you can wrap a corpse in ribbon, dear, but it will never look so lovely as the living
skeletal hands were not meant for warmth and sun
maybe that's why i've always liked the winter better
how i like the skin stretched over your bonesyou are not above me
not some unreachable god sitting far away from view
but, oh, there are galaxies spread across my chest
and stars aching in my bones, climbing through holes where flowers once grew
thorns and roses, a songbird's fragile nest
your sunlight shines through the ghost of you and i -
i miss the warmth you used to provide
at seventeenplease leave a message after the "beep"
i can't come to the phone,
im pretending to sleep
hey there it's me again
im sorry i couldnt make it
i felt like i had to call you, then
these days i just can't take it
i should apologize for my lack of being around
i had a couple of things to do
and -- hey, i let you down
the papers are filed
it's all settled from here
we still have a while
im leaving next year
uh, anyway forgive me
it's what I had to do
i know it's hard but you'll see
this means almost as much as you
blow out the candles and sit in the dark
i wish it wasnt too late to put out the spark
the cost of love is a pricey fee
let the poets cry themselves to sleepit's hard to hate you in the morning
when you're waiting in my dreams
what's lovely in the moonlight
is deadly in sunlight, it seems
you won't write, and you won't call
you don't even say 'hello' anymore
(but i wanted to tell you,
you're still the reason i don't lock my door.)
oh mother i can feel the soil falling over my headsometimes i feel like you wish i was somebody else
more vibrant, more lively, more adventurous
always more, because i am "less"
less colorful, less exciting, less outspoken
you pretend to love me and i pretend my heart's not broken
when i wake up, i can almost see your face
fading fast, but still there the way i remembered it
the girl in the mirror doesn't always look like me --
eyes too dark, face too pale, thirty pounds lighter and counting
all the stardust must have leaked from my veins while i was sleeping
sometimes i think you wish i was somebody else
i know i do
sy lla bles.i walked around the lake today
at the park
and hoped maybe youd have gotten the (message)
i searched the faces on the benches
they weren't you
they neverever are these days
i was told not to think
about you or anything
apparently i do that far too often
i am not allowed to pick up my phone
to read old mess ag es
or see your face frozen in fleeting happ/i/ness
nothing shines like you do -- did
oh, here i go again
they told me not to re mi nisce
you said we were com/pat/i/ble
i thought so too
your nights end with cheap dates
and mine still end with (you)
mostly void, partially starsif i had to pick one single moment to remember forever
hearts on our sleeves and hands twined together
(starlight illuminating your face)
stars and words frozen like the breath in our lungs and the words on our lips
keep me here in this bubble universe until the whole world tips
(spills out into the vacuum of
s p a c e)
i don't understand the billions of lights but i don't have to, we've got forever to pick apart the puzzles in our heads
suspended in the abysmal void beyond where our lives have lead
(but i know we've trod a path that none can
still adore you with your hands around my necki am fascinated by your anatomy,
all sharp angles and hunching shoulders
held together by wishful thinking and stretched-too-far tendons
i could draw you for hours,
slumped over at the table;
sleeping off your latest bowl upstairs beneath my duvet;
smiling, stale-cigarette-steeped teeth like old gravestones in a military cemetery.
impressionist painters could not capture your abstract honesty and the warmth of your burnt hands
seeing is believing but
i am still convinced i made you up
Untitledi am a broken record left on an endless loop
static background noise reciting a mantra no one wants to hear
so predictable, like the spiders that build their webs in the corners of the room and the dust that settles over a cold bed and empty closet
repetition makes the heart grow fonder
repetition makes the heart grow fonder
repetition makes the heart grow fonder
happiness happens (believe it or not)to the boy who is hardly that, and yet so much more,
i know that when you read this
you'll be so far away
but I just thought you'd like to know
that i'll think of you today
when i do the laundry
and wash my face
i'll see you in the light that sits in puddles on the floor
of this creaking, empty place
the toughest times are far ahead
but in all the bad, there's good
a year ago, i heard so but
i never understood
i couldn't see beyond the "now"
but with love, patience, trust
i learned something wonderful today;
happiness happens, even for us.
love always, the girl whose heart you stole, and never gave back
Sometimes you need seclusion to reclaim your mind.
Blacken your vision and close your eyes,
Plug your ears from the outside,
As you fall back, back inside of “I.”
And not “we,” “he,” “she,” but me.
Sometimes to find myself,
I must lose everyone else.
dead girls don't write poetrydear someone,
there are no funerals
for the flesh
for the mind
no curtains & no cremations
for all our pretty words
you can't save every patient
a corpse would warm your bed
by now the bathroom tiles are stainedand i'm sitting here
slathered in water droplets and
a bright light about to
meet my skull.
ground breaking into
fourteen hundred hundred pieces.
the rain isn't rain anymore because
it’s stopping two inches
hits the ground
and my ankles are dry but
the rest of me isn't because my mom
always told me never to get
my feet wet so i don’t catch
and i'm only fourteen
episodes in and my
shoulders are too bony and
my fingers never touch
the broken bones scattered across the
bathroom tiles. i let a
broken machine control
my life and every single goddamn
day it disappoints me. numbers
can’t be low enough but
they only go lower and
lower. i’ve been
searching and waiting for the right words
to be written on the page
but all that comes out is scribbles.
my life a lie and i’m the one telling it.
here is my heart, and here is my home.i am done writing about
you can find me
in the "new beginnings"
isle, splashed with scar tissue and
dear child, open your
there are stars, a galaxy, and
there is breath in your lungs.
the past is never
you have lived through it,
swam through it and
maybe died a little
through it, but you
came out on top.
when this winter ends, it
will end harshly;
but spring comes every year,
and i hope that you
i hope you open your eyes
to rain and i hope
that you fall in love with
it, and i hope
that you let life move
like i had to.
An hourglass between his knucklesHe quit smoking because he
didn’t like the taste of his own
mortality; bitter, brackish, black
as his lungs. Didn’t like the pull
of nicotine, ashy fingers,
the way a cigarette looked like
an hourglass pinched between his knuckles.
The ashtray began
to fill up again after his wife
died. Every day at first; an entire
pack after her funeral; a box
every three days; one flicker
of light in the evenings spent leaning
on the balcony railing,
watching the city go by through
a veil of smoke and memories.
I bought a pack for him once, just
to use my ID for something.
It’s still sitting on his coffee
table, one cigarette short.
The unabridged memoirs of a teenage drop outI’d be lying if I said
I didn’t want to spend those nights
Watching the moon hang between your pupils
Like a cadaver strung up high and dry
In the brittle November air.
But there’s something about that road kill smile
That was too fast, too cruel
You were intangible and indistinct
In the way you’d shake your cigarette packet
Hearing the contents rattle like a self-contained thunder storm
You were always like that,
So painfully self-aware you tried to suffocate yourself
In such a way that it was neither poetic nor beautiful
Rather disjointed in mathematics and skewed logic.
You were not romantic or tragically beautiful
You were a boy with a spine that could fracture the sky
If you pressed against it at the right angle
You had †hands like braille
That shook when you thought you were alone
Slumped against a wall in an attempt to look blasť
When clearly there was a witch hunt seeping through your bones
I saw the way the knee jerk reaction
Of your carefu
tapping on death's windowshe never knocked
on death's door;
she climbed in through
his bedroom window
while he was asleep
and spent the night
on his sofa,
with her silvery eyes
of his chest.
the suicidal king of heartsthe truth is i haven’t gone to church
in years and the town i was born in is one
half train tracks, one half hotels and one half
fast food restaurants.
i guess i was always going to be good at running away.
it’s in my blood.
i’m getting too old to still want to turn
into a mermaid on my sixteenth birthday
so i do not have to worry about taxes
and income and the difference between mols
and moles and the difference between
wearing your heart on your sleeve
and giving it to someone you trust.
it would be nice to not have to worry.
but if this poem is about honesty,
i have to tell you i still dream about that
the thing i’ve noticed about growing up,
is that you’ll think you’re old and you’ll think you’re old
but you’re never really grown up until
you walk past dandelions without picking them
or step on one two three cracks in the sidewalk,
without remembering there is something you should be
some days, i’ll
...And the Stars ScreamedI'd long since stopped
against an ocean lacking color
for a glimpse of the light
that glinted off a sharpened knife.
But even then,
although the dust and flame
had passed me by,
and I heard.
Not much had changed
in their fiery song;
I'd avoided the void
for far too long.
I'd gotten by
on solid smoke
and a few scarce sips of water,
inhaled your burning scent
like it was pure oxygen
as the stars screamed
at me to stop,
I always spent
too much time
focusing on things
that could never be mine,
and maybe I should have spent more
on my darlings,
shrieking silently, pointlessly
upon deaf ears
whether they should have grabbed
Black hole BulimicThe Composition:
I birth poems — not amaranths
in graveyards — not gardens.
sows seeds of doubt
into skeleton weeds.
A farmer plucks the bones
from Apollo's hyacinth; his
I binge on broken
cracked collectors of rocks,
of pebbles kidnapped
from barren beaches:
where crooked kings
buried in books whose
pages creak to crickets
in an abandoned abyss
of an attic—caskets on
an antiquated shelf. I
choke on the dust and
twitch in recoil.
The bickering sky
A cloud coughs—
The clock's scythe hand
swivels to the beckoning
twelve. Spastic ticking—
each bleak stroke
of a midnight heart.
The sundials do not work
now. The vampires know
I kill poems—
Story Time.The face of evil,
Once a god frozen in the ice,
Whose sanity melts remembering touch,
Is a drop of fire on the rise,
Its soaring hopes
Tied with black ribbons to an electric chair.
Lament, bleeding roses,
Bite your tongue till it bleeds.
In the silent midnight,
A tear sings a water's lullaby,
An Underwater fire walk in the labyrinth submerges the ivory heart.
Praying for spring:
The cycle of love and solitude.
Rescue is possible,
We need an instant repair.
Until then, I'll be missing you.
a really late kinda shitty Valentine.i have this habit of
for making me love them.
it's always the small things,
the hazy images that stick with you
for days and
months and years and
lifetimes. the kind of thing
you never imagined yourself
like the low, hungry grumble of
that boy's car. i despised him for
draping his wrist
over the wheel, his fingers
above my knee, always.
the summer was hot and
so was he, and i
was so desperate to escape. i hated
the home i found in
him (which was just as empty as
but it doesn't
that was then and
this is now--
i'm learning to love the way i'm
kinda-sorta-maybe-yes-i don't-know falling in
love with the shadow of
his eyelash on his
cheek, and i i think i might be okay
with loving him, too.
Cold to the core.
Never really feeling
Too stiff to ever bound across a meadow,
Too dead to ever want to.
Only ever wallowing in the cruel reality,
As if frozen in time
Without a hope.
The harsh wind slaps you across the face.
Glassy eyes cry without even feeling sad,
The cold nips the nose red.
It hurts too much
To look up
And try to find the sun
That left so long ago.
The ice encrusting the world in a cold prison melts,
And your cheeks flush and warmth floods you.
A blanket acts as a shield.
The coldness has left.
It's strange to remember now
How it felt to feel.
Enveloped in warmth,
The world comes alive.
The color, once drained from the flowers,
Paints the landscape
Hues of crimson and violet.
Everything has a heartbeat,
Everything has a pulse.
Warmth radiates from a world
Once so dark and desolate.
No one knew
That underneath the coldness
Still worth living.
So look up,
The sun is smiling down upon you.
it's only spring when you first wake up.pale lamp light on
white sheets- the sound
of rain against window
pane and thunder
throbbing miles away.
it's moments like these
that make my bones ache
for new bird songs and
guitar strings, for
wind laughing and grass kissing my
back and me kissing
i long for summer
in the belly of
...On the windowsill,
wilted sunflower petals scatter,
I trace the screen's cross-hatching patterns,
as days limp by.
Fading pictures on walls of
long gone places.
“Too busy, but will visit someday,”
an extra chocolate milk from dinner,
a letter maybe...
Things to look forward to.
On the windowsill
I think I'll go somewhere
our walls are too thinsitting together
you can hear my heart hitting
against my chest like a broom to the ceiling
& the neighbor upstairs
begins to scream
the wind breaks a hole in my skull
you can hear my thoughts:
words whispered in paper rooms
& you have a cup to my ear
i am 16 now
but sometimes we forget that
we are not teapots or socks in the wastebasket
& the holes in our heads are not signs of well-worn affection
why we pity angelsto him;
you are afraid of phonecalls. you
are afraid of your own voice, and
opening your ribcage to let
your heart come live on your sleeve.
you are afraid of living without caffeine
or alcohol, whatever the day calls for;
you are afraid of being real
without laughing afterwards, becoming
everything you worked so hard to get
away from, acknowledging all
that you still are. know this:
I am afraid of loud noises.
I am afraid of honesty and drowning,
people I don’t know and words
I won’t say. I am afraid
of growing old and living alone and
you not accepting me. I am afraid
of myself. In that, we are the same.
I have the compulsion to grab you
and cup you to me like you are some
half-alive bird, like that sound
as the lazy sun paints you a portrait is
your hummingbird heart and not my own
shallow breaths. in the beginning,
you were my peace of mind. you traced
the contours of my being with a scalpel
and held me up, a shadow puppet,
as the darkest, blackest figures I gav
we're all drunk and always have beenno
i haven't felt smaller than this before
and it could be
because i don't breathe poetry in
and out -
and out -
i write it under my eyebrows
with the precision
of a drunk sniper
toasted into admission
with irony s-st-tutter-ering
down his throat.
you wouldn't take a damned bullet for me.
beautiful is a word kept
for the rise
of her tidal chest,
not my shallow breath,
not my sunset, heartfelt,
i would have disappeared
between your accusing index and
neglected thumb -
don't you feel calmer?
i haven't felt smaller than this
i haven't felt smaller than this before
and it could be
because you found a home between
her stroking index and
comforting thumb -
i haven't forgotten,
no, i still remember
now twenty two penumbrae in the past
didn't stop me
in one of several crevasses
at the bottom of your oceanic mind;
you may have forgotten,
and slept in
on the details,
but i haven't,