.i've written so many poemsabout love and luck and theunbearable sadness that surfaceswhenever i think about you.but you isn't a person,you is a metaphor for thebirds suffocating in the clouds and theleaves fighting off the wind.and when i see flowersall i can think of is death;because i am a poet,and my kind of poetry is thekind that keeps me up all night,as i memorize the ceilingand count every minuteuntil the sun rises.it’s the kind that makes mewish for a bridge because thenmaybe i could finally be free.my kind of poetry,it’s the kind that kills me.
when life and death fell in lovelife is so beautiful thatdeath fell in love.she set a trap and he got caught,caged in her flower crownsand toxic sweater sleeves.their romance was a mountain,rocky, cold,with beauty tucked inside the tree trunks.and when one was about to fall,the other was right there to catch them.so tell me,how could two things so differentbelieve in each other so much,when we can’t even do it ourselves?
starve, she saidone plus one is two,but me plus you equals crying,slamming doors and regrets thatpound on the walls of the minduntil the day we both break.i’ll be the rhythm you dance toin the middle of the meadow,you be the beat, the bruises lefton skinny thighs and black-burned collarbones.
stars are spaceshipsi.they called it an asyluma safe placewhere no-one can hurt us;but they fail to mentionthat no-one didn't include myself.ii.they told me that i am part ofa solar system,that i have to keep my feet on the groundand i asked them, if that was true,then why did i keep wishing for the moon?
you're a subliminal messagei can list every nicknameyou've ever called me as ifthey were members of my family and ican recall every time you’ve eversang in my ear during class. i knowhow many times we’ve snuck away from our friends --not because of any particular reason,your heart just ached, longedfor that familiar sense of me.or at least, i hope.because you seem to feel the skin ofevery other girl and you seemto always be able to keep ona conversation with them,it's just impossible to feel anything towardsme and impossible to notmake me feelsomething. anything at alland everything at once.or maybe you just don't knowwhatto feel towards me, maybe yourmind is as much of a jigsawpuzzle as mine is and allyou’re doing is trying to piece itall back together.i just wish we were able to help each other.you told me thursday on the trainthat you wanted to be normal.that you thought he was perfectand you were anything but.but darling you continually failto see that in my
by now the bathroom tiles are stainedand i'm sitting hereslathered in water droplets anda bright light about tomeet my skull.the concreteground breaking intofourteen hundred hundred pieces.the rain isn't rain anymore becauseit’s stopping two inchesbefore ithits the groundand my ankles are dry butthe rest of me isn't because my momalways told me never to getmy feet wet so i don’t catcha cold.and i'm only fourteenepisodes in and myshoulders are too bony andmy fingers never touchthe broken bones scattered across thebathroom tiles. i let abroken machine controlmy life and every single goddamnday it disappoints me. numberscan’t be low enough butthey only go lower andlower. i’ve beensearching and waiting for the right wordsto be written on the pagebut all that comes out is scribbles.my life a lie and i’m the one telling it.
no,what is shared between meand my bladesis all but a secret.late nights, alone,blood stained fingers andhaving to replace the pillowcase in the morning,because my parents will never knowwhat i have started again.and when they see theantidepressantcommercials on TV,they silently think of me.
true affectioni. sometimes she felt like a coin,old, rusty,flung down a well andsinking to the bottom, surrounded,but unable to touch. and while she was looking at lightsshe didn’t know were turned on, ablue bird laid an egg on herpillow,and when it hatched it was justsunshine-colored seawater.ii. he was a pair of earbuds,tangled,stuffed in a pocket and left to bewashed out, loston a train station bench, waiting. he felt like a crooked picture frameno one bothered fixing,a burned-out lightbulbon the back porch thatnever gets changed.
we called her memashe had salt skin,wrinkles that fell off her in wavesand seven greasy finger links withdiamonds at their tips.tied to a wheelchair withblack licorice chains,her stubby feet locked intochildren’s sized shoes and gushingwith crimson at the souls.she had ants tucked into the pocketsof her lungs,her eye sockets bled with thespirit of poetry and prose.we found her sleeping,caressed by a thick layer ofglistening sweatand enjoying a love affairwith the grim reaper.
ocean lungsyou weigh something like gravityin my tired expanse. you aresand;(my once splendid mountain)my love is the oceanthat has worn you down.with my monstrous tongue,i pulled you in.as you fall,sweeping peacefully into the depthsand filling each crevice,i am learning to inhale shores.some would say i'm suffocatingand bring me buckets of air (only to have itescape my slippery grip).no, the tides need something heavyto make of hera home.
Lately, the waitHighway traffic, seamless like the skiesof October; distant lights foretella visitor.A gush of wind, a magnolia laden threshold.Another blackout.We sharethemuch sought afterlunacy.[Lunar/lunatic]
nineariel stole your breath more than i ever did -when my heart was thudding between your lungs,because that was the only safe place, or so i was toldi can't remember when my heart caught the feverfor you had guarded it with your own ribcage for so longmy memories melded between your synapses andwe became one
Life Boats for Paper DollsI still throw salt over my shoulder becauseit makes the devil thirsty.He drinks from an oaken bucket.We can live our lives without him.*I know a tree in Pennsylvania.A girl nobody saw leaned against the mossevery day after class.She wrote in a journal as antscrawled between her silent fingers.The summer I turned eighteen she tried tohang herself from itThe tree-Not the journal.I suppose our words may often feel like gallows.*You never forget the first time youtaste sour milk.The feeling of time's betrayal.Some things still have to be taken on faith,not expiration dates.Today, I saw her under a tree in Minnesota.She still writes about damnation but only with a smile.There is something beautiful about rotting wood.
tell a liei. rivers are stronger than oceans despite their sizethey tumble through sharp mountains but they never, ever stopii. i can rush and pick up sediments and disperse them where i wishiii. i'm lying -i knew you saw it anyway,there's seaweed in my fingernailsand salt on my breath
Cloud in a Bottle 1Cloud in a Bottle 1How is it your voice is a canyon which cutswhere you did not even speak, opening the riversof my lungs so they could cataract, could rage with breathyou breathed? That the rock swells of your ribs, washedround and floating, met then barred the way with mineso that my heart, turned to tides, could not slip by,and beat against the walls, unanswered, ‘til it drowned?And that I still don’t hate you, even now?There’s all this nonsense of lips and bubbles, that’s fine;still refuse drifts in one direction all the same, refusing—shored up maybe by some reassuring echoes still unsung—to sink, so like an opened blouse colored by brine, my hopefinds refuge at the highest point, and lays itself unlockedon barren sand to fade, suffuse with light, the way all thingsin the desert turn finally, achingly white.
pollenwasp-waisted beautypray into my collarbonelet your snake tongue slitherwith the syllables.i wish for soft-chested nights,and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,nurse my coiling tongue with yours;tap my scalp like a silent drum,and wind my hair in between your fingerslike broken guitar strings.(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)
a phenomenonYou are a trajectory from which I have fallen, Moon-boundEarth-boy. With height and speed your molecules shifted;I dropped away by degrees — further, then further.There must be all the sky between us now,but I taste your dust with my fingertips,follow afterglows.
Counting Starslatelyi've taken uplyingon the floorlooking upat the ceilingof the earthcounting starsdiscountinglaws of physicsthey seemso closeto touchingon the tipsof my fingersas ourheadsbump topon topwith ourentangled hairand synchronizedhearts.
Black Widow IIawayi'm going to break awaydrain i'm in the drain of drains and slowly being spun downwards and downwards and downwards and down wards.thirteenMom's rose garden grew beneath the steps, and I did too. They weren't aligned and it bothered me. I always tried to fight it but she would come down and lay her hand on my bare skin and whisper, "They aren't growing."And I would be red like the roses and blue like the violets.She grew beneath the steps too.pastnotlookingforthepastorthe f u t u r e e e e e esetset down the lighterput it down.don't make it brighter.I set the roses on fire.ingenuityshe never knew I them on fire. I set them on fire.her hands on my bare skin and whisper,they aren't growingrose
The NecklaceCliché Hallmark cardsAlways start the waterworks.Even at crowded restaurants.To know.... it's a piece,Of my Mommy JeanShaking, beaming, cryingAs that slim white gold claspclick... for the first time.A feather's weightInstantly at home on my collarbone.***Fast-forward***Hiccup-sobbingSlit-eyes red and swollenThat pendant-spot between my breastsScratched and redFrom shaking hands,Grasping for anything to ground me.Tremblingly closing that slim white gold claspclick echoing with tears***Fast-forward***Heaving my duffel up my stepsAnd down the hallway,To my last door on the rightDropping it and a gaspHands immediately undoingthe circular clasp at my neckFrantically grabbing the chain on my dresserBreathing slowing as the heavier chain,But lighter pendant comes to a restclick and my breathing becomes regularSighing as I flop into bed. Home.***Fast-forward***Sighing nervously,Self-co
Sparrows and Train Tracks She listens to the corpse of a wingbeat.The stories of faraway peopleetched on sea glass and flower petals,like legends told for lullabiesprinted with rose thornsin the absence of paper.Do the fingers of clock handshold the questions of children,the way wine kisses guiltand disposable wedding rings?Handmade letters and gift-wrapped packagesresemble the music of a laughterthat isn't really there.How many facesare the reflections of a momentdying in the second of a memory-or the dances in the i love you'sthat you never told me.
Oaki knew a girl once,with an oak heart and guarded hands(gloved from touch)but sheuncrossed her ankles,let naked fingertipstouch well-read lips, andher heart kind of turnedinto ash.i miss that girl,with the oak heart -she was tougher.
Strawberry (An ice-cream in December)I disassemble –heart after limp,brain before muscle.You hear the pieces fall.I disassemble.Sometimes, all I can ask for is an itchy blanket over me, and a cup of steaming tea between my calloused fingers, bringing the smell of hot strawberry to my nostrils, until the smile of content overwhelmingly fills my chest. Sometimes, all I can ask for is death.I don’t like mornings. I never liked mornings. The sun is mocking – glaring from his heaven to a place grey and heavy with nothing but vanity, and shoving his hard light to all the ugliness around. Night is not like that. Night is beautiful. Night smells of wet leaves and falling stars and wishes forgotten in the sigh of two lips touching. Night brings the twittering song of a hidden cricket, a lullaby lost in the fading dreams of two bodies nesting one in another. Night is not like mornings.The breeze is cool tonight – comforting, dancing around the baby blue curtains of the kitchen. The TV plays in
an irrevocable truthi.snowflake child, you are a fine exampleof the incandescence of a human lighteven under innumerable umbrasi see you- ruby and bloomingferociously fighting your wayout of a pile of rubbleii.my anemone, my halothat comely wraps around my moon pithdo not fret if i self-stumble, fumblewith my fingers, and mumble to my toesmy center of gravity is oft frail andmeek to begin withiii.you are lead cause of the diamond flecksscattering about the carbon of my pupilsyou do not leave meyou teach me to besnake-eyed yet shotgun-hearted-a sapphire wanderlust lividfor life and star-gazing sights, you mapconstellations on my freckles and fright iv.look now at how i'll find my lighthouse loverthen tend to some kidsand grow out of my gills and into grey hairsthen tend to some kids with their own kidsand reminisce about friends and phenomenai signed my name on a patch of sky withall on my own exceptthat your hand never left minethat if i were to crumblelike the sandcastle
time-spared drawers of dreamsi. someday the sight-starvedwill find more than just the moon -that i promise you.we've seen all of what happinesswill never be andlike liquid stars in the milky way,smiles will seep downinto the oceans of your laughter.never mind what they saidabout shady equilibrium;it's only man's insecurity.truth is, there is nokarma -no rule, no eyeswatching over you;just the forgotten remains of thegod that falls on usevery time it rains.ii. someday, my dear,those cranes won't just bean exhibition of folded paper -and those tears you cry now?[which you hate so much?]will leak into my arterial wallsand tell me they only tell stories of ecstasy;we just have yet to realize.love, it won't be longtill autumn will not be as forgottenand between thesemultiple shades of grey, will restthe emptiness within yo[us]and the broken smilesof a shattered yesterday.iii. grieve not, sweet traveler -our draining journey has just begun.and though you have been without comfort for s
the arrangement of astral cordsThis is how I'm built up, you see;stars trapped in the linings of mystomach andthe regurgitation of meteorsthunderingthe chambers of a heart--deconstructs of kaleidoscope-stainedglass.This is the reason why my throatbubbles like witch's brew--the insides of my body form monsoons thatscratch my lungs anddisintegrate my windpipe,an off-pitched dissonancelike wind chimeswhenever I try to shout or speak oreven whisper. (and they tell me that you could sing the moon to sleep when you cast your faithful nothings on a star)[and, no, I'm not some kind of genietrapped in an expanse of dustrather than a lamp]Darling, I was never caught betweena collision of star-crossed galaxies,nor an accident between the big bangand a black hole.I was born a star-child.and, no, they could never be beautiful.Yet, I could never be as graceful.I could never carve my face the way gods do, and
I do not like you poetsI do not like you poetsbreathing into my sorry headlike the air hasn't been wasted a half-a-million timesfolding up my lungsto place them neatly into a wastebaskethow can you make me stop hurting& then just leave mea limp lettuce leafon the backside of some dirty napkin verseI am not the jealous typebut I'm going to call up Melpomene & ask her where she's beensend her drunk textsall nightbecause I'm too tired of filling up my skullwith cicada skins instead of ledwhile you make it all too easyto sleep through a heartattack or twomy pygmalion, my god, my thing of legendstell mewhen you were being taught the siren's songwas I writing myself a migraine?
leap through eternityi will sink my teeth into a supernovato let the stardust andcosmosslide down my parched throat andwash over my intestines,like a pebbledrowning in the sound--