Confessions of a Fat BulimicTurn up the stereoMore Like This
Pull my hair back
Open the door and
Wash my hands
beside the clothes and
My hands in my mouth
Cover the sound
Opening my eyes
Stand up and stagger
Wash my hands once more
Brush my teeth
and shut the door.
Enter my room
dirty and cluttered
fall on my bed
internal butterflies flutter.
Trapped once more in an empty stomach
Screaming inside with panic
Eat a fist full of food again
God, this is mechanic.
I'll wipe the slate clean
In the Summer,
I can sleep off the hunger pains.
In the Fall,
I can skip meals.
In the Winter,
I can exercise.
And in the Spring,
No ones home to hear.
how i imagine paper abstainsI heard the first sound of morningMore Like This
in the crack of my wrist--
stretching its vine-like hands and
shrugging shoulders. these eyes were still
crossed with Mary Jane dust
and nightmares about shady uncles
when amnesia began to wear off
and the sounds all echoing before,
dulled to an audio ache. there you are,
laying akimbo almost
proud in your clueless sleep-driven
poses smelling like day-old love making
and stress leaving for the night.
there you are, one part peace, ten parts
honesty-- your fingers rolled to hold
the contours of my own. there you are,
paper-lover, enveloping my scissor form
bleeding and smiling all the same.
discovery swells in slivers of lightin the synthesisMore Like This
your soul peeks out
and speaks up
as i feel the marathon
of your fingers
to the flex of your elbow,
all the way up
to the home stretch
of your shoulders.
my touch silhouettes
from hip to bottom,
your teeth and breath,
bordering my neck
as you reach up,
digging into my posture.
in the inquisitive light
of veiled rays,
and combine in a waltz
of dizzying fascination.
searching for buttons
and triggers in a love
that ached to explode;
the unwrapping of spirits
as papillae take in
the taste of your palms.
scent of youth
meet in the exploring
of two compositions
my hold and your grip
reach the ceiling
lips are the lids
to moans as we bottle
in greedy throats.
attached at the base;
the bars of our vibration
like etched lace ribbons
for olympic rings
on how : (untitled)i start and stutter with IMore Like This
-times to give meaning
to quiet moments.
i start with colons
because i have a list of
that need listing
to listen to them.
dramatic and pedantic
are the calling cards
tattooed on my eyelids
like battle wounds
of the kitchen.
i sometimes feel like
i should start poems with
"on how..." or periods
because everyone wants
answers and mysteries.
in dilated s(h)elves
is infinite ink
but i've never been one
just to capture interest.
i feel like i should start poems
with lists because 1:
i oppose trends and dead ends
because how can anything
start if nothing ends.
is that nothing starts
is always ending.
IV I'm nostalgic for the timesMore Like This
the universe was blind and
you could pluck feathers from the sky
and tie them into your hair
and not be aware or watch,
but I learned.
Everyone enjoying the season of rebirth?
Spring is in the air! which means that apparently 'spring' is a synonym for tree sperm.
I miss bees more than most of all the people I have ever met.
ailmentsthe back of my throat tastes ofMore Like This
and regret, but my stomach contains
nothing but a few m&ms so i don't
my body thinks it's doing. i haven't
eaten a proper meal in
a day and half;
i'm shoving more coffee into me in
hopes that the zombie effect will
i'm breaking all of my own rules,
i'm slipping, sliding into
obscurity rather than rising, climbing
i'm fucking up the basics but everything
fresh in my mind is strong;
i'm fucking up everything i've
ever claimed to love because i don't
i've written a hundred letters to the
wrong address and i've typed a thousand
love notes to the wrong lover but as
long as i don't drop names they'll
never know the difference.
i just hope that they never catch the
i want nothing more than to collapse
onto the bedroom floor, but i need
vintage rosesrotting underneath your heavy eyesMore Like This
is my forlorn soul, tired of fighting for
broken china dishes with crimson roses
(i pricked my finger again?)
set fire to the person i wasthis name falls out of lips like a goddamned prisonMore Like This
sentence; forces me back from whence i came and
that was not a very good place at all.
i heard you spit out the word "it" at the television
when a news story about a transwoman was run;
i heard you say that these people were sick and that
they were still a man because god knows what's
in their pants and i saw the notification that you
liked my status clearly without reading it
because it's been well over two years and you still
call me this awful fucking name;
i cried to her about it and it took all of three tries
to get it right and no matter what she calls me
she never says it. she never lets the letters come out
with that soft voice and she never lets me think
for a moment that i am worth anything less, that i am
not worth the effort-
"michael," she would say, smiling-
"frankie", "strawberry", "frances"-
if that name was a prison these are either my release
or my death sentence.