heartbreaker.and so she broke his heart afterhe stopped buildingglass houses of trust for her to s h a t t e r
Acrophobic it's not that i'm afraid of falling. i'm afraid that i may jump.
three stages before an eclipse.i.my tears are scalding, bringing back old wounds from the dead& letting them paradedown my wrists[ and my thighsand my stomach ]like my pain is somefestival the demonsin my mind canall enjoyii.my muse is sick& i'm beginning to seestars for what they really are: burningballs of gas that i will never reachiii.never before have bridgesscreamed at me so loud"you should really try to fly"& if i stand close enoughi can almost hearthe countdown burningthough my ears 321
i don't call my scars black holes. even though my scars are swallowingme down their spiny throats i continue to call them stars because you cannotsee black holes( & these wounds are far from invisible )
sometimes i believe her. there are dayswhen i can't take it anymorei wrap myself in my own sorrow & cry then Poetry knocks on my door tells me she knows how it feels so i tell her: " scram, beat itfuck off. you only hide behind metaphors so how do you know how the hell it feels in the real world? feeling worthless feeling like there is ice inside your heart making you numb inside, but your skin feels tingly, yelling at you to 'please get carried away' what do you know about that? " she walks in like i haven't said a word,wraps me in a wool blanket & hands me a cup of tea<
don't rein us in.jarring feelings with tight lids will not make them any sweeter.we are not fruit jam waiting for the winter season.we are messy hurricanes, & bottling us up will only make thedamage more severe
poetry possessed. you can not always ask a poet what meaning lies behind her words for sometimes even her poetry-possessed fingers have no idea what they've written
realize. she said that she only read stories thatweren't her own & that she thought love wasonly an ideai told her thatthose stories make herwho she is & thatideas can sometimes become reality
Fabricating Wingschasing firefliesof thoughtsi find myselfsittingon the floorsurrounded byquestion marksand scraps ofcoloured papertryingto fabricatewings out ofmemoriesthat will fly meto that placecalled never-landshining in theevening sky.
this is me giving you upsomewhere in my heart you came in like a hurricaneshoving everything that stood in your path to the side and i let you becausemaybe my friends were just clogging my arteries andmaybe the things i wanted were just going to badden my blood.the fire that was within you burned holes into my skinyou were the heat atop the flames that made my vision lack tension and i wasblinded--your hands were so much bigger than mineyou embodied a giant and you crushed me like i was a weedi should have been scared at the fact that you were over a foot taller than me butsomeone told me that if you stare a tiger downthey will submit to youunfortunately, you did not submit to me, but i gave way of my own control and threw caution to the windi think of you as analogies in my mind because when i see thingsthey remind me of you or the way you used to hold mei see stones sitting in the creek behind my best friend's house and think of your eyes andi sing songs that never applied to me as much as th
three ways to fall aparti.we were seventeenwhen you promised me thatthis tiny dustbowl ofa southern town was not going to beeverything my life was made of.it wasn't hard to believebecause the maps you'd spread acrossyour ceiling never lied (since you claimedit was easier to dream when theywere stuck above youin the night).i remember the lines you'd drawnin a felt pen, red because it seemed important,seemed louder than the rest, andi remember how youwould trace the roads with your eyes until youfell asleep. you had a knack formemorizing every escape route, and when i asked whyyou answered that it was because one day youwould have to run.when i asked if i could fly away with youyou said yes, and that night i dreamtof runaways and falling stars. i never was sureif they were supposed to mean something bigger than us.ii.sometimes when i lie awake at nighti wonder now how far we mighthave gotten if we ever left, if we had jumped intoyour old impala and left the road behind us -it's too
.she saysexplain these thingsto me -i say the silence sort of ticks - my sadnesshas a face, think blue, think black and grey, think sanguinered, the end of may, he had a pulse too strongfor me to take,i killed it, stripped it bare, i carried it rightto it's grave - i say andmy lungs, they feel like frost, they're filled with silverlight and sharpness, rattling pips, a scream - i stayedinside my bed for weeks, i didn't eat, i didn'tdream - i think in fire, flame, volcano,resurrect you, keep your nameinside me like a splinterturning green(i could not bring myself to say yes, but i think you know that)
the only timei say baby there’s too much weaknesswe bled god to death like a dried up felt-tip penit is time to find another excuse for our shortcomingsbut when your gutter vessels shudderunder pockmarked blotterit is guiltunderscored in red-this vibrationdon’tthe sellotape the tear ductthe paper knifethe whip of risk the bodies at your feetthe every inherently senseless sacrificecouldn’t satisfy this-i say there’s nothing to apologize forbut sometimesthe yellow in the sky feels datedas i walk away
.we are one and thesame, that old willow andme, we stand tall with thescars that life gave us -with the names of loverscarved deep in our limbs,and old burns from mydads cigarettes
tales of a would-be egotistbreaking news! i really do not give a shit what my family thinks.more at 11.11:breaking news! angst-filled teen tries to convince self and others that she doesn't care& fails.some things i have learned: i. quandaries about faith are never simple. ii. liking myself is either bad or impossible. iii. the (perceived) line between self-love and arrogance is invisible. iv. coming out is hard. v. this poem is probably not a good way to do it. vi. high school is toxic. vii. so are most highschoolers. viii. steinbeck does not deserve his venerated position in classic literature. ix
you ate the stars and i ate my heart.this is how i wasdestroyed: ifell in love with a boywith razor sharpteeth and apoet's heart. it's really adreadfullypretty kind of thing.using his borrowedcraft-man'stongue, he took me in like afour a.m cigarette (slowly, andwith loneliness in every one of hisjoints). we both thoughtthat enough smokewould fill in the cracks in ourrib cages; we were bothwrong.he told me that he wouldlike to be aplanet: "all that openspace, all those dyingstars. it would give me room tobreathe".instead of telling him thatthere is no oxygen inouter space, iwatched him feel his lungsimplode. it broke mybones to witness it; but it's really adreadfully pretty thing tosee.
wistful visionsset in my waysi'd set sights on you,over all those scenesand streets thatseparate.if i could, i'd seizeyour hero(n) heartbut you migrateat a glance by night,terror f(l)ightsand i cannotfollow.spent and oh-so carefuli'd set you down in asubtle tease of a mo(ve)mentbut let's face it,i've never been onefor subtleties.if i could, i'd freeyour hero(in) heartbut pulling the needlefrom a haystack afirewill always make youburn, and i keepcoming backfor more.settle down sometimein a suburbia glory,i'd feed sparrows anddrift down landscapedseas of storiesjust like ours.if i could, i'd be your heroine heart,but loving a spectrewill always leave youlonely
-the skeletons in her closet had overflown, and really wearing a necklace of memory-bones, wasn't her finest idea-
bullets in a shot glassAgain the archers are aching,again their bones are breakinglike the cracks in the Colosseum.Death does not defendeager-eyedfighters; he does not fulfillgodly goals ofheaven and halos.I am inverted, introverted,a jester jeeringat kids who kisslike life is long enough to fall in love.my mouth is a machine,a new nightfallordering our soldiers outinto pits where they pray for peace.the quirks of ourridiculous readings rule us,sand us into sculpturesthin and tall, trembling.our universe is built on uncertaintyand vicious virtueswritten by long-dead warriors whoexpected to live forever, andI do not yield to yourwell-read zombies.
sidewalk reflectionsfirst was a surgepaved in footpath promisesand danced to a carefulaccompaniment of guilt-gilded stolen pleasuresthin-lipped and thimble-headed,he was always armoured;his hay-rolls so commonthat he'd developed defencesjust in case he evercame across a needle.second was a flavourof coca-cola and of bitternesslike tea seeped just a momenttoo long and sipped witha shuddered thunderlike shots in the darkhard-chested and soft-willed,his lot was stitched ofa great discontentment;always searching for themoments he was sure hadbe snatched away.third was a soreclutched so tight it bruisedand left dark words etchedin semi-permanent gloryalong letterboxed ruinscountry-lost and urban-found,he read like rest stopson an abandoned highway,and he shone like empty storeswhere the neon still flickeredin the rain; closed for business,but ever-hopeful.fourth is a farewelland lies without consummation,seaglass once piercingbut now tsunami-softenedand begging to be pick
iiii write instead of dreamingbut let's be honestthis poem is a nightmarei abhor structure and punctuationand i form silences fromsentence sentiencecapitals lurkingjust out of sightout of mindphantom parenthesiscurling around my lettersi'm struggling but theychoke choke chokethis poemit brokei can't speak my mindwhere i belongso i'm hereand i wonderhow long it will takefor me to censorthese faults too
so you asked what it's like in my head:some days i can only speak in lowercaseand maybes. it's like texting; a tailored way of shrinkingeach passive-aggressive detail into something unobtrusive-some days i just want to be unobtrusive,and every statement inhales/exhales quickas a hesitation, like a cannot-make-up-my-mind, like a thing yet to be solid enough to have matter,to matter, and i pull apart each syllable- compelled to dissectmy sentences and take out the guts, suck up the heart,give you the empty skin and keep my vitalssomewhere far away from other hands.some days i force myself with trembling lipsto speak as "I"- I want, I need, I am, thrust myself into a visible sphereand in some ways those are the worst days,because i worry that once seeni cannot take myself back.i don't know why i want so badlyto hide behind blank pages;i can't stop reading manifestos,speeches, novels, comics, tweetsand texts and poetry, holdinghowever briefly t
Pyres aren't just for the dead.I am a fire-starter;all dragon's breath,birthed by flame.When you finally saidyou needed me, I wasalready reborn. Ash smearedalong my face,fire drizzling my body.New.I'm not the girl you werehoping for, darling.Too wild for your clammyhands to grip and sculpt,I am blazing, igniting.My hands house infernos, myheart is now a hearth.I do not needyou to keep me warm.
ii. two times in artists' eyesi.words can't do everything. thereare certain things theysimply cannot describe, should not describe, andi am one of them -do not call me eloquent because it isnot meant to imagine the half-hearted, the poison-tongued. i am both; i am neither. i am a contradicting idea without a senseof sense and it is destructive. some say that destruction can bebeautiful, but not in the in-betweenstages of destroying and distraught, of forgettingand forgotten.i terminate the words that tendto die on tongues, tip-of-thought processesthat seem to go nowhere. i am a thought on canvas, writtenin water and spattered across the board -we all are. poets and non-poets alike, we are written as words without meaning.i have learned that words should not describe words.ii.poets don't lie, except for the big things.when they claim theyhave ink in their veins, they are tellingtruths for once in forever. poets are partsof a canvas, of a whole, their bodies are meantto be marred by pen-
You Were Born Missing SomethingYour skin is glazed with crystals of frostand your heart's valves are close tofreezing shut tightfrom being devoid of somethingalmost unexplainableThough I am torrents of hail, whirling storms,warm tears streaking, and tornadoes of ragethat flow uncontrollably through my veinsand out of my mouth,every breath near you is warmbecause your words are so coldI am a natural disaster at its finestwith bones twisted in painful anglesand a crooked spineBut you,you were born spineless
words to say to your reflectioni am a collection of dust and stars,blue luster in a sea of inky void.i am a tongue licking lips, clicking against teeth,shaping sounds that matter.i am the lightning that explodes in purple storm clouds,four miles of haphazard beautyon a lonely night.i am the sea in autumn, still holding the warmth of a summer of sunlight,though the air outside is coldby now.i am the snow at 6am.i have not been touched, not stepped on. my surface is smooth as glass.i am the snow at 6pm.i am still beautiful.i am the sound of rain just before sunriseon a sunday morning.i am the swirl of cream in a coffee,blossoming and unfolding like a galaxy.i am the smell of lavenderafter a storm.i am breathing.
half-empty.she-devils lend me their smiles;all the other ones i haveare tearing at the seamsall that's left of me isblack ink & blacker bloodmixed with the bittersmell of rubbing alcohol but she still snakes her arms around the nebulae collapsing in my freckled lungs bec