Darling, Don't You DareTo the girl who skips dinner,More Like This
Because her reflection hurts more than
To the boy who wears sweatshirts
On hot summer days,
Because he doesn’t want his mother to cry over his
To the boy who weeps uncontrollably
Until he falls asleep,
Because it’s the only way to escape into his
To the girl who spends her days in her bedroom,
Because the dark is more peaceful than her
To the child who gets angry,
Because no one understands.
To the teens who self-harm,
To the ones in recovery,
To the ones that just can’t do it anymore…
For the girl who skips meals
And the boy who wears sweatshirts,
For the boy who cries,
The girl who hides,
And the ones who just can’t do it anymore.
You’ve come this far.
Don’t you dare give up on it, now.
Three Brothers Were Granted Three WishesThree brothers were granted three wishes, and the first wished for gold: he grew wealthy beyond any man's dreaming, and all that he desired was his – until one day a dragon chanced to hear of his hoard, and claimed it for herself; its owner was burned alive.More Like This
Three brothers were granted three wishes, and the next wished for glory: his name was passed from lips to lips, and all the world praised him – until one day the folk had need of a hero and begged him for aid, and he was unable to give it; his lies had led to their doom, and he went to the gallows.
Three brothers were granted three wishes, and the last wished for garlic: and though the maids thenceforth were loth to kiss him, he never feared vampires again.
Four WordsThis is how the world ends:More Like This
A quiet morning, a rainy day, a glass of orange juice. Your hand on mine, heavy. Your voice:
“We need to talk.”
My shoulder to cry on shoves a beer under my nose. “Hey,” he says, “it's not the end of the world.”
But he doesn't realize: it is.
BorderBetween the one world and the other lies a knife's blade, and all my life I have danced along that edge: never truly one thing, nor fully another. Ropes anchored below my skin string me up, tie me down, in every direction. I dance as a marionette, jerky and unbalanced.More Like This
Knowing, always: there's no place that's home; and to have one thing I must forsake another. I cannot stray far to either side.
The soles of my feet cannot but be cut.
His BallerinaA gown of silk, flowing as a stream,More Like This
Her footsteps so gentle, perhaps she was a dream,
As he crouches near bushes to glare at the unseen,
And she danced like ballerina.
Her fingers combed her golden hair,
A perfect lady who didn't care
To see the man that would never dare
To touch a ballerina.
But desire grew, and patience died,
As a lovely girl danced before his eyes,
So he buried his heart, pulled out a knife,
And tickled the ballerina.
She fought his hands, in fear of death,
A dirty blade sinking through her chest,
For he would never settle for something less,
As she screamed,
She took her final breath...
And the wind grew calm, barely blowing on the stream.
Her voice so quiet (perhaps it was a dream).
As he closes his eyes, cradling his queen...
His beautiful ballerina.
you are what you eatdomine, adiuva meMore Like This
i never wanted this
to happen the way it
it was supposed to be so
i was supposed to be gone before
screaming and shouting
and vomit and
where are my fingers?
my vision is so blurry,
ice cold water rising up,
touching my chin.
i do not remember
how i got here.
i do not remember
i do not remember
i do not remember when i
vomited upon my body,
nor when i was lain
there was an open
bottle of pain meds when she
walked through the door.
three little white pills
the rest missing from their
where are the pills, she asked.
where are the rest?
she found her baby in the bedroom,
lying face down
in her own vomit.
she found the pills.
i was not sorry until
i woke up the next day,
vomiting up blood
and my own guts, and my
sister called me
i was not sorry until
she sobbed, "i was so worried
SinkingSinking. I’m sinking.More Like This
Down, down, down I go.
The itch in my eyes, the heated burning of my cheeks.
There are rivers flowing down my face,
Drip-drip-dripping on my desk.
One wipe of my sleeve and the evidence is gone.
If only the tears of my soul could be so easily taken care of.
My only place of refuge is sleep.
Going back to those warm, welcoming covers
And those warm, welcoming dreams
Which are the only things that are keeping me sane.
But I never want to leave that sacred place.
I don’t want to wake to cold and dark mornings.
I don’t want to wake to ink-black nights, nightmare’s terrain.
I don’t want to wake.
Frustrated scribblings in a notebook I used to draw in.
Papers filled with nonsense formulas,
Chemical reactions and analyses.
What does it matter what score I get on my rapport card?
Who cares if I only just managed to scrape through?
Or if I got full marks?
Does anyone care I’m losing sleep to dreams in which my
ChoicesThe door is so close he can almost taste it. He lunges forwards through the darkness, but it is always just out of his reach, mocking him with its distance.More Like This
It doesn't look like a door. He isn't sure how he knows it is one, but he knows; that patch of darkness is deeper than the rest, and different, and if he can only manage to reach it – to break through –
His guide gestures silently to the door.
I'm coming, he promises. I'm coming.
He wakes alone. The bed is rumpled and his mind is blank. There is a foreign smell in the air – perfume – but he can't remember whose. The night before is a muffled blur, although he can remember his dream in vivid detail.
He sits up, sighs, rubs his temples, glances at the mirror – and starts. The girl from his dream is standing behind him, silent, pleading. He whirls around: there's no one there.
Back to the mirror: there she stands, pale and anguished. She raises an ethereal arm and beckons to him.
i.i heard you howlingMore Like This
at two a.m. in the bathroom,
the rain drowning out
i heard you tearing at
the hollow of your throat.
you'd think that no one else would be
as sly as you to know
you aren't really what you say,
you're not okay--
you're not okay.
you named her anne after
the mother that never raised you.
called her your baby,
but never once did she
press her tongue against her teeth.
i saw the song lyrics
scrawled on the back of your hand
when you were sound asleep,
fist in stomach.
she's got bruises on her neck
that match up with yours.
she's got fingers like your daddy;
about that one i'm sure.
i read the words that hung
on the top of your lips.
i read the in betweens
the unders and overs
and the everything i could.
you took her in the
bathroom with you last night,
and i don't remember if
it was howling that i heard,
or illicit-sounding screaming.
she's not what you want her to be.
and i read in the papers
yesterday or the day before
about a girl