windfallI would gather allthe seven seas for you.for me, you would notspare a raindrop.
I know you, I love youWe fall in love with the microscopic, rough-edged details of people. We crave the knowledge of our lovers, crave to know them the way nobody else can. In a way, these idiosyncrasies become our own personal gift, a sliver of our favorite person preserved within ourselves.You love the way he licks his lips twice before saying something important, exactly twice, like he’s counting out two seconds to reclaim his composure.You love how her fingertips smell like turpentine and lavender when she finishes a painting because she doesn’t stop until her brushes are clean, and then she spends too much time trying to scrub her hands fresh.You love how he sometimes mouths the lyrics to songs under his breath, just loud enough to be audible over the radio, and you love the way he smiles and blushes and stutters when you notice him doing so.You love her expression when she reads, shifting and flowing like a hundred butterflies in response to the words on the page; you love the frantic
teethmy mother used to say,"never fall in love with somethingthat can leave you behind."now I understand, now I knowthat humans were given legs for a reason,that moving onis a state of mind on migration.tell me,if I told you I loved you,would you cut out my tongue?I can still hear your voice when you saidyou could never love anyone else,and now all I can think isliarliarliar.
float onnow I'm thinkingthat the moon's smarter than me:she's in love with the earthbut keeps her distance,keeps moving,keeps living.I lose my orbitwhen you're not around,and I find myself without gravity,waiting for you all nightwhen I know you'd rather besomewhere else.
lunarWhen I was six years old,I decided I wanted toeat the moon.Mom with her pink frayed bathrobeand tired eyestold me to go to sleep,that I had school in the morning.Dad with his stacks of booksand prickly beardtold me that it was impossible,the moon was too distant.Well, guess what?I ate the fuckin moon.And it was delicious.Bitches can't tell me shit,I'll eat the fuckin moon if I want to.
succubusNemesis likes to play fair,and I respect her for that.if I stab out your eye,you're welcome to stab out mine.and when we chat about "equality,"we sometimes work around the word,taking quiet bites to miss the rotten spots.no one understands untilthey taste the grainy blacknessrubbing on the roof of their mouth.no one understandsunless it happens to them.so, when she speaks her mind,she's a bitch,and nobody loves a bitch.the truth is,nobody loves when their punching baglearns to punch back;suddenly the game isn't fun anymore.and we're reduced to that one word,"bitch,"reduced tothat feminist with the wordsmen roll their eyes to.now we've truly sunk,getting on their level,clawing like cats,drawing bloodbut not raising wages,not preventing rape,not fixing anything.they are childrenwith their palms pressed over their ears.they want me to be robotic, a fleshysex-doll for them to fuckwho has tits and no brain,and I've screamed myself hoarsebut all I've lear
kryptonite kidi."I'll be batman,and you can be my robin,"you said with a smile.(it's just like youto want to play the hero.you speak when someone pulls the string on your back:you have all the right words.)ii.when I was a little girl,I wished I could be a superhero.all I needed was a radioactive spider,or hidden powersor super soldier serum.I grew up in pursuit of these,and became an adult when I realizedthat I'd never find them.I miss the days when I believed all I needed was a cape to save the world.iii.I knew you weren't the onebecause somehow I still wanted a hero,somehow I still believed they existed:one person who could rescue the cityall in a day's work.I knew you had the frameworkbut not the heart,a branchless treewith no roots.iv.sometimes I stand on the edge,wishing I could flybut knowing I never will.I think it's enough to pretend I'll learn how one day.(in other words,I'm not your sidekick.)
jillianshe's eight.the girl never stops moving,climbing the tarnished metalof the jungle gym wildly, limbs swinging,eyes alightwith a childhood joyI shed when I passedthe port of twelve,thirteen.she is knotted curls,long silken hairwith infant-blond ends.her fingers grabher doll with the frizzy hairand painted face,and she's eager to winhide-and-seek,checkers,Mario Kart.I am old enoughto recognizethat she will not last this way,that she will grow,as all children do.every time I see her,she grows a little taller.she no longer likes Dora,I've learned,and I guess she thinksblowing bubblesis too babyish now.one dayshe will abandon her dollsfor makeup,leave her coloring booksfor boyfriends and college andlife,but right now,her world is simple:days in school, coloring pictures,nights at home,nibbling dinners and playing with her toys.right now,she's eight.
never become a writeri.never become a writer.you will become a perfectionist,picking life apartwith a magpie's eye,hunting for the beautiful bits until you can make yourselfa sparkling thronein the center of a junkyard.ii.you will write when you're sad.you will write when you're happy.whenever you feel something,you will vomit the emotion outinto some sort of literature.when you're finished,you'll be emptyand surrounded by pages and pages of everything you once were.iii.you will try to make pain sound delicious,painting over the ragged woundswith pink paintand candy-coat lies.you will learnhow to decorate graveyards.everyone will play in them,but you alone will see the headstones.iv.if you fall in love,you will turn your love into a poem,and you will always like your own wordsmore than you like the real person.you'll become so selfishyou'll disgust yourself,but you will not be ab
lessons in rising abovemy spine cracks from whereyou once snapped vertebrae; Iturned my back on you.
disorder"mirror, mirror, on the wallwho's the fairest of them all?"i whispered to my doleful reflection,but this was no fairy tale:this was a small town on a cold, foggy night.my skeleton was so beautifuli wanted to showcase it,give onlookers a glimpse of my impendingdeath through my very flesh.i could picture myself, edges carved awaylike a cored apple.i just wanted to feel real.everyone around me chewed and swallowed so easilybut i just gnawed on my lip until itasted blood, and leta piece of myself die.the flavor made my mouth wateras my stomach ground out hoarserequests for expansion, for meaning.i held nothing within but pathetic yearning,hollow with self-hatred.i could only feel affection with pain.perfection became my obsession,consuming me alive the way i would haveloved to consume anything at all.some part of me believe i could be a super model,and living my life on ambition and emptinesswas the way to do it.every day i watched the little numberson t
Have You Been Writing Lately?I have dishevelled hair so I shave itTo the scalp and to the point that I bleedI no longer want to write my thoughts downSo I’ll try anything to set them freeIt is not my pen that is the problemAnd my fountain of ink has not run dryI’m not experiencing writers blockThese thoughts are twisted and I don’t know whyI have a multitude of memoriesThat my mind chooses to manipulateIn to more disturbing scenariosThat only the wicked ones can relateIf I cant find purity within meWhy do I bother to write anymoreLike a lost soul that is tired of lifeMaybe death is something I should exploreI have always walked amongst the shadowsWhere all the demons that you gave me lurkBut the death of my body will set me freeAnd illuminate my body of workI have a creative mind but I abused itAt which point my sanity began to disperseWhat is this gift of writing that I hearAll I have ever felt from this is cursed
Just SurvivingDon't you ever feelthat you're juststuck?As ifyou want to move,but there's nothing for you,anywhere,to move toward.I guess it's justone of those thingsthat you can't reallyfight,can you?I mean,I've always justwaited it out,whittled awaywhile I bided my timehoping for something to come alongsomething I could look forward to,that would put an endto such vapid, tasteless daysspent simplysurviving.I supposeunless I'm doing somethingworking for somethingI'm only everjust surviving.
The Biggest LieI’ve heard KnightsWith broken shieldsPromise to protectPrincesses from the world.I’ve tried to rewriteThese fairytales,But I’ve run out ofInk, and someoneCarved them into walls.
sea sweptpoor, lovely symphony,you've fallen in love with a shipwreckand are doomed to be dragged out into her sea;you're just a boy, drowning in the saltinessof her bitter tears - shed to stain her ink-smudged misery -and i know you taste her painas if it were your own.
meadows.you only ever picked dead flowersbecause you wanted to leave the living onesfor others to admire...i guess that's why you chose meover everyone else.
to everything there is a seasonI.as a flower or a man,i shall burst,and scatter.as a corpse, i shallpeel away, andreturn to the earth,the air. i'll be inyour lungs yet.II.look, it’s not that i’m nota little bit charmedby the concentric circlesof existence, and the love,the bitter, bright andstinkinglove.it’s not that i don’t likecarrying this body that is a miracle,a miracle in the sum of its parts.kahlo got it, she knew whatshe was talking about –but i won’t put wordsin a dead woman’s mouth.and the hot sweat of it here,the pain, the fuck and the sour wineof it here,it isn’t really chaining medown. i’m thinking offloating away.III.did i ever tell youi’d like to die on my back,looking at the sky?in one of those faraway placesi saw from the car as a child, the top of a hillseen from a distance; someone else’s farm,someone else’s land. someone else’s emptiness,a thin line of grass betweendirt and the inf
things that fall apart2:36, new york city, i canimagine youlooking out your window,watching the cars pass by instead of the waves, andsomething isn't right, because there's ocean in your blood andi anchor you.love,you still believe in the girl i used to be, butshe's been gone longer than this white sky summer.
.wish i livedlike an animal,wish i cared aboutnothingbut fuckingand staying alive(wish this was a lie)
confessions of a misguided poetcertain things in my mindwould be better left unsaid,such as:i. how I stared at a bottle of pillsfor an hour as if they would slide downmy throat on their own.ii. when I stepped out of the showerwith bloody knees and didn't botherto put a band aid over them. iii. why I can't keep a smile longenough for someone to takemy picture.iv. who I wanted to be when I wasa little girl and who I amright here and now. v. where I tried to jump off abridge and landed in waterdeep enough for me to swim in.vi. what I wanted to scream atyou that day but I just stayedsilent and hoped you would forget.no more pretty words andludicrous metaphorstoday; just life,the truth, and everythingthat I never want to tellanyone else.
one.you told me that lifewas full ofcolor... thenwhy do mytearsrungrey.
the dictionary roommy best friend and i love reading together.when i long for his pulse against my lips,mine quickens like the nervous jitter of an addict.he cradles my face like a mouth carries a poembut his hands are shipwrecked masts, beaconsof a 2-year battle that lasts much longer.they shake at night from the withdrawals, hauntedby the ghosts slithering through empty pill bottles.for 2 years, my best friend didn’t know his own name.he hid it in his pocket like loose change he tradedfor bars of euphoria. the process was simple:crush 2 pills and inhale them with your eyes open.watch the dust float up into your nostrils like flecksof memory loss. dry swallow one for each syllablein my name. crush another and save it for later.every night, he trapped himself in oblivion;blind and stumbling, reaching for my bodyin a mirage of blackness.i was alone in a room full of dictionaries,trying to find the meaning behind everything.the spaces between my words doubled in distance.his hear
5:20i went to the forestto purify my lungsthen i saw the thickand uglythree letter scari left in a slenderbirch, and wondered howi could let you poisonanother living thing.moths aren't afraid of pinstill they're stuck to a piece of styrofoam.
reveal yourselfIt's taken me all this timeto realize thatthe flowers in your hairwere actually weeds,and your promiseswere already brokenbefore you made them.