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Gallery Folders


"Words I need to say"

This is what I will call my personal folder, filled with things I need to free myself of. Some things trigger memory, and I feel I must put them down on paper to be liberated. I've usually pushed these things so far down they have nowhere to go but up.

I want to restructure us like thoughts and CBT. I want us to be simple enough to fit into diagrams and boxes, descriptions of distortions and a step-by-step guide. You mistake me: there is love here. There is so much goddamn(ed) love here. Sometimes I forget      [I have love here, and I try and find it; "mother"]. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever stop. I don’t know how to release the pressure building behind my eyes, pulsing like the memory of bruises from your palms, tears bleeding in(to) silence. Time has stretched us out, laid us flat like fresh slates. You mistake me: history still lives here. Time may have smoothed the s
I don't want to describe the flowers
You’d say exoskeletons are beautiful because they’re only the essentials. I’m watching you laugh in the sunlight, on my grey-blue couch. I’m watching you climb into the fridge. I’m watching you roast yourself over a fire. If I could, I’d break every mirror you own: the image you see is not what I see. The solution you see is not healing – is not kind. And you know this. I know I have to excuse that you know this, but you still roam towards the fires. You still call out to me that you are burning, in the middle of the night, palm shaking upstretched, and I don’t know how to hold onto you: yo
Five Words In Place of Alone
I’m a lo            cation. Come sit with me, darlin', and please take off your coat. Tell me adventures of the sun and the moon and whatever else comes in pairs or attractions. Remember to give me those five stars before you go. a lo      tus, a lo      cust persistent in the mud of a dried up ocean. I’m a lo            ading dock. I’m a lo            wering sun, and you don’t have to worry about me: consistency is my horizon, predictability my city. And remember those stories? I'm a pair with the moon and the stars and the absence of sound, and until I rise in the ash of proximity, I’ll always
Your memory greets me like a sun flitting between the trees; it is an overcast day and you do not know me. The clouds linger where I disappear on the hospital bed, thinking of how you sleep with your casket. Couldn’t they at least buy a better bed? I think of how one bed begs more remembrance than the line of pictures hung up on its curtain. (I feel as if we keep playing ghosts in the bedsheets, clothespins the only things holding them up in your head; I watch them come loose over and over again). I bring your laundry, and the sun doesn’t shine for your favorite blouse. I don’t tell you: “you used to wear pink
Aphasia and Bones
i. Life is like a hymn, mint candy tucked into a pocket. The stairs are creatures I tame With a spinning mind, palms coaxing them to docility. Life sounds like a hymn, but I empty my pockets and there are only mint sticks of gum. Courage is a poet on my tongue; I could fix this. I could fix this. I cannot read the letters glowing beneath my thumb. There is a water wheel spinning and spinning inside of me like a dog gnawing off its tail, and I beat it down the sink headfirst. Coffin system, clay signature - I changed my name, I changed my name; now I feel defined. ii. Call me Wernicke, and I'd answer dutifully, ideally, but probably I'
One Way Or Round Trip, Missus?
1. There’s a train pushing through the room. There’s a train, but no one looks or flinches when I lay down across the track. (I could get used to this) 2. The train just takes me on a scenic tour. I pout the whole way. 3. I’m nothing if not stubborn. I smile slyly for the god of smoke. Fluorescent halos, He tells me to breathe in. The sun settles in my stomach. My skin glows. My eyes hurt to open. “Don’t touch her!” He bellows and I try and call him Zeus. I try and smile and ask that someone touch me and keep touching me and never stop – I force my eyes open. Zeus is swimming in rivers that
Dreams be soft, like petals, but they have the persistence of iron, the grip of death, and they rattle your head until you cannot look away. To look away is to die. To look away is to die and I am not drowsy. These truths are restless. They will not sleep; I cannot sleep.
The night is a doll that wears my skull, a loose pair of eyes that rattle like snakes, dreams a vision too bleak for a fist - too much for a voice. Self loathing is a mastermind, draped around these city lights, a picture of a seesaw that still gives vertigo: hindsight, foresight, hindsight. I teeter on my speckled legs and feed stomachs to the bushes.
fall up the moon, and talk if you want (but she might not talk back). one word to use but fingers hailing with skins, and bones, and maybe even the veins of a poet saying there're not enough razors to open her lungs. fall up the moon, and talk if you want (but kneecap letters and river-run wrists   might never talk back).
Reasons To Not See Me Naked:
:bulletblack:  I have scars that you will reference to art and mathematics, because the perfectionist in me placed them just so. But they will make your stomach roll when your taut grip on my hip reveals the spider webs underneath. :bulletblack:  I don’t shower as often as I should. Mainly: I don’t have time. I’ll probably repulse you. :bulletblack:  I have acne. Please let that repulse you. :bulletblack:  My legs look like gooseflesh, and that repulses everyone. :bulletblack:  "I will make love to my own sadness more than I make love to you" – preferably with a glass of wine and one hell of a soundtrack. :bulletb
Light That Match
My hair will always be red. My hair will always be red, because that is the color the sun dies in; I want to go out, all embers and explosive cores. It is the color of war after it is fought and after it is won, and it is the feeling of passion in the tips of my fingers as they shake with want. When my roots dirty it blonde, I will not touch it. I will not touch it, yet, because this is the display of my imperfect humanity. It is the show that I am a mess and a half, premiering every single damn day of the week, but that there are several shades and sides to it. My hair will always be red, because it is a reminder that I am not my mother. R
we do not need an oracle
Athenian apparitions, but when I loved you I was not real; I was not born from Zeus’ head. I do not know how to lay atop you in regal waves, or bury my fingers into your hair like a crown. I do not know how to share my body, and each strategy is aborted violently, comas that leave only a husk to house whatever you decide to give, because I cannot protect both ‘consent’ and ‘mentality’ without the sacrifice of the other. Call my mind one track.
Blood Moon
He was a lone wolf, but when I close my eyes he runs in packs, all howling to the echo of my skin, enough a snowdrift to be someone's somewhere-moon; I am hummed beneath all breaths.
I'm on a plane, a five foot plane where anxiety is the captain - or the terrorist - and the only way of getting off is to have him detonate the bomb; the only way out is when I die. I am not wishing for 'premature,' it's just a thought, like how you scope out exits at the mention of fires or crazy people. Row 1 "Crazy people." I'm so tired of thinking that I'm crazy, or how others would treat crazy if I finally gave my knees to concrete and screamed for quiet. I scream a lot, see, just not where people hear. Row 2 Sometimes I forget where I am, interrogate my lips until they bleed out coordinates and bystanders remind me why I shouldn't lea
The Kiln
Twirl like your mother into the arms of depressives, but don’t twirl so slow that you gain the courage to admit it; and write. Write, poet, write – all the clichés, the heartbreaks, the semicolons, because no one will fill the catatonic silence. It’s a balancing act – it’s taking the bullet with grace, because becoming the monsters beneath your bed is reverse dreaming - is to carry childhood past the point of expiration, and, eventually, you must let ghosts haunt your wishbones into letting go.
I orgasm on misery and sit with the cans in Manhattan, and I like to be bleeding a pool around me so when they meet me— love me— they will log out on the flypaper lake of my grinning, laughing skin, in the fancy cursive of liars and one-thousand piece puzzles: “dead upon arrival.”
Local (alt: how long is too long?)
I’m a yo-yo wound around a December – remember – rinse and repeat: remember rising suns in the back, pockets of sunshine turned black in the same place between the doorframe where we heard laughter before the scream. Disney books on the shelves, pressing against me like liars, because a fairy godparent doesn’t just forget he’s a father – doesn’t just rise like a hot-air erection, shattering words like “happiness” and “protection,” and a girl isn’t supposed to just sit there and smile, catch his hands for one moment and forget she can fight them. After
I want to touch your camel throat, ash such a familiarity that if I swiped for dust along the inside of your esophagus, my hand would come up dead. Your lungs don’t seem to mind, though, as they see a kindred in my own, and breathing the frost and the black never felt so good than when we sat in casket skins together and pruned while mourning withered (that’s why I had to let you go).
we end in tragedies
You sleep within my thoughts that toss and turn beneath your pillow, anxiety pushing piano fingers as they sleepwalk through the harmonics of my skull; that you are a violin, and I am a saxophone. That you love like robin eggs, and I like Hamlet.
Good Morning America
she would not show she was afraid, coffee-grounded throat, and a thirst for her own seeds; enigma, pill swallower: she let the labels brand her skin like dairy cows for slaughter. the pig screamed; she could not show she was afraid. snow lapped frostbite at her ankles like offering devotions - of roses, only her toes dug reclusive igloos she lost herself in, a profitable day in capitalism, and comas. they tied her knees (hey, they stopped banging together like c-c-cowards stuttering over pots and pans) and she drank her weight in sky and body giggling back from the mirror, but she could not run. horizontal dreamer, dragged –
Ravenwing, don’t apologize for the charcoal in your wings. I knew - I knew - at some point you would jump from the nest to test yourself. I don’t ask that you nuzzle twigs forever; I ask you don’t close your eyes with gravity. This world will bleed survivors through blind free- fall.
Growing Pains
The day I grew roots was a messy collage of sap and broken dreams. I had studied trees in the first and second grade but never realized how close I would grow to becoming one. At that root-growing, fifteen years were in my tree—my deciduous spine, some days more willow than pine—and it was smeared into my canvas that some in the world take pleasure in logging. My father once told me that man cared nothing for forests, for the purity in nature, and in that moment I saw its truth: I was no longer someone I knew, but a girl with handprints on her chest and quiet in the way that I halved myself to die. In the moments my eyes were clo
we're all a little stardust
You are the reason I am consumed in astronomy, but the star-promises that shot across our youth will shatter in some other universe, with the rising of some other moon to greet your sun. After that, it's science. I'll bleed every 1.00794 unit from my blood, but we both know I'm a pincushion mess; it won't all make it down the drain, and I can only scrub the ache so hard. I can only try so hard to live without you before my ribs unzip to chasms, every memory so large I must expand my lungs to fit them all. Sometimes they claw their way from my throat, with the hatred housed in little bird nests, because you could always hide where 
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