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
excuses for why I'm shakingwe live in a world of apologies.excuses for why I'm shaking in Free Verse More Like This
I made a mistake a year back,
choosing my addiction to oxygen
over less demanding things.
I’m sick of trembling for problems
that aren’t mine and I’m sick of trying
to romanticize black holes and
the indiscriminate nature of lithium and
I’m sick of waking up every morning
feeling sick. and truly, I’m sorry
but I’m not ready to accept my role
in the making of myself. I’m not ready
to lament for those with a smaller
pain tolerance, and for my dislike
of anything that requires commitment.
I’m sorry I miss you and I’m sorry
I won’t admit that out loud.
how scary is it to be something
so unalterably heavy, to be diagnosed
as your own worst enemy, but god,
you’re so fucking beautiful,
and not in the stereotypical boy
meets girl meets fairytale way, but
the kind that makes my heart
bleed a million miles quicker.
I just wanted to cry on all
your scars and wash them clean.
when things are bad for
why we pity angelsto him;why we pity angels in Free Verse More Like This
you are afraid of phonecalls. you
are afraid of your own voice, and
opening your ribcage to let
your heart come live on your sleeve.
you are afraid of living without caffeine
or alcohol, whatever the day calls for;
you are afraid of being real
without laughing afterwards, becoming
everything you worked so hard to get
away from, acknowledging all
that you still are. know this:
I am afraid of loud noises.
I am afraid of honesty and drowning,
people I don’t know and words
I won’t say. I am afraid
of growing old and living alone and
you not accepting me. I am afraid
of myself. In that, we are the same.
I have the compulsion to grab you
and cup you to me like you are some
half-alive bird, like that sound
as the lazy sun paints you a portrait is
your hummingbird heart and not my own
shallow breaths. in the beginning,
you were my peace of mind. you traced
the contours of my being with a scalpel
and held me up, a shadow puppet,
as the darkest, blackest figures I gav
honesty isn't a weaknessI have a headache and not enough timehonesty isn't a weakness in Free Verse More Like This
to explain the irony of how I want to be
every pretentious poet making art out of
themselves, cutting open their side and writing
in blood and pixie dust; or how difficult
it is to make a good allegory out of carsickness
and household complacency. this
is every secret I ever hid. when I was 9
someone dissected the world in front of me,
showed me it was a living, wanting thing
and that I was just a lonely cell, functioning
through my dysfunction; when I was 11
the boy I liked told me he’d be interested
if I were prettier and I learned starvation
was more a state of mind than a presence
of being. when I was 13 I researched the lethality
of cleaning products, because god, I felt so dirty,
and nothing can clean you more than a couple cupfuls
of bleach. when I was 15 I was old and decrepit
and mostly dead, returning from war with flowers
for graves that weren’t filled and a heart of
tragedy, vulnerable and draped in every shade
of mourning f
resonanceiresonance in Free Verse More Like This
does she know the astrological significance
of the bruises starring along
your wrists? if I could, I’d
run away somewhere where
the sky is silent and the people
hate honest eyes. here’s my problem,
I’ve wasted all my time daydreaming
in the universe of your scars. I wonder
if substantiality is lethal.
[when will you move on
like you know what
you’re doing with your life,
like this tiny existential
failure is only a hazard sign
on the roadmap of your journey,
like the world weighing down
upon your shoulders is an
exercise in vanity and quietude
instead of someone
lists of necessities: methods of
starvation, hours to fall asleep by, sharp
objects, words that mean nothing.
I’m sorry this isn’t better. I’m sorry
I’m not better and I’m sorry
nothing is bright anymore.
things you remind me of:
the november sky
right before it rains.
to the girl with hungry footstepsI'm sending all my words backto the girl with hungry footsteps in Free Verse More Like This
to the people who need them--
people who wear scars like
war trophies, like jewelry, like
an identification for those suffering
from the same acceptance of
self-hate. this is to the people
who sleep with one eye open, who
cry when footsteps enter their room
at night; this is to the girls
who love by cutting their hearts
into snowflakes and watching
them melt. I left you behind and
I can't be sorry for that.
you are the type of beautiful
that kindly asks the world
to fuck off. the days we buried
have decomposed, headstones are
snapshots; sanitized breakdowns,
rusty tongues, sighs laced
with fear, I love you, I love
you. saturdays were the best
because we could sleep through
the nightmare. you painted me a
picture of the world with your words
and they made us wash it away
for being transparent.
we were afraid of nothing
but the monsters in our eyelids.
back then, we counted days
like shooting stars; it took 67
to wish myself away. this
is for you, skygazer;
butterfliedit is a snakebutterflied in Free Verse More Like This
coiled in my stomach,
the urge to vomit
everything inside of me, to purge
all the toxic not-
good-enoughs. to retell
the same story and expect
a different ending is
the dysfunction that landed
us in here. I'm sorry
I don't follow you into
your dreams at night. I'm sorry
my smile is not the moon,
I'm sorry I did anything
to make you notice
me at all. no finger
down the throat could ever
forgetting how to sleeptake two.forgetting how to sleep in Free Verse More Like This
a week past the end of the world,
and there’s something therapeutic
about not caring. I must’ve
really messed up in another life. I
wake up shaking and forget to sleep
shaking and hold your hand, shaking,
remembering the moment I became
poison. I feel crazier than ever; cementhead’s
good and gone with his plastic wrists
and missing soul. the boy who entertains
his unfriendliest nightmares couldn’t
muster up enough innocence
to make it right. (today, he writes
a letter; dear Sophia, he tells me
it doesn’t get better. I’m
locked up for a crime I
didn’t commit. you did it,
Sophia. you built me
wrong.) but you know me,
I fell in love with a problem I
couldn’t fix, a boy blinded
who’s never seen the light.
He was a stormy violet but I
am cyan graying with age--
I spent most of my life dying,
and the rest of it wishing I
was someone else. they tell us
only god will see your ugly;
and the girl who swallowed
something lacking this way comesshe smells of smoke, tastessomething lacking this way comes in Free Verse More Like This
of cheap dreams and cheaper makeup,
sounds like someone who's used
to giving; her eyes are two
glossy sunsets out of a few
trillion that have set before--
when she shuts them, no one
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.
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
CapriciousWords have becomeCapricious in Free Verse More Like This
tasteless to me,
like rotten apples
fit for the worms.
it feels as
though I am
pirouetting my way through
a ballroom full of
tongues made for poetry.
wicked witch when
you need one?
All I seem to do is
dream while I'm awake and,
if we're being honest,
I was never much of an alluring tale
in the first place.
Evanescentonly the mostEvanescent in Free Verse More Like This
beautiful of creatures
live the shortest.
red roses and quivering
butterflies and other
useless things, like the
way she wishes on every star
she sees for a different
soul because she can't stand
the way it's rotting inside.
and it's only when
the thorns beneath her skin
start to bleed that her
monsters whisper, "have
you ever trembled, my dear?"
because they know
for every whimper that hides
faintly in the dark,
there is a pair of lips stretched
into a smile pretending
that all that is beautiful
is timeless and unbroken.
You WillIYou Will in Free Verse More Like This
Catholic school can really fuck you up.
“you have ugly hair”
Breasts at the age of nine.
Bullying makes you someone you don’t want to become;
hide all that blackness in your heart
with overly cheerful hyperactive personalities
(that make others think you’re a little strange),
Friends can’t tell when you just want to
and be alone
because of how deep you’ve dug yourself in.
Afraid of yourself, you think and think, and THINK,
until you are terrified you’re going to give in
to those dark thoughts -
(and if you do, then you’re just numb afterwards.
Staring at hands blankly).
Faith in everything, the world, God,
people around you,
all you can see is horror.
You hide it, fake it, pretend to be okay.
Why would anyone care to listen?
Just one person of billions
with worse problems than you th
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.
How to pretend that you are a writer.Act like you're notHow to pretend that you are a writer. in Free Verse More Like This
okay when you are and
that you are when you're
not. Run barefoot in
the snow. Stand out
in the rain for an hour
and think about anything
and everything you can.
Fall in love with
riddles and things that
aren't real and the
way some stars
shine. Cry when
you realize that life is
just one big sham and write
one hundred cliché poems
about it, and then write one
that you actually mean.
Use profanity. Be the
one fucking introvert
in a room full of
extroverts and scream
shit just for the fun of
it. Swallow every goddamn
metaphor you ever dreamed
of and write them down
with your own blood.
Eulogize your own
misery. Put a crown on
it and let it rule your
heart for six years before
you throw a coup d'etat
but just end up with
your head in a basket.
Ask yourself why
you feel so
empty and when
you forgot how to
laugh and where you
last left your smile and
who you even really are
anymore. Mean every word.
Don't cry at funerals. Cry
yourself to sleep every
other night for
It's not hatred, it's incredulity.when i was ten years old myIt's not hatred, it's incredulity. in Free Verse More Like This
teacher asked the class,
"if you were god, what would
and i remember
biting my lip so hard
that it bled. carefully,
i wrote about
how i would teach
kids from an early age on how to
love yourself and no one
else and that there is no such thing as
an almighty power that will pity
you and answer your desperate prayers
at three a.m. because you're the only one
who has that kind of control.
when i handed it in she just looked
at me like i was the
her child's bed. the next day i
was sitting in her office wondering
why it was so wrong to
talk about what's in your heart at a catholic
school when that's what the priest tells
you to do at every sunday mass and
the teacher asked me
another question, "do you
hate god?" and i
wanted to scream "yes, yes!" because
how can a god let the world
slip through their fingers like this one has?
but instead i answered,
"no. i just don't think there is one."
and sat in the chair,
staring at the cross on t
I can't write poetry for dead girls.there are tooI can't write poetry for dead girls. in Free Verse More Like This
many pills in this
world and too
much misery in
the human heart
but that didn't mean
that you could just
up and leave when
we both know it
could have gotten better
and i miss you like
a wolf misses her pack
or a goddamn dragon misses
her fire and i'm sorry
that i can't give you
a bouquet of jasmines
(they were your
favorite, after all,
because that was
the only princess
with a pet tiger)
because poppies are
too cliche and i'm
sorry i wasn't there
when all you needed
was a hug and for someone
to whisper "it's okay,
you're perfect enough
for me, don't listen
to that junkie bitch
who just happened to
give birth to you" and did
you know that i'm still waiting
for a reply to that one
email about the world's
best puns because fuck,
there's a stubborn part
of me that still refuses to
believe that you're gone.
AquariusShe is the winter's heartAquarius in Free Verse More Like This
and a January zephyr—
amethyst ankles frozen in time.
(eleven stars circulate her glacial ribs)
Forever shin-deep in the seas of
a conformed humanity,
she shall always sanctify the stains.
Within Temptationi am neither hereWithin Temptation in Visual & Found Poetry More Like This
nor there - just a
hidden deep within
a dangerous mind.
it's the fear,
somewhere in the
truth beneath the rose;
& all i need are
see who i am -
the deceiver of fools,
pale & frozen,
an ice queen.
but i will
stand my ground
in our solemn hour,
lost in a
.she calls down angels. in Free Verse More Like This
just to burn their
to see them rise then
fall, those flailing
she tells them, this
is what it's like
to be human
and they say judgement
will arrive for you, my
girl, you will be
cleansed by burning
and i strike another match
.i dream of drowning in. in Free Verse More Like This
lakes, belly up, a petal
shaped bruise of your thumb
on either wrist
i dream that what lays
in my bed is so much
more terrifying than what
lurks underneath it
.hangman, could you show. in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
me the ropes? i'd rather do
it all on my own
.you said november was a. in Free Verse More Like This
kick in the teeth
and life goes on
get over it
and i thought god
now i know how the birds feel
lying dead on my kitchen floor
.i've been breaking out of. in Free Verse More Like This
hell, but the devil don't
he slips a return ticket
into my pocket and says,
you're gonna wanna
use this, kid
.they greet me like old friends,. in Free Verse More Like This
ivory hands gripping my
shoulders a little too tight
to be forgiving
i tell them that i'm sorry,
and they know what i mean,
their smiles fade and the black
holes on their faces start to furrow
and i explain that it's not
quite time, not yet
i still haven't worked up the guts
to let them out
but they've heard this spiel before,
and it's getting harder to
silence the rattling, a myriad of
skulls and ribs that i can no longer
.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
.the cat keeps. in Free Verse More Like This
leaving dead meat
on my doormat,
a pile of bones,
bloody and raw
he wants me to
know what i'm
walking into, he
wants me to know
just what i am
I'm talking myself in circles,I screamed,I'm talking myself in circles, in Free Verse More Like This
"There is nothing
wrong with me, not a damn
I wanted to believe
the big dipper on my arm
meant something more
than sun marks & kisses.
But, how can I trust words
that slip through my teeth
as easy as breathing
when this star
has only ever learned
how to f
Once Upon a Carcass,I loved her like the flaws in barbed wire;Once Upon a Carcass, in Free Verse More Like This
it stung. & I needed to take her castle ribs-
but I was jealous of heaven.
She spoke through her bones.
She: a beautiful decay
draped along my apartment,
& the mess of my mouth.
When she left,
I cried big ugly tears
for the First Aid of her
I needed Draco.
I needed her.
“Is it sweet?” She meows even still
with all my self-doubt.
This thing, I must not feed it-
As I still long to leave galaxies
along the length of her entire bed.
It is 9 in the afternoon& I have forgottenIt is 9 in the afternoon in Free Verse More Like This
how to write in poetics-
tongue kissed & gaping like
a siren missing from her sea.
I have been coughing up black
for days. Unable to clean the taste
from my mouth, these broken
typewriter keys sewn into my
fingertips scream something fierce.
They ache with longing
to tell of a story
that left them
for a better high
a story that never deserved
to make a home under the skin,
to crawl breech through an
-& out through the wrists
of young girls much too ripe
to fall from their beds.
I am so damn tired
of looking over railings
& wondering what
it would feel like
dear,when i first met you,dear, in Free Verse More Like This
terror chilled down
& my heart
began to build
walls over walls
i won’t let them
hurt you, again.
i have a tendency
to get knocked
off my feet
& not know
how to get back up.
i’m still crawling around,
searching for your heart
beats under my bed
& between my tangled
i am pathetic.
you were all crooked,
& nights of forgetting
to take your zoloft.
i didn’t think I would miss that.
i didn’t think I would miss you.
you fell like a meteor
for him, hours after
you demolished me.
& i can’t hope you’re happy
because i’m still patching up
the war zone you left behind.
i taste bile in my throat.
i swallow it back down.
i won’t get sick for you.
To be a writerYou taste like decaying leavesTo be a writer in Free Verse More Like This
and October's bad habits-
when it’s halfway through February
that still haunts these bones.
I have allowed you to
claw your love
into my arms
and chant into my
for much too long.
I wish I was one of those girls
who could say wild flowers
grow up through my nooks
and my crannies just to tear
through my skin, screaming.
I’m just that dead eyed deer
on the side of the road dreaming
of shoving a pen down my throat
and writing these verses inside out.
I am no scribe, prophet, or spell caster.
I know it.
My skin knows it.
My pen knows it too.
Years and years
my mind will dwell
on the way your fingers
chain linked between my ribs
and shook my
to be a writer
is to be a masochist,
and I refuse to get off
on the pain anymore.
NaPoWriMo- Day 5She used to try and catch butterfliesNaPoWriMo- Day 5 in Free Verse More Like This
until she realized their beauty
rubbed off on her fingers;
but she will always be loving you
with those digits.
20 years from now
when even the love on her arms
NaPoWriMo Day: 1I’ve got 30 daysNaPoWriMo Day: 1 in Free Verse More Like This
to defy Icarus:
teach this rose thorn heart
how to fly.
[ All I want to be
is the space between
But, I’m here,
ripping holes in blank pages
while nursing nebulae knuckles
with white plastered walls.
binge eatingi have a buildupbinge eating in Free Verse More Like This
of black holes
suffocating my arteries,
having swallowed down
the bitter taste of too many
girls with galaxies traveling
the length of their spines.
i ate them in mouthfuls,
gaping & sad like a binge
reaching for the skies-
unable to hold them all in.
i don’t think the universe
is as vast
as it used to be,
of my ribs;
i am hungry.
& with a collection
of moon sighs
as a reminder
in my pockets,
i will just have to learn
how to calm this swollen
boys with bird names cant actually fly.i fill my lungs with blackberriesboys with bird names cant actually fly. in Free Verse More Like This
& nicotine because it is the only way
I can stomach the taste.
a phoenix told me once
that he could teach me
how to burn properly,
as if scolding
[ like the intercostal
spaces of a ribcaged
he fell in love
with my words
before he knew
the height of my
or the annoying
sound of my laugh.
he said he could count
all my scars on one hand-
even the ones that wake me
at 3 am with an itch i swear
begs me to rip them open
& i told him he could keep
his pretty words and fiery fingers
creatively away from me.
i am tired of smelling of hell
& ash when -
Scarificationblood oranges areScarification in Free Verse More Like This
slice them open
without a moment’s
their crimson juices
licked from our lips
& that is what
i want to be. -
i sucked from
your mouth -
along my spine.
- i was cut open
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,and we'll rot in Free Verse More Like This
you are not
or honey bones
& you have only
ever been a god
inside of your own head
Vertebraewe dressed ourVertebrae in Free Verse More Like This
& bone crowns
spitting static through
our buzzing t.v. teeth
you're a silent migraine:
[& i want to be something
too pristine to
shetar-tongued;she in Free Verse More Like This
bones & star-
fever burns &
Astrali'm the seraphicAstral in Free Verse More Like This
a hallowed body
like i am hellbent on
speak like you are a god -I.speak like you are a god - in Free Verse More Like This
with these vorticose veins
i am withering, a nightwalker
amongst young phantoms
the hangman in my head doesn't sleep;
he doesn't bat an eye
Celestewe'll kiss hell's palms likeCeleste in Free Verse More Like This
before we give sermons tonight;
pacing scaffolds, we long
to wake immaculate -
Saltwater Burnsmend your brittleSaltwater Burns in Free Verse More Like This
poet fingers &
nurse your static head
cherry lips &
blue, blue fingernails
[girls like you are
Abidethi will not write youAbideth in Free Verse More Like This
into a seraph,
nor mend your
nor nurse your
raw pock-pitted tongue
do not wear your
on your wrists
have never been
one of the damned
voltagemy cracked skullvoltage in Free Verse More Like This
leaks grey matter &
selenic steam, but dearest,
i can talk myself
into a deity;
i'm a galaxy boy
melting my mind
I was never a writer. I: HalfsleeperI was never a writer. in Free Verse More Like This
I fell in love, once.
A snowstorm melting from my hair - dripping cataract:
diluted coffee. A dark room filled with language
so beautiful, I almost understood what was said.
Children are getting younger, and this land has no end,
where do you rest your head?
All things are in a constant state of vibration,
a harmony in the space between
our fingers. our hands.
I’ve only ever stopped to listen
Halcyon Days Graveyards on the RoadHalcyon Days in Free Verse More Like This
I drive a street pot-hole paved the lightest grey;
tired eyes coupled with the pitch stained tracks of a younger man
guide me back, the press of tires into the rough, grained
surface of days long past that never lasted
and never last.
It’s funny how soft skin can feel to fingertips
so used to cigarette burns, see-saw doorknobs, a nibbling mind,
and everything but feeling.
It’s funny how often I find my hands so close
to my face, posing the question, ‘Are you real?
Graffiti Dreams in Black and White The strokes are dreamt permanent,Graffiti Dreams in Black and White in Free Verse More Like This
the only lasting demarcations of claiming existence,
and the collective artists who painted them majored in Biology,
or Accounting, or English and Professional Writing, or dropped out
as so many do when they wake up.
The poet paints them into existence with his words:
“ideas are illusions, and all words are untrue.”
And we nod our heads and sip our coffees, indeed,
put a price to labors and words and even to thoughts
because we no longer want freedom if it costs us the freedom
of saving face and keeping pace with the ebb and flow
HyperboreanThe world we live in is a distorted projection,Hyperborean in Free Verse More Like This
And this moment, naught but a polaroid dream:
Fires dancing at the edges and ink collapsing upon itself.
These streets have melted into bad acid lust visions,
Abandoned shopping cart homes, deep inner-city arm infections,
And other various tripping hazards.
Resolved, we residentially meander along,
Keep our heads firmly fixed to glass floors shattering florescent and
The crunching of our boots gracing the bent forms of those beneath,
Finger-painting cragged gravel surfaces opaque with their pupils
And filling the potholes with Sisyphean shortcomings.
Hammer-handed, delusional, needle-m
Atlantic CityThe Only Shrine I’ve Ever KnownAtlantic City in Free Verse More Like This
The whole world is soft shades of grey
Punctuated by your eyes:
Clouded pieces of sea glass worn smooth
Through the tireless waves of nights lost to loneliness;
You lead me, hand in hand, to the oceanside,
"There is magic here"
You exclaimed excitedly,
"Here, words have power."
My deviantART StoryUnlike most deviants who seemed born to the endeavor, I was first inspired to start writing creatively the early Winter of my sophomore year in college when I stopped to admire the bare branches of a tree on my walk home one afternoon.My deviantART Story in Personal More Like This
I probably stood outside next to the sidewalk staring into a grey sky for an hour just watching the wind try to catch the arms of that oak and no longer finding the leaves that used to be there to hold on to. And me, bright-eyed with all the time in the world, wearing some black band shirt to contrast with my red nose, flushed cheeks and frozen tipped ears.
When I got back to my apartment, I wrote a draft which - while I didn't know it at the time - would end up indicative of all of my future writings as it would go through about five major edits over the course of more than a month which would lead to most of what I had written being stripped from it until it became this:
You see, I'm not at all gifted in the v
Ghosts on Magnetic Tape And you know that I love you,Ghosts on Magnetic Tape in Free Verse More Like This
here and now,
but never for forever;
The future is not, and it never will be.
What We Love
When I was born,
I opened my eyes.
I said, “I am value in a world of appreciation.”
Thine Sanctum, Darkness
There are two kinds of people in this world,
black and white,
Those terrified of darkness,
Who scurry to shoo it away with the sob of a lamp,
As unable to cross their boundaries as they are
Unable to see beyond them.
to become a writer.parents divorce before you can talk.to become a writer. in Free Verse More Like This
write about it
like you don't care.
try to mean it.
go through months
of shitty pity-leaking almost-poems
before you get one
that actually makes someone feel
say that it was all a mistake.
only feel like a writer
when you're insecure.
fall in love
with someone. anyone.
that's it's just for fun. just for being
actually love the hell out of them.
mess it up.
write about it.
smoke 2-5 cigarettes every day,
but with the hopes
of saving your lungs for running
(a metaphor? another rule: never tell)
and drink and drink and drink
until you have the courage
to call up ex boyfriends
or lovers or dead friends
to say that you miss them.
write about that-
like you don't care.
everyone knows that you care.
write about that.
s. Midnight came like a storm. I watched it take him by the waist and drag him away, fingers clawing at his sheets and shivers climbing over his limbs-- fever dreams. Moans died out in the back of his throat. I sat still as a winter night on the foot of his bed and didn't wake him, because the only thing worse for him than being eclipsed in a nightmare was being awake for one. We all know that.s. in Short Stories More Like This
People told me that there was no way that I could have seen the signs; no way to know what he was doing behind closed doors. But they didn't know that I did know. I saw the marks on his arms; not just the ones made by a needle, but the ones that ran horizontal for miles down not just his arms, and the ones I knew father made (another thing that I knew). I was there when he tried to dissect his wrist the first time, and I joined in with the echoes of 'oh my god I had no idea' and 'what a shame'.
We used to sit by the fir
ellie.she was always aellie. in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
galaxy, and i am not
allowed to touch stars.
stars only die from drug overdoses.there's a boy i knowstars only die from drug overdoses. in Free Verse More Like This
who used to swallow coins
like hard candy;
stuck to his chin
from my own hands,
lucid in our lungs
and the road
a blur from our sadistic words.
he doesn't believe in hell
neither do i.
but i believe in the stars
and i want to know what happens to them
when they die.
i was doing so well at this happy thing.from age fivei was doing so well at this happy thing. in Free Verse More Like This
it was the constant
voices (at home
and in my head)
telling me that i was
and then for 3 years
i was nothing.
i was the child
that dyed her hair and
told her dad that
she didn't want to get married
because it was all
for 3 years,
i was the girl who
wrote stories and folded them up in
to hang above my bed.
at 16 years old,
my dad tells me
that i'm too
i don't eat enough.
and i know that it's not
true. i eat
what my body needs.
and i had finally gotten
to the spot where
i felt comfortable.
no-- fuck, i felt good.
when i look in the mirror
all i see is my dad
telling me that i am a mess
(even though he never said
and that when he was my age,
he didn't have anxiety attacks
and my brother
may be a fuck up but
at least he's
mentally capable (sort of).
no matter what,
will always be better
and so will my
neshamah.apollo's misstep.neshamah. in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
look at your clock. it's tomorrow. all the seconds and minutes of yesterday are gone, disintegrated with the window dust. 12:00 a.m.; re birth.
i've always had this theory that in between 11:59 p.m. and 12:00 a.m., there's this vast ticking of nothingness that hovers between the minutes. just for a second, you are nowhere. the day is both finished and regenerating, and that's sort of magical. i always think that apollo falters, just for a second, as he puts the moon away, tucked neatly in his teeth.
born in a typewriter.
i can never think of how to start anything. the point, of course, is to grab the reader's attention before they become bored with your work and leave, and i don't know if i can do that. i am afraid i cannot ever begin to tell you all of my story.
if i were to be chronological, i would start with telling you when i began to write. but, 1: i am never
the skin on my bones, the sun on my fingers.at 8:54 p.m., i realizethe skin on my bones, the sun on my fingers. in Free Verse More Like This
that i love you more
than the sun loves the moon,
and the sand and shells,
than the wind loves the
i love you like
i love the last drag
of a cigarette,
the humming of the air
before a thunderstorm
i love you like
i love my blankets after
work, like i love my habit
of turning off
every single light
before i go to
you are more
than how the sky looks
in the dead of winter;
that perpetual ink-spill of
are more dear to me
than the thousands of words
i have written.
if i could
i would put the world
into my palm
and then burn it,
torch it all and pick away
at the flaming remains and
until i can paint a life
so that it half way resembles
what i feel
monster in the closet.anxiety ripsmonster in the closet. in Free Verse More Like This
through my bones
every night when
I pull the blankets
tight around me.
it's not the
dreams. those i
there's just something
that's burrowed deep
inside my ribcage
and clings on with
inhaling my mind
with foul lips.
my heart climbs
to my mouth;
and i choke (and
choke and choke and choke)
until i'm a mess
of tangled sheets and
a thousand different
ways that i could have
died. but here's the
catch-- i am not
afraid to die.
i am afraid
that i have already
red.these cigarettes will killred. in Free Verse More Like This
me, but only if
i don't do it first.
(inhale, breathe, hold, exhale. then concentrate on the scenery. feel the smoke on your tongue and think about how you're killing yourself, when in reality, you're already dying.)
we're all going to
die, so what's one
day less? it seems like an
honest bargain to me,
but then again, you should never
listen to a word i
say, because i am
a class A fuck up
(or so they say).
see, i'm either too fat
or too skinny,
much too heart wild
for any man too marry.
("who would want to marry a girl like you? you're too stubborn," my father says. i am fifteen with purple hair and fire on my cheeks and my heart coiling away from my sleeve.
"fuck anyone who wants to take anything about you away," my mother tells me when i'm nearly 16, with sad eyes and a worn out expectation.)
but i think i realize now
that i don't
for me i am good enough,
good in general,
/ we smile at the universe with ashes on our lips. there are boats inside of our veins. the blood is a metaphor and, hell, i can't even begin to write about her./ in Short Stories More Like This
i could tell any story. if i wanted, i could write a novel about my mother and how beautiful she was a sixteen or i could make a lighthouse a person, but i cannot tell you the color or her eyes. it's that that i don't know it; i just can't tell you. it's not a color, it's a place.
her eyes are like Chicago. there's life and lights and lakes, but there's a sadness, too. even so, it's a happy kind of sad. the kind that gives you hope.
sometimes when i'm high i think that i'm dead, because i get numb. not physically senseless, but just mentally dazed. i forget where i am. i like that. it seems sometimes like i am a place, i am all the street signs and the cracks in the road and badly painted house down the way. see the really faint dot on the map? that's me. scribb
AsphodelA beckoning:Asphodel in Free Verse More Like This
watercolour sky shrinking,
too late, teeth fall; pearls
from a broken string.
Blink and the moon ignites—
but the sheets are still
1,001 NightsIn a land of1,001 Nights in Free Verse More Like This
dreams and dust:
the curve of
a half-hazed sun,
LiliyaBright-eyed,Liliya in Free Verse More Like This
mistress of light.
HaikuWriMo1HaikuWriMo in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
Church spire, stretching,
weds the moon.
and a heavy heat;
steeds of elven knights,
armoured all in blue.
upon orange glass:
a specimen, fossilised
veined in gold—
fallen like snowdrops.
Eagle in flight,
great wings cradling
peeking from a soft,
smoky grey duvet.
The world settles;
the heavens awaken—
two arrows in tandem.
The yellow of an
crinkled paper moon.
Tangled in old web—
a spider, noosed.
of a smudged landscape:
pot of molten gold
along the treetops.
DuskCrowning glory aflame,Dusk in Free Verse More Like This
a golden Queen
revel in the coming
MizpahThe crying windMizpah in Free Verse More Like This
and blurred at
NetherThe world unfurls:Nether in Free Verse More Like This
becomes a gemstone, sinking
a mirror breaking
a thousand splintering realities
and I am lost —
forgotten who I ever was,
forgotten how to breathe.
NymphTranslucent asNymph in Free Verse More Like This
a dragonfly wing—
her hair fans
in the water, and
the sun bleeds.
Alla RabiosaScorpio's tail slips low—Alla Rabiosa in Free Verse More Like This
a mari usque ad mare:
from sea to sea
over me, a devil in the sky above;
and the Huntress
peels dawn like an orange.
amongst the stars:
the Mad Queen's cosmic mirage.)
How CharmingI'm desperate to find herHow Charming in Free Verse More Like This
to steal another kiss.
should be simpler than this.
Goodnight MoonThe battered sky bloomsGoodnight Moon in Free Verse More Like This
as the dark teabag stain
under her weary eyes.
Like the couplet
strung around her necklace
with teeth marks -
jewels impressed into
the vast expansive sky
of her laden shoulderbones.
The bruise darkens
and the stars seem impossible.
Too far away
and smiling a long dead smile.
But somewhere a pomegranate lip,
swollen with the disdain
that he made her swallow -
somewhere, those lips
find the courage to say
Beneath the RoseI can't burn the street down, the tar will fill our lungs,Beneath the Rose in Free Verse More Like This
I can't fix the bridges, or the bolts bedded in our tongues.
I can't explain the constant, buried deep beneath the rose,
with all the other things I broke; death and all erodes.
Beautiful LiesYou painted a neon yellow streakBeautiful Lies in Free Verse More Like This
across my ankle
and told me I was art.
I raked a venomous red line
across your throat
and replied: and you're a liar.
For every boy I ever kissedi.For every boy I ever kissed in Free Verse More Like This
you took my hand 'neath the magnolia
at a christmas dinner party I held.
your mouth was cold. so were my affections.
you were the first man to listen to me.
i let you listen to my heartbeat; but
when the day fell away, you bruised me deep.
you were my safe harbour, and i your storm
turning your misery to naught but air
but i squirmed away from your tongue, repulsed.
you were my cradle, when i couldn't sleep
you would hold me close and pray for something,
anything, to keep me safe. (it was you).
eleven months spent sleeping with my phone,
i still couldn't believe when you kissed me
even after midnight struck us again.
i don't miss those guitar-player fingers
you wrapped me 'round. i loved enough for you
until i realised you didn't love me.
we fell into our love by accident
and like one, there were some fatalities
when you said you loved me using her name.
opposites attract. i fell hard for you.
you kissed me in starlit castle ruins.
WhoreI thread a vein out through a scalpel notch;Whore in Free Verse More Like This
and use it as a ribbon to present my heart to you.
I cough a little spare blood. I didn't need it.
I lick the copper from my silenced subterfuge mouth
and it reminds me of the prostitution of my soul
as I pour myself over other men's empty hands
in the dying hope that someone might hold on.
I smear my wrist against a digital canvas and cry;
I give it all to you freely, and nothing in return.
You smile. I break. You hear but you don't listen;
you just throw another single penny for my thoughts.
Those ThursdaysWhat about those thursday morningsThose Thursdays in Free Verse More Like This
when you'd wake up and find your ribcage door
swung open again by the nightmares
with an owl nesting, and pecking at your heart muscle?
What about those thursday mornings
and having to fold your elbows around your knees
to stop yourself from losing anything important
as the mechanics shook and shook you
and the pain cracked you, bones and blisters?
What about those tuesday afternoons
when you hear that familiar sound that makes you cry,
that hissing noise that warns you of upcoming agony
and you can taste it in your mouth again, so familiar -
what about those tuesday afternoons
when you swallow your words and the drugs
to try and stop it from coming back
but it returns just the same and against your will
you hear yourself still breathing?
What about it?
What about those hazy sunday evenings
when the fine line between oh-god-make-it-stop
and please-god-let-it-end gets blurry somehow
and you don't remember how much you drank, or what?
What about those d
Something(someone) Smallmy curious ivoriesSomething(someone) Small in Free Verse More Like This
tucked between these lips
beg to see what kisses taste like,
to feel what love looks like,
but dampened down
between safety and sound
the tiniest bones in my body, in my ears,
vibrate with a fake smile
and the nod of my dainty doll head
as i lie (with you/to you) again
and grimace; i'm okay.
Expensive LiesI sit and stare at the toilet bowl.Expensive Lies in Free Verse More Like This
A guy I know is bulimic.
When we compliment him
I see the twist of agony in his eyes
as his brain reprograms it
to sound like an expensive lie
that costs him another tear
in his tattered dignity.
Friends hurry to him,
to reassure him, to love him.
They tell him how beautiful he is.
We didn't know him before,
but he's definitely not fat now.
We whisper things in concern like;
body dysmorphic disorder.
'I know you'll never believe me
but you are so gorgeous -
not just on the inside.' Not just.
And they're right, I join in,
because they are right to say it
because it happens to be true -
he is stunning. Not just on the outside.
And we want him to see himself
the way we see him, beautiful.
And I join in because
I've felt that strangle of pain
in my stomach, bowels and belly,
when someone used to tell me lies.
So I know how he feels.
Only, he is beautiful on the outside
and I'm not.
He's not seeing reality in the mirror
and I am.
And people rush to correc
WallpaperShe leaves the window to let the rain in. She watches the lazy river form and fall, seeping into the designer wallpaper and staining it. She watched the rain tug at the seams of the walls and imagined the room coming undone around her. She imagined the ceiling caving in and crushing her. She lay still and watched the rain fall. She lay still and tried not to breathe, to burn, to break.Wallpaper in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The Problem With Elia.she could have been a violin;The Problem With Elia. in Free Verse More Like This
born a week too late, she had
melancholy in her bones: doctor lizbet
took time out of her schedule to pluck her
newborn strings - calloused sanitation against
mottled pink-and-yellow flesh & thrashing limbs.
in three more years, she will have
nothing in her bones at all: doctor estair
diagnosed her with iatrophobia to fuel her
instinctive chords - ripple-free shells of liquid
lobotomy & a capsule to callous her pink-and-yellow
flesh against the thought of just getting over it all.
ten years after that, her mother will
find her face down and thrashing: her dust
bunny bones will flex as she retches up her memories
for display - lawyers will spend the next few years pawing
through them with clawed hands and heaving breathing until
one day, they find lizbet and estair huddled amid the rubble of her bones.
Pears and Peaches (Things They Don't Teach Us)On Monday, he eats peaches. His right arm is curled against his chest like an embryo and as I hurry by, I imagine that it is a side effect of a stroke brought on by grief.Pears and Peaches (Things They Don't Teach Us) in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
On Tuesday, he eats mandarins. He clutches the fruit in his right hand and peels it with the stiffened, arthritic fingers of his left. As I hurry by, I imagine that he earned that arthritis with a lifetime of labor.
On Wednesday, he eats bananas. He peels the fruit slowly, his rheumy eyes lost to memory. As I hurry by, I wonder if he is thinking of a lover.
On Thursday, he eats grapes. Some of them are brown and pitted, liver-spotted like his skin. As I hurry by, I wonder if he made it to the supermarket this week or if they are all that was left from the week before.
On Friday, he eats cherries. They are a rich burgundy and his lips are bleeding with the colour of them. As I hurry by, I notice that he has tucked cherries over his ears and he is smiling.
On Saturday, he does not eat
on begging to be yourselfI don't want to die. I've never wanted to die, not even when I curled into an apostrophe and muttered the half-wish to the walls of my flesh.on begging to be yourself in Emotional More Like This
All I've ever wanted is a word. I want a word for the ache between my xylophone ribs that doesn't make my loved ones shudder with misinterpretation and distrust of my volatile heart; I want a word to encompass the missing parts that I cannot remember the names of; I want a word that will explain to people that it's okay that I'm not whole, because not-whole doesn't always equate to being broken.
I can tell you that my heart aches the way a blade of grass bends in a summer storm, my skin feels like drying watercolours on pavement and I can feel the highway of my veins inside my flesh, but I can't tell you that I have the word I need. I don't have it, but my knees are puckered from prayer that someone out there does and that one day they'll press poetry into my ears and share it with me like a secret.
I don't want to die. All I want is to be allowe
Never tell her you understand, never.if her eyes fade outNever tell her you understand, never. in Free Verse More Like This
and the shutters slam,
old sitcoms will color
them blue and green again.
if her spine curves and folds
in on itself,
draw the curtains
and fill the house with the
smell of fresh bread:
it will rouse her tired bones.
if her breath hitches
and you can hear it
stuttering in the night,
switch on the light
and let her simmer into
her own brand of silence before
you cease her shivering.
if her body betrays her sadness
and her lips tell you lies,
she does not mean them.
give her time to clear the dust from her lips
and welcome her with open arms later.
if her arms offer apologies
and her hands shake,
tell her that her best effort is enough,
that you don't mind if it takes
time: she will love you for it.
maria:she is splayedmaria: in Free Verse More Like This
beneath the moon, a
[star]fish out of
swallows the sounds of
keyed piano concertos
& suddenly, she
realizes - this
is how it must feel to
be [at peace
god never meant for us to be anything1. patrickgod never meant for us to be anything in Free Verse More Like This
i expected wonders
from a boy with a tongue
like a viper and a small,
spare room in a strange house.
i did not get them.
i tasted my first cigarette
on your lips.
and couldn't wash the taste
out for weeks.
i never smoked again.
we were a divine mistake,
right down to the way
your hands skittered
over my flesh like deer.
read the fury on my face
as i left.
a dark room
and misplaced pillows
caught my disinterest
and muffled it
while you pulled off your shirt.
it never went as far as you had hoped.
you taught me
satin sheets hold.
i taught you
how to feel falsely oppressed.
you taught me how to appreciate
the shape of kind hands
and quiet lips
in a rowdy school yard.
i forgot your name
within a year
and recall it with doubt.
my hips had not
swollen to accommodate a fetus.
your interest lay with
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,to the ghosts with you, my dear in Free Verse More Like This
or to have myself cradled
in the curve of a throat,
but to be broken,
to be diminished
by your lack of affection
& over indulgence of sexualization.
uneducated in your intent,
found myself left entirely whole
& incapable of the fury
i had sought to sow between the
ridges of my aching ribs.
Wanderlust Takes You to Strange Placesyou've got that suitcase, half-packed and tattered, waiting by the door.Wanderlust Takes You to Strange Places in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
you're thinking of saying goodbye to these hardwood floors to travel the Nullabor, to feel the desert strip your skin of the filth that crawls over it.
it sure would be nice to see stars, out beyond the streetlights of the city. you could lose yourself in the blank stretches between them, forget your toes are anchored in dirty red sand.
you've got that suitcase, half-packed and tattered, waiting by the door.
you're thinking it was a good thing you visited that clinic all those months ago with Jimmy clinging to your hand like a limpet.
his sweat formed an ocean in the palm of your hand and when you tasted it, it filled your empty womb with relief and the trickle of blood kissed your thighs like a lover would.
you've got that suitcase, half-packed and tattered, waiting by the door.
you're thinking of saying goodbye to blood and bone, tattered ribcage on the floor. beauty is only skin deep but sin sits
On having a poet for a childthey are born like any otherOn having a poet for a child in Free Verse More Like This
child: red-faced, squalling. this
doesn't make them a poet.
they are raised like any other
child: good food, warm clothes. this
doesn't make them a poet.
they are let out like any other
child: into the grass, the dirt. this
doesn't make them a poet.
they hurt themselves like any other
child: a scraped knee, a torn finger. this
doesn't make them a poet.
they do a thousand things like any other
child: fly a kite, read a book. this
doesn't make them a poet.
you've already missed the moment
it happened. their first breath carried the
bone-dust of a poet, it may have been
plath or yeats, but it doesn't matter. this
has already made them into a poet.
a father's mistakei am the greatest mistake of your lifea father's mistake in Free Verse More Like This
but i am yet to meet you.
i have not looked into wine-sodden eyes
and said yes, this is my father
and ruined the rapport you had going
with that quiet blonde in the
have not peered
through half shuttered blinds
and thought yes, this is my other home
and trespassed on the goodwill
of the woman you made your wife
instead of my mother.
have not knelt
beside your sons and daughters as they
etched the world into the pavement
with bright, powdered colours.
i am your daughter but i am no home wrecker,
no quiet lion waiting to roar and lay claim
to a pride that is not mine, has never been mine.
i am yours, but only my blood can
tell you that and i am not likely to bleed for you.
my place is not here in this concrete jungle,
i am a child of paper and ink,
and if you s