shapea drifter, wearingmy skin alone;I am not, so I am,and
day of the deadDarling, we're a skeletonwhich I'm slowly filling in,but phalanges are delicate thingswhen I cannot touch you(maybe I make up the hollow,let the whispers plant themselvesand I feed them till they grow).But I'll never tell you, no,because I'm supposed to befilling in a skeleton,not becoming one, andyou're not dead (and I'm sorrythat I'm trying to be) -but I can't figure outthe wiring of this aorta,and frankly, who cares?Who cares about these muscles,because I'll never be able to holdup anything but half of myself, andyou'll sit there open-palmedlike not being strong enoughserves guilt to you in numbers.Eventually, we'll bothlook at each other, wrinkleour hearts and our browsand ask politely "do I know you?"
urban jungle, acoustic jawsi.earthworm hearts tanglingup through the underpasseslike strangling ivies,because we knowwhat it is to survive.(it is not kind; it isa stopwatch recordin who can climb thehighest, before the trainsrumble on their tracksand push our rubble down.)ii.i saw an upside-down manon the vein-ridden walls(and god, it was breathingbreathing)and tears pricked my eyeslike sewing needles in shirtstwo sizes too baggy, and the lightswere flickering – our souls, flickering-i don’t understand how you saw.“i can’t decide if this is themost hopeful or depressingthing i’ve seen” i musteredto the arch in your browsand the gap in your soul.i took a pictureto remember.iii.my circus bodycontorted, unknowinglyunder the double takeof a man squeezing by,shirt rubbing, smell wafting;he had elevator eyes.iv.your fingers soothedthe strings of your guitarbut every chord was ablanket to my spine. just let me go, just let me go;bless us a
eggshellDear self (eggshell girl),Do not tell them you are trying. Do not do them the injustice of cracking your lips like Russian nesting dolls to reveal an assurance only worth a dollar; you are not China. If this is trying, then all its worth is free: under scrutiny, you'll split easier than eggs.Trying looks terminal in the eyes every morning over a cup of earl grey; he is aware one day there will be nothing left to give.Trying feels like her shaking hands clasped in another’s—when the room narrows and she can’t breathe long enough to see their names, but she knows to rise again.Trying does not sleep, moon glasses and blue feet hanging off the end of mattresses. She does not rouse for eighteen hours, and when she does she takes six cups of coffee, peace black bruises on her shoulder.Trying writes on sky instead of skin, young hands gathering cumulous dreams into pockets to feed to kindred stars.Trying hides sleeping pills beneath her pillow "just in case" but knows
deep-sixMy hair is falling out and you can find it everywhere: the drains, the couches, between my fingers, the fridge, underneath breakfast-questing feet, and you gather it up in your hands and ask me to stop shedding, like these follicles are jackets I choose to wear when I am too warm, because you remember I like self-destruction and watching things come out of my body like running feet; but they are like hailstorms, and I’ve only a 5 foot 6 inch bin to cram them in (I wonder if I’ve grown… I’ve stopped measuring myself because every time I only think of caskets, and “will the ground be big enough - small enough - to fit me?”)I am not worried, so you follow suit, but it is because these root-showing strands look as inauthentic as my face when I tell you the words “It’s nothing, I’m fine.”(I do not want to risk you gathering me up to ask me to stop shedding)
Flying HighTo the boy knee-deep in starswhich refused to stay upon his sky –smoke-filled hallucinations,because reality was never so kind –stop trying to inhale me.I will not jump that high:I cannot breathe.(In, out. In, out, in-in, in, in,fucking in—When did I ever thinkit was a goodideato scream out all my air?Heaving,like I contractedso small that theplanet cannotsee me well enoughtohold me down,so in, in, in,and anchormeinto thecouch, eyes blown wild,and myfingernails crack upon the edge;I don’t want to lift away,fly up into the black,but my veins are constricting hoses, andmy bloodis screaming in my ears, and Ican’t breathe. Can’tbreathe can’tbreathecan't b-breathe-)Put me back in the water, love.Stop trying to inhale me.