you can't have the world.i never meant to make youhate me; i only wantedyou not tolove me.
pine cone heart. it is 9:36 on a Tuesday night. i don't know if it's still snowing, but i do know it's cold and my palms are covered in a thin layer of sweat. slowly, it eats away at my epidermis like a parasite. soon i will be nothing more than skeletal muscle and a decaying pericardium. i think this is beginning to happen already, this disintegration. it began five minutes and thirty seven seconds ago when i realized two things: you will never love me. i will love you all the same. our timelines were never meant to connect, not really. there was just that second-long contact, a chance, a lifetime in my eyes. i keep replaying that moment again and again. i don't remember what you were wearing, how your hair looked, the way your smile looked. no; all i can recall is how your skin felt on your forearm, the sound of a marker against flesh. i realize that that is all we will be: a fleeting smile. a promise to keep in
i am not what i am.don't tell me that iam weak. you arrogant boy,i have dragged myselfout of hell,and i did so with the smell of your sheetsstill tangled around my throat.i loved you desperately, suddenly; and i realized it when you took me to the lakeand told methat your mom drank, too, and thatyeah, it hurts. i loved you for the painyou understood, andi hated you for the agony youdidn't. i think you loved me mostwhen i was naked, and you put your lips to myear, breath heavy andyour chest thundering,and told me that you loved me. so don't tell methat i gave up, because it was youwho told me that i'll never get anywherewith my head in theclouds, andlook at me now;the scars on my skin andaround my heart are not, and will never be,nothing. my lips are chapped and my skin is torn but i am whole, like the dollmy father once glued back togetherfor me.i will be cherished again and iwill come ou
,the thing they forgot to mentionabout being a writeris that we all live the longestand die the fastest.we feast on metaphorswith numb fingers and heartsuntil we crawl under a half moon to sleepand just don't wake up,because everything we areis arranged in our workand we start to becomeeverything we've written about, slowly but surely. and now i'm not so sureif i want to be a poet.i just knowthat i want to be a writer.
red.these cigarettes will kill me, but only ifi don't do it first. (inhale, breathe, hold, exhale. then concentrate on the scenery. feel the smoke on your tongue and think about how you're killing yourself, when in reality, you're already dying.)we're all going todie, so what's oneday less? it seems like anhonest bargain to me,but then again, you should neverlisten to a word i say, because i ama class A fuck up (or so they say). see, i'm either too fator too skinny,much too heart wildfor any man too marry. ("who would want to marry a girl like you? you're too stubborn," my father says. i am fifteen with purple hair and fire on my cheeks and my heart coiling away from my sleeve. "fuck anyone who wants to take anything about you away," my mother tells me when i'm nearly 16, with sad eyes and a worn out expectation.)but i think i realize nowthat i don'tcare. for me i am good enough,good in general,an
/ we smile at the universe with ashes on our lips. there are boats inside of our veins. the blood is a metaphor and, hell, i can't even begin to write about her. i could tell any story. if i wanted, i could write a novel about my mother and how beautiful she was a sixteen or i could make a lighthouse a person, but i cannot tell you the color or her eyes. it's that that i don't know it; i just can't tell you. it's not a color, it's a place. her eyes are like Chicago. there's life and lights and lakes, but there's a sadness, too. even so, it's a happy kind of sad. the kind that gives you hope. sometimes when i'm high i think that i'm dead, because i get numb. not physically senseless, but just mentally dazed. i forget where i am. i like that. it seems sometimes like i am a place, i am all the street signs and the cracks in the road and badly painted house down the way. see the really faint dot on the map? that's me. scribb
to become a writer.parents divorce before you can talk.write about itlike you don't care. try to mean it.go through monthsof shitty pity-leaking almost-poemsbefore you get onethat actually makes someone feeland thensay that it was all a mistake. mean it.only feel like a writerwhen you're insecure. fall in lovewith someone. anyone. tell yourself that's it's just for fun. just for being young.actually love the hell out of them.mess it up.write about it. smoke 2-5 cigarettes every day,something destructivebut with the hopesof saving your lungs for running(a metaphor? another rule: never tell)and drink and drink and drinkuntil you have the courage to call up ex boyfriendsor lovers or dead friendsto say that you miss them.write about that-act like you don't care.actually care.everyone knows that you care.write about that.
.picking daisies from herwrists, she turns to mewith drug storeeyes and shedrops her heart at myfeet. "it was ano winner from thebeginning," she says,and she is right--and so i leave herwith her garden of eveand a pocket fullof war stories; in the rising sun, she tells methat i no longer look likeApollo, and i smile,pick up my half heartedskeleton, my ragged bones andmy tired veins, and i leave her standingin thedoorframe-- ifind a newhome.
t.they say that opposites attract, but that's not really true;we both hate our misery and i'm learning to love you.but you know what they sayabout writers;they'll suck you dryand only use youto write about. carve your nameinto poems (not intoskin-- that's not "in" right now,i guess), butmaybe i'm all out of wordsand youare all i want to read about.
you should be home by nowlast tuesday the house took my hand & said,it's more of a hurricane than a firesince he broke in & burnedmy curtainsmy floorsmy bridgesmy selfbut sometimes I see her with a lighter& she finishes what he didn't do(I think she's afraidof settling in,being quiet)but last tuesday I realized that she kept the lights onto frighten away the bridges & the peopleso no one will come inside& smash the teacups, steal the pipesbecause since he burnt her beds outno one lives there anymore
i and youwho is it thatyou dream of?is it mewith the knife in your back;do you see methe woman witha wolf jawcut slack in a growl?do i pounce you?do you defeat mewith the knifei gave you?and i wonder the soundof me when you finally put your demonto rest--she is a venus(her body cut fromthe ivory tusk with hips like that of a valley, breasts shaped astwo moons caught inher breath)and i am the trapshe slips into.i cut her headinto a loop land wear her round my necklike lace.
.they say that you are thework of the devil; you'll haveblack orbs for eyes and a tongueas sharp as your fathersand i hope you will not feel a thingwhen they pull back your blanketsand carry you out, when they leaveme with nothing but creases
the suicidal king of heartsthe truth is i haven’t gone to churchin years and the town i was born in is onehalf train tracks, one half hotels and one halffast 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 turninto a mermaid on my sixteenth birthdayso i do not have to worry about taxesand income and the difference between molsand moles and the difference betweenwearing your heart on your sleeveand 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 thatsometimes.the thing i’ve noticed about growing up,is that you’ll think you’re old and you’ll think you’re oldbut you’re never really grown up untilyou walk past dandelions without picking themor step on one two three cracks in the sidewalk,without remembering there is something you should beregretting.some days, i’ll
now.i was the the girl stuckbetween the pages of booksi'd never read and half in love with peoplei'd never met. and you were the boywho asked me if i liked the sun--nervous, palms tingling, i almost told you that i adored it.
here is my heart, and here is my home.i am done writing aboutblood. you can find mein the "new beginnings" isle, splashed with scar tissue and pale skin--i amwhole. dear child, open youreyes: there are stars, a galaxy, andthere is breath in your lungs. the past is neverforgotten, but you have lived through it,swam through it andmaybe died a little through it, but youcame out on top. when this winter ends, itwill end harshly;but spring comes every year,and i hope that youremember that;i hope you open your eyesto rain and i hopethat you fall in love with it, and i hopethat you let life movelike i had to.
i imagine she would taste like misery and spring.nothing makes me heavier than the thought ofher, and nothing makes mehigher, either. they say thatto love is to fly,but i think thatit's more like dro wni ng. your lungs collapse--salt cascades down your cheeks andall you can dois realize thatyour best is not enoughfor them. i know how hard it isto love someonewho's broken. i know this becausei had to learnto love myself,and i am a fucking mess. but time heals all wounds--and all i wantis a few secondswith her;i will wrap the monthsaround her scarsthe same wayi know she would do forme. and when we areboth okay, almost, maybe, i thinkthat i would kiss her.
6:39 pmi'm finding it harder andharderto eat. maybe i'm fed upwith winter,and the snow is clogging myarteries as i try toswallow. for me, substance as becomenauseating and sends me plummeting into a holeof desperation. i am clawing at my skin and punching my thighs, becausei read somewhere that human contact makes ushungry. i think what they really meant is thatwe need the touchof another,or else we willstarve. (baby, i'm alreadyhalf way there- hands offthe merchandise.)maybe i'm guilty.i read a lot about nutrition, and hownobody ever does it right,and how kids are starvingwhile others areobese, and maybe thatscares me. my dad tells me thati look sick,but i never tell himthat all i do is sleep and it's been dayssince i've had a decent meal. instead i'm inhalingsmoke andstars, and i've realizedthat i can usually eatwhen i'm higher than the moon.i think that i'm brea ki n&
we're alone.i want to drive pulsesinto your fractured ribcage,make my words resonatein your hollow vessels;heavy enough to sink eventhe sturdiest of ships.(and we both know you can't float.)but inject me into yourchoking streams, and i'll gladly showyou the meaning of 'alone'.
how to healthey say honeyto soften the wound, but i let the woolwet with ethanolgnawuntil i amweeping,again, and again,and again
on being savedi am sorry youhave never known salvationfrom another's touch
every night my hair is falling outI have heard that in 7 yearsevery cell in your bodyis new& isn't it beautiful that it will bea body you have never touchedbut I know that when your brain cellsdiefall like ashes through your skullthey stay dead& I can never scrap the memories out of their corpses
CompoundHit me with a lightning bolt that turns into a thousand hearts made of glittering plastic. Tie me with chains sprayed with fake gold and drown me in feathers dyed crimson. Hail to the Queen of the Second-Hand Market that walks down the catwalk surrounded by pearl slippers and Barbie dolls, who calls unknown numbers with red wire phones using old phone directories. Hail to the Doll that walks down the aisle to kiss her 80s prince that wears a dusty blue wig and a laser disc on a chain around his neck. In front of a congregation still in their striped pyjamas, on an altar covered with one-hit wonders, they exchange vows to keep changing batteries to the rotating disco ball and never toss away the ice cream machine, and promise to love pink and blue and faded My Little Ponies until they start to decompose.
maria:she is splayedbeneath the moon, a[star]fish out ofwater; dry-eyed &melancholy, sheswallows the sounds ofsummer, devours clumsilykeyed piano concertos& suddenly, sherealizes - this is how it must feel tobe [at peacewith] death.
these patched lungs want release.you've been smoking likethe world was gonna end -- (and maybe, it already has. we could've plunged to hell and wouldn't have noticed.)but now, your lungs igniteinstead of the cigarette.
june fifteenthtoday issunburned shouldersand your fingers between mine,warm and damp in the heat.my legs stick toplastic lawn chairs,my body sticks to yourslike bubblegum-fresh paste,melting into youand liking what it becomes.black asphalt boy,you are sizzling leatherand suffocating airin an overheated car.we walk across the shoreand the soles of my feetyearn for the cool damp sandstruggling for breathbetween the waves."I don't want toforget this," I say,and you smile andclose your eyeslike the sun setting,slowly, streaking downthe sky of your face.the sun is so far butyou're right hereand I think I mightbe in love with you.I'll move on to autumnbut you'll still bein summer, forever,living and livinguntil the day you die.
.misery lovescompany aslong as it'son his termsand i've abetter chanceof winningif i just playby the rules
if being afraid is a crime, we hang side by sidethe future terrifies me,so i'll continue todrag my evisceratedcorpse under yourdecaying ballroom.don't you worry, there'salways more room inthis neverending jail.
.i.the high is at itsbest when i can't remember why i hated myself.ii.death is a nightmare only when i realize youare not in the dream.