difference in a person's life.
Deux ex machinaMaybeDeux ex machina in Free Verse More Like This
you should start being more
honest with yourself.
You will never be a
a sunspot on the
moon; only fallen
heroes belong there,
and your life wasn't
pitiful enough to
cavort with the stars.
The gods love a
good tragedy, but only when
they're the ones
writing the playbill. It
isn't any fun when the actors
forget their lines and
(better draw the curtains
before the performance morphs
into a comedy)
You say "I'm sorry" but in
reality the only thing
you're apologizing for is
leaving before the show
ended and reading the
wrong horoscope that day.
catch me if you cani'd like to smear ashescatch me if you can in Free Verse More Like This
over bloody heathen lips
and twist burnt corsages
around the maypole.
this rotten witch's heart
would love to curse you all.
disease has never looked so
lovely, i do declare, crawling
up your blistering limbs.
in case you are not aware—
love kills slowly, but revenge tastes so sweet,
so i'll just tip-toe off of this cliff
and embrace the beast awaiting for me below.
Hunger for beautyYou graduated from starvationHunger for beauty in Free Verse More Like This
tired of being tired.
It's the little things that
keep you awake;
like the bones that make you feel
the mirror even whispers
that you're perfect
you don't mind it
when your throat burns.
sati(ate)dit's ironic,sati(ate)d in Free Verse More Like This
isn't it? the way
they say "hunger gnaws"
like the way our teeth
scrape against bones.
for all the
calories that are counted,
you still feel
empty. you aren't
you are digesting
nothing but air
and maybe your own guilt.
that's just the way
living is these
glass shards to
slice up your insides so
you can ignore
the other kind of pain your
stomach is feeling.
but when people ask
if you're doing okay you just
smile and nod even though
you can't help but
think "if honesty was
tangible, i'd eat it right
an acquired taste and
some days you'd
like to rip your
Dead Bodies Don't Cryi.Dead Bodies Don't Cry in Free Verse More Like This
You are born with twisted feet
and a pockmark on your chest.
Your poor mother is drenched in sweat,
straining to breathe,
thanking God that it's over.
She cradles you in her arms
and kisses your forehead with curved lips.
Your father reaches out to hold you
but has to pause because
your mother will not release you yet.
The family pays a visit,
hovering in awe, praising, laughing.
You look around for someone to blame.
When you learn to write
you use all the wrong letters
because you feel sorry for the ones
that get left out, like X and Z.
And you wear mismatched clothes
because you don't like the idea that
only certain colors "go together."
The first time you are punched
in the face it is by a girl with pigtails and braces.
You're sitting on a swing,
digging your toes into the dirt,
when she approaches
and says she thinks you're weird.
You tell her she's even weirder, and her fist
goes sailing into your jaw.
You're red and sore for two days.
You meet your first crush
Of Hymns and HormonesIt's Sunday morning, humid.Of Hymns and Hormones in Free Verse More Like This
My lacy dress itches and glues my hair
to the back of my neck.
I mumble our somber hymns
but my thoughts follow my eyes
as they seek you out like a temptation
three pews ahead.
Your suit dips into the small of your back,
the edge hugging your hips.
Your hair is messy,
the color of milk chocolate—
too long according to some
but it's becoming of you.
My belly tingles and as
the adults towering over us
sing about redemption and
God being a potter, my idle fingers
find my thighs, pressing the soft flesh
beneath my dress.
They slide higher, into the crevice
they're not supposed to explore
and a blend of fear and exhilaration
surges through me.
You shift your weight
from one foot to the other
and I clench my teeth, try to
calm my breathing. But it's no use.
Some demon has possessed me.
I'm no longer in a crowded
and noisy sanctuary,
but a green garden of Eden
accompanied by my mind's image
of what you look like underneath
that suit. I'm taking a bite out of
we will never take the skythe sun throws his arms into the airwe will never take the sky in Free Verse More Like This
like an open wound
pitching sultry liquid rays
busting at the seams of the sky
wrenching the clouds apart
and sending them off to faraway lands
as if off to war
but mostly off into nonexistence
or the closest thing to it
because all we know of nonexistence
is that which we have not
validated for ourselves—
that which as no plight or suffering
and does not reach
out to us in need of celebration
hold this against me.i extend my arm and tracehold this against me. in Free Verse More Like This
lonely roads along my veins
that disappear like
highways in the night.
i shake my bottle of light
beer that i can't even stand
the taste of but drink
anyway because i refuse to
let myself have anything
and i think about that bridge
across from my college, over
the ravine, and how much i
want to fly.
"oh, that rebecca," they'll
say, "she was a scholarly girl.
believed in the impossible. set
her goals sky high."
that's me—the idealistic one,
the naive one, the one who
chases what she knows she
i set the bottle down,
draw my legs up, tuck my
arms into the crook between
them and my stomach, and
become someone else entirely.
roadsi always did like the way i swing around narrow curves,roads in Free Verse More Like This
how i glide with the center lines, never crossing them, just following their lead.
it's kind of beautiful when you think about it. that is,
if you can find beauty in that sort of thing.
most people don't find beauty in driving.
fuck, most people don't find beauty in anything.
except maybe themselves or some overrated celebrity in designer jeans.
one of my past boyfriends said he didn't trust me behind a wheel.
"woman drivers" was his reason.
i almost lost my virginity in a car. truck, rather.
didn't happen though. i was too afraid of us getting caught.
we were parked on the side of a secondary road. it was nighttime
but cars were going by with their bright headlights,
and with my luck some kid riding shotgun would've pointed and said "look, mommy!"
and remember for the rest of his life the boy and girl
who were wrestling with their shirts off
in the truck sitting on the side of the road.
plus, a cop could have dri
FiniteI sometimes wish you were small—Finite in Free Verse More Like This
so small you could sail this little model ship
into the clouds and never have
to look at a bowl full of put-out cigarettes again,
or make those oh-so-obvious
black paper hearts that you tear
down the center only to
band-aid back together
when I assure you, once again,
that you’re not worthless.
Remember the license plate you had
on that old blue car—
the one that said DANCE?
I wish you’d do that again;
I wish you’d do it in the middle of that abandoned attic
with its weathered beams and emptiness
like we did as children, without shame
and without purpose.
You once said that everywhere you went
places looked desolate, as though the desolation
shadowed you, clinging to your heals,
encasing you like an egg you were
trying to break free of, your arm reaching
for the immensity of the sky—
for a butterfly of hope.
“I feel as big as the world.” You said this
one morning as you purposely spilled that cup
DollBarbie’s thighs were not meant to touch;Doll in Free Verse More Like This
her hair is devoid of split ends
and there's this deadness in her eyes,
impossible to mimic—a quiet crawlspace without light.
There's a pastel pale to her skin,
hairless and unblemished,
a blank un-crevice between her legs
and her rouge-stained lips are ever smiling.
She is nothing like you, child.
But do not forget
that she borrows your voice.
CountdownI’m starting to count the daysCountdown in Free Verse More Like This
until I call myself beautiful again,
saggy eye-bags and frizzy hair included,
and I’m starting to find poetry
in the glow of streetlights
as I’m driving at night
with nothing but classic rock
fighting through the static
of an old radio.
No matter how many mistakes
I make, there will always be something—
something warm and euphoric—
about getting caught up in
a moment and not caring
about the future,
and I’m starting to wonder if
maybe that’s what heaven is—
not a place, but a moment:
a state of not only knowing
that each second counts
but feeling each second count;
a state where everything
is on the table and there’s nothing
to hide and nothing to atone for
and there’s this force that tugs
on time and makes you feel invincible.
I’m starting to subtract the days
I feel worthless from the moments
I look myself in the mirror
and tell my reflection
that I was strong enough to put
the gun down a
Drinking in The AfterlifeFor someone who had killed herself, she was awfully cheerful. She was sitting at a small, one-person table in the corner of the pub, twiddling her hair and giggling. There was a bottle of beer on the tabletop. If I hadn't known that it was untouched, I would have thought she was drunk.Drinking in The Afterlife in Short Stories More Like This
"Something amusing?" I asked, having walked up to her.
She jumped and looked towards me, her eyes finding mine. She smiled somewhat sheepishly. She was such a pretty girl. Why she'd killed herself, I couldn't imagine.
"I just can't believe this," she said. "Who'd have thought there'd be pubs in the afterlife?"
I nodded in understanding. "Indeed."
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then reached out and touched her beer. She picked it up, then set it back down. "I was worried there for a while," she mused. "Suicide being a mortal sin and all. Thought I'd end up in a lake of fire or something."
"If you don't mind my asking," I said, "why did you take your own life? If memory serves me right, you ha
UntitledThere was something of the night, she would say, which had always frightened her.Untitled in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
It wasn't the moonless shadows or the strange prolixity of sounds, but the way the skyline would shatter just beyond the city's crest, as if proving to her childish mind that nothing is truly limitless. Not even the sky.
i really want to...i allowed the word to curli really want to... in Free Verse More Like This
against the ceiling of my mouth.
cradling the absence of a
storm that never came
roosting over rafters of a
note stretched far too long.
seeping through my teeth and
pulling moisture from the rain.
There Was a Storm TodayThere Was a Storm Today in Free Verse More Like This
The palms of rain and soil applauded as they met,
twisting their fingers to knot a streaming brook.
Lightning followed, pounding its fists against the smoking sky,
While gusts of wind erupted; raindrop fireworks.
Mist began to swirl above the steaming pavement-
(reminding me of those winters by the lake so long ago.)
The puddles chased the passing storm to clear
the dusted streets and wash the trees of poor habits.
Again the lightning flickered, like a dying silver bulb
swinging by a string in some attic from the past.
The storm exhales once more to retract its mighty arms.
And so the afternoon awaits the sun to press her fingers through the clouds
So the birds can fly again.
Human Nature When you are young,Human Nature in Free Verse More Like This
they will treat you with the softness of spring.
They will guide you through the winter winds and
over snowy hills, admiring the brilliance of your
midday innocence; pulling daisies from the earth
just to place them in your hair. And they will
whisper to each other of how beautiful you are.
When you grow older,
they will treat you with the indifferences of autumn.
They will urge you from the complacency of your own
fleeting fulfillments, and they will watch your
brilliance fade with the swiftness of the sky. You
will shed your fragile childhood with the colors of
the trees, and you will learn to face the winter winds
without their guiding arms. And they will whisper to
each other of how beautiful you are.
When you are grown,
they will treat you with the coldness of winter. They
will leave you bare and naked before the ravenous wolves,
expecting you to fend for your own forgotten brilliance,
asking why you've kept those wilting daisies in your hair.
Stepping Over LeavesStepping Over Leaves in Free Verse More Like This
And so I tried to hold your letters
the way you used to hold my hand;
fingers spaced between torn edges and
around undotted i's.
Guiding me away
from those gentle autumn leaves that
I had loved to crunch
so very much.
But instead, I stepped against the sunspots
of every promise you had broken
trying just to pull some meaning from a sentence
ending with "goodbye".
And when my eyes began to slide over the words you had misspelled,
I closed your note
and tore it into nothing.
Nothing but a sad reminder that once again you had cracked
like those gentle autumn leaves
that I had loved
so very much.
movinglet's talk about itmoving in Personal More Like This
let's talk about it
let's talk about it
let's talk about it
let's talk about it
let's talk about it
let's talk about it
let's talk about it
let's talk about it
i'm so fucking sick of talking.
and sitting in this house, and
thinking. and feeling like the
muscles in your throat that
repel everything you stick
too far down
i was told that it was all in
my head that the world was
against me. i am paranoid,
i am blackened by this body
that hangs in the corner of
and it's all in my head
the way things vacate
but every body is gone
and the night is so silent
so uncoincidentally at the
it's all in my head,
and the floor has
been torn up, my pretty
white washed carpet,
and underneath it's the same
scraped floorboards, the same
that was there
when i was laying on it
nine years ago,
and i said
to myself the other
day things have changed
things have changed
they aren't the same,
and i'm glad
pacificher longbow mouth is un-pacific in Free Verse More Like This
strung; loose bottom
lip with a cocked
births into him like
fidelic whore-- this is appropriationfidelic whore in Free Verse More Like This
my sweet synchronicity ,
i have downed your appetite
in a bed of front teeth
(it is morning in perth
midnight in dublin, and the noon
sun has been lost behind
a dress of mothy curtains)
do i taste of
of love making;
do i reek of
the weeds that
the posture of your spine?
you bend over
my lap a curve of guilt
and weep all night.
i collect each knob of your body
like a gift. press it to my mouth.
note 62i fell asleep besidenote 62 in Free Verse More Like This
him, and around eleven
he woke up and said
where did the hunger
unlock from, why is it
i spent months watching
him come and leave with
"don't" i said
"stay" i said
and bent my arms
around him. "all
of a sudden you
love me again,"
and he stayed
for a little bit
moonhe reads to her, tells her what it was like to be a sailor of the seas on the moon. "don't stop talking," she tells him, dozing off, imagining the seas of zephyr.moon in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
spyglass on the moon a million miles away, the ether shatters by a little girl on her toes, standing on her mattress, clinging to her window above. stain glass eyes in the wake of moon and she breathes as the sea slamming onto the pane, receding and reaching; clouding and clearing. her breaths reach the moon and the moon reaches back with her hands pressed to the girl's eyes.
"one day," she tells the moon, the boy still at her bedside, "you and i will be together."
i haven't forgottentell me, boyi haven't forgotten in Free Verse More Like This
who is your god.
do not say it
is the limbs
that spread you
do not tell me it is
hands wrapping a head
board, nor a mouth
tugging your name
i want to know who it is
that makes you lucent,
bent beneath the dark,
because there is no divinity
like the one that makes