|my very first DD!|
|so you think you can love me and leave me to die?|
oh to be the bruises stamped on the white of your neck
impossibly close to the thrum of your tiny-bird pulse
fluttering, excited beneath the greedy gnash of my teeth
your hair, dearest, is choppy in my jealous fingers
grasping, blind, at violin bow strings
can you feel my heart trembling in my chest
pressed warm and squelched sticky between the gaps in your cracking ribs
bursting like july
the idea of you is enough to put white-hot stars behind the thin skin of my eyelids
but your chapped-marble lips send galaxies shooting through my nerves and i am drunk on the infinite sweetness of being
i have flayed myself, laid every bleeding, drumbeat organ out for your careful, cautious inspection
my blood on your fingers is love, is love, is love
you are here and that, too, is love but
if i tell you that i love you,
that i want to kill us both,
to fan my dying breath across the sculpted androgyny of your much-dreamt face
and bury our skeletons in the same six-foot-hole
would it become a weapon?
interestlovely timbre of hands,
and words like
the world takes notice.
i’m only at the eyes,
only the corners and how
objects are caressed
placement of angles,
the emanation of self
and effacement of
all other motion.
soft, subtle glow
of warm lips upturned
as the image burns
into welcome ache.
the breakup you see on tvwe are both tired and
rough-edged and broken
and we know we are wrong
i know how to say "i love you
and i love you and i love you, but
this hurts more than i can handle"
but i don't know how to
say "i'm sorry,
i just don't know how
to give you what you need"
this is not the breakup you see on tv
we are far, far apart (no close ups)
we are hanging from our fingertips at 1am
and mumbling false forgiveness
in quick-fingered keystrokes
we are hurting
and we don't get enough sleep
we don't know how to say "i was never
right for you in the first damn place"
and by God
that's what hurts the most.
Zealotthere is poetry in brutal efficiency, an art to torment and death.
i swore an oath, in years long gone by,
to carve scars in the skin of the world-
to make them bleed for what they have done to you.
tell me who you wish to kill, and i will eat their hearts.
hammocks, hikes, hands, hues (of you).dreaming of hammocks
and hikes, hand-holding
and your hips pressed
i am dreaming.
i am dreaming.
that is so strange
and so new,
but so you.
hold my hand
into the forest
where you are king,
where i am foreign.
lead us into this space,
and let us dream.
a quiet testimony
to lie awake
in this lucid place,
where we control this,
finally hold this.
a place where my
reveries are delighted
by your face.
my dreams have missed
this place. and they've
shaky vibratoanxiety looms
while i am nude in my bed,
ruminations of you stuck
in my cagey head.
"what do you want me to be"
in a voice lilt instead--
i don't know about you,
but i think i wish i was dead.
a childhood cadence
falls back on mine,
how could i ask you back
in this strange of a time?
but you're the keep-coming-back-to
-kind-of-person i can't ignore,
the human i miss most,
when your form walked out the door.
but your silhouette always teased
around the frame,
if you listen closely, you can hear my pleas
around your name.
i won't forget lips,
nor everything else
that had You on my cheeks,
but i'll do my best.
you're the howling in woods of lunacy)
i will forget your astrology talks,
how you explained my whole self
just through stargazer's midnights,
and the tiny fear in the eye
when you realized that i have a Pluto in the 12th house:
the best paintings are never painted,
and some words decompose better in saliva
than in brain.
i won't forget
those endless lines of fruit of having a lot to say:
doubts and thoughts,
pseudonyms and asterisk-less cuss words:
because it was the only friend i needed,
and yet i never gave it chance
to start breathing.
easter drivingand i’ve been thinking about the
final breath too much i’ve been
(dreaming about it)
wondering how to google it without
throwing up red flags
i remember graffiti on a
billboard i saw last year—
“humbled by the idea of death”
i think about that too
crushing blow to the head i
marvel at the violent ones i
wonder just how long it takes i
ponder the pulsing blood i
push it out with my fingers i
wrap it up in neat bows i
crave it, lacing up my
arms with it
tight rows little red life
grows from it — i wondered about the
pills yesterday — my phalanges crawl
through my nails and over the counter
return with bottles to swallow whole
i am branches made of glass
soaking up the sun and slicing through
clouds, absorbing the sleet within and
diluting the mind with it, godlike arsenic
sliding along th
callegrafiathey gave me paint for this reason—
plastic wires tangled with good luck charms in her pocket,
empty handed but for a sketchbook (one page
a tribute to van gogh's blue, the rest stained with gray)
the dusty jeans and tattered shoes
mark her as a
rebel, reveling in the un-knowledge of the flawless.
here's what it means to have scars:
crouched on an uneven platform, holding
half-recklessly to a metal gutter and
marking feathers on tarred dust
tal vez todos los artistas son
delincuentes / maybe all artists
are criminals &
maybe my meaning gets lost in translation
(but that's the point of being flawed)
from this low on the ground it
doesn't seem so new
where new is a synonym for what's left without
no hables esas palabras / it's all third-person now
the second i saw _ _ _ i knew i had never escaped
there has to be some reason i love the sound of the word ayúdame