She Talks With MonstersThis girl never had a fear of monsters.More Like This
She allowed them to rest on the insides of her eyelids,
the crook of her neck, the empty spaces of her chest cavity.
She had no fear, there were much scarier things in this world
than darkness, clawing at her back. Living for the night
she etched her dreams upon the bars of her cage
whispering of centuries past because she truly missed the sun,
grass on her back. Frosty Decembers have her forgetting
what it feels like to love, but she knows who she is
she doesn't need the taste of cigarette ash
suffocating her inside her own flesh.
November skies tore open this night,
ripping a hole in her bedsheets.
It is in those dark spaces between
bone marrow and heartbeats that she finds herself-
tattered and breathless, whispering dark secrets
into a strangers ears. Her origami limbs folding
like patterned paper only to reach desperately
for the sun kissed frills of Apollo's robes.
kitestrings.you confessed that when you were little you would pull apart monarch butterflies because they were much too beautiful--More Like This
so beautiful that they made you feel uneasy.
(you always did call me the most beautiful thing you'd ever known.)
it's almost december now, and the only reason i wish you were here is so you could make snow angels and i could rip off their wings.
you wanted a kite for your birthday, so i got you one that was shaped like a bat and we took it to the beach, watched it crash into the surf over and over until it was bent and broken. i rescued it from the tide and surfaced dripping saltwater -- you told me i looked like the goddess of sailors lost at sea.
after that day you put the kite in the back of your closet and forgot about it, but immediately began talking about getting a new one.
that could fly higher.
i sometimes tell myself that we were never meant to be because i was stuck in the ocean watching people drown while you were hanging from
sticks and stones.broken people like to write poems about how they are broken.More Like This
they like to turn people into words because no one's heart
has ever been punctured by parentheses, but by god it's not
for lack of trying. in a poem, broken people can have hangnails
and they never have to brush their hair because the tangles
symbolize the time they lost their virginity and there are no mirrors
unless they write about one and force themselves to look into it.
broken people also like to use cliche metaphors
but that is okay because when you are broken
sometimes cliche metaphors are all you have left.
"i am a rose and you think i'm beautiful so you
keep ramming me into your eye, thorn first."
"i am uncut grass and you roll around in me,
joyful, shaking, but when you stop to catch
your breath and look at your forearms you
see that they're covered in hundreds of tiny cuts."
"i am a dandelion. i don't know why but goddamnit
i am tender and damaged and i've already written
a poem where i've mentioned turning into