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
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.
,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.
.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.
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
i was doing so well at this happy thing.from age fiveto twelve, it was the constant voices (at homeand in my head) telling me that i wasfat. and then for 3 yearsi was nothing.i was the child that dyed her hair andtold her dad thatshe didn't want to get marriedbecause it was alltoo much.for 3 years,i was the girl whowrote stories and folded them up inpaper cranesto hang above my bed. now,at 16 years old,my dad tells methat i'm too thin. i don't eat enough.and i know that it's nottrue. i eatwhat my body needs. and i had finally gottento the spot where i felt comfortable. no-- fuck, i felt good.but nowwhen i look in the mirrorall i see is my dadtelling me that i am a mess(even though he never said it) and that when he was my age,he didn't have anxiety attacks and my brothermay be a fuck up butat least he'smentally capable (sort of).no matter what,my dadwill always be betterand so will myalmost-dropout br
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.
dinner for two.i keep Chinese fortunes and your hopefolded up in my pocket,staying warmhand-in-hand with the worst thingsabout me.
2nd hr.9:01 a.m.-holy shit, i need a smoke;how do you say "i'm suicidal"in Spanish?
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.
we promised not to cry.you cut yourselfwith the burnt out ends of cigarettes,and drown yourself inside of my eyes,because i cannot helpyou.when did you becomejust another messof strong liquor andnicotine promises?we swore that we'd stay by each othereven with the face of Hellclawing down our throats.sometimesi want to shake you and screamthat it does get better. it does and it will andit always will, you foolishchild. i love you. i say thisbecause you are my heart and how can a woman livewithout blood in her veins?
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.
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.
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
.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
the skin on my bones, the sun on my fingers.at 8:54 p.m., i realizethat i love you morethan the sun loves the moon,the seaand the sand and shells,and morethan the wind loves therain. i love you likei love the last dragof a cigarette,the humming of the airbefore a thunderstorm and i love you likei love my blankets afterwork, like i love my habitof turning offevery single lightbefore i go tobed.you are morethan how the sky looksand midnight in the dead of winter;that perpetual ink-spill ofpink;and you are more dear to methan the thousands of wordsi have written. if i couldi would put the worldinto my palmand then burn it, torch it all and pick awayat the flaming remains andi.o.u'suntil i can paint a lifein ashesso that it half way resembleswhat i feel for you.
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.
how to healthey say honeyto soften the wound, but i let the woolwet with ethanolgnawuntil i amweeping,again, and again,and again
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'.
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.
Dear LostDear Lost,Hello. I've likely not met you in reality before, butI can assure you that we have more than a fewthings in common. Maybe you like to sleep with thewindow open. Maybe you like to carry a wallet inyour side pocket instead of the back. Or maybeyou walk down the stairs with your feet poised toeither side instead of straight, rigid motions. There'smore, I'm sure of it.But we both are our own person. It's plausible to saythere's much more which keeps us distinct than loopus together. And I'm fine with that. Maybe you single-knot your shoelaces while I double-knot mine, or youfind a cup of tea much more enjoyable when you'realone, with a good book in hand. Or maybe you thinkthe stars are just wispy balls of gas, whereas I find abubble of solace whenever I see the hearty light.I think I can trust you with a secret. My grandmotherpassed away a while back, and I can't remember e
we aren't well-written.i can envision time fluxing backwards:words snuffed, swallowing dreams,choking on the catatonic fear thatyou just might love someone a bitmore than you love me.maybe if i destroy those damnedstars, you won't have anythingelse to write about.
after all this time,my heart is trapped within lungs, andthe more i breathe, the more iremember- hecan't stand it sometimes,i knowwe're both broken.but ocean boy, i'm chained to you.(maybe i'll be an anchor) soon my lungs will breakwith me.itouch you through a gap in thefence- sand white asinnocence,eyes bright asstars.so please,horizon.tape us back together.
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
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.
.misery lovescompany aslong as it'son his termsand i've abetter chanceof winningif i just playby the rules
.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.