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the skin on my bones, the sun on my fingers.at 8:54 p.m., i realize
that i love you more
than the sun loves the moon,
and the sand and shells,
than the wind loves the
i love you like
i love the last drag
of a cigarette,
the humming of the air
before a thunderstorm
i love you like
i love my blankets after
work, like i love my habit
of turning off
every single light
before i go to
you are more
than how the sky looks
in the dead of winter;
that perpetual ink-spill of
are more dear to me
than the thousands of words
i have written.
if i could
i would put the world
into my palm
and then burn it,
torch it all and pick away
at the flaming remains and
until i can paint a life
so that it half way resembles
what i feel
an ode to winter, to her.i.
there's a mix
of cheap cigarettes and
coating my lips.
all the scar tissue
can't make up
for everything i've lost,
i will gain.
i have never met someone
who distracts me
more than metal and
pot, but i guess
that there's a first for
a haiku for every boy i've ever kissed.i.
our lips were chapped. it
was February and we
were so very young.
this was the first year
i died my hair black. we were
only half in love.
it is heartbreaking,
because i can't remember
where you kissed me first.
you tasted like heat,
it was summer. i was
hardly just fifteen.
with your tongue shoved down
my throat, you told me sex was
nothing to be feared.
part of me wanted
you to be my last breath; the
last thing i saw bloom.
now.i was the the girl stuck
between the pages of books
i'd never read and
half in love with people
i'd never met.
and you were the boy
who asked me if i
liked the sun--
nervous, palms tingling, i
almost told you that i
april.here is the
i am just a
sad teenage girl with
too many scars and
a healing heart.
but here is what
i am learning to find
in the misery-
i am internally alone and
seemingly petrified (which is a
terrible mix, really), but
i am finally able
to let myself fall in
and i may be bad at
endings, but i think
i'm beginning to understand that mine
doesn't have to be
to become a writer.parents divorce before you can talk.
write about it
like you don't care.
try to mean it.
go through months
of shitty pity-leaking almost-poems
before you get one
that actually makes someone feel
say that it was all a mistake.
only feel like a writer
when you're insecure.
fall in love
with someone. anyone.
that's it's just for fun. just for being
actually love the hell out of them.
mess it up.
write about it.
smoke 2-5 cigarettes every day,
but with the hopes
of saving your lungs for running
(a metaphor? another rule: never tell)
and drink and drink and drink
until you have the courage
to call up ex boyfriends
or lovers or dead friends
to say that you miss them.
write about that-
like you don't care.
everyone knows that you care.
write about that.
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.
we aren't well-written.i can envision time fluxing backwards:
words snuffed, swallowing dreams,
choking on the catatonic fear that
you just might love someone a bit
more than you love me.
maybe if i destroy those damned
stars, you won't have anything
else to write about.
i keep my hair like i keep my blue jeans: shortthe beginning
she was all curls falling over shoulders and small hands and slender ankles, but she was also all crooked toes and cheek moles and half-baked smiles. she wore skinny jeans too long and too big on her and she always wore a jacket because she was always cold. and he thought that she was pretty beautiful the first time he saw her in a parade, sitting on top of a dodge truck and waving with both hands so that no one was left out. she was the kind of pretty beautiful that only came around when he said something stupid and she shook her head at him, trying to hide her teeth but failing miserably.
she wore glasses but only when she was doing work or when she had a headache because she thought that her eyes looked too wide in them and all she ever wanted in life was to be people magazine's definition of pretty—which she wasn't (but don't tell her that.) she drank tea on sleepless nights, sitting on her porch and stargazing; she thought that ma
six steps to fixing youstep one
cry. scream. bang your fists against the walls
that keep you locked inside.
kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupid
and wrong and that you've never loved her.
cry. scream. apologize via him to you.
let your tears catch on your lashes
until you can no longer see anything but your own
demise. taste the bitterness left in
your mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.
break a mug. break two. kick
the pieces around the kitchen floor and cry some more.
break a plate. break a cup. break a bowl.
break a finger because nothing can take away this
sort of pain. you are empty and yet
you are filled with so much anger.
break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.
you are okay, you tell them.
you break three days later and you lie
in bed, unable to move.
start picking up the pieces. clean up the mess
you've made and he's left.
use windex to polish off the dirt and
three-hundred-sixty-sixi am three-hundred-sixty-six seconds too late.
i wake up late
barely dress myself.
i leave late because
i forget it is winter
and there is frost
on my car. i get to school
to get a good parking space.
and somehow my work is always
turned in just
a little too late.
i am three-hundred-sixty-six minutes too late.
i leave school every day
at the last late bell.
jump in my car,
get home for dinner too late.
skip it because
one meal a day is quite enough.
i stay up late.
late into the hours.
no one knows just what i even do
when it is one a.m. and
the rain is pelting my window. sometimes
i wish i could be like the rain.
sometimes, instead of going against
the clock, i wish i could
run with the wind. float. fly.
but i am always too late.
and it seems,
i am not just three-hundred-sixty-six seconds or
three-hundred-sixty-six minutes or
even three-hundred-sixty-six hours
i am three-h
.karma sits on my sofa
whiskey doused, eyes rolled up
to the top of his head, and he says
just do whatever the fuck makes
you happy, mate, just do
whatever you want
(what a terrible thing to be full to the brim with emptiness)
5 reasons to date a girl with an eating disorderi.
her stomach hollows out sometimes,
but you never hear it cry out in the sort
of desperate plea that you think
her body ain't a kingdom and her heart sure
ain't an oasis, but she's got
the body of an hourglass (not that she knows how
to tell her own time.)
the bathroom door is always
locked when you get home, and she never fails
to keep her secrets just
as tucked away in her bosom as she does you
away from her misery.
she never lets you buy her clothes
because it seems that she never ever wears her
all they do is swallow her up in a pitied
attempt to kill her off.
besides, your pockets are heavier
when she doesn't weigh so much.
her voice is so soft now.
she never speaks--too afraid to start a war from
you like her better than your ex who
spit fire and brimstone at you, and never once would
shut up while you fucked
her into seeing white.
her daddy was always a rich man,
which is why she's got magazines of pretty girls--
we're alone.i want to drive pulses
into your fractured ribcage,
make my words resonate
in your hollow vessels;
heavy enough to sink even
the sturdiest of ships.
(and we both know you can't float.)
but inject me into your
choking streams, and i'll gladly show
you the meaning of 'alone'.
orificesyou sucked down cigarettes like
they were lollipops and
breaking hearts was just a
but your nail beds were bleeding,
spurting piss and "i'm sorry"'s
from the quick.
she still packed juice boxes in her lunch bag
and wore scarves
like a noose wrapped 'round her neck.
her favorite flavor was
condoms and safe sex,
while yours was
garage bands and cinderella 99.
she drove eighties cars because
she liked the past
better than her future with you.
and you were scared of conspiracies;
you thought you
were the world wrapped in palms,
no permissions needed.
you thought she was going to save the world.
instead of waiting for
you brought it with you after
a trip around the world,
stringing her along with your luggage and
dumping her off
on the next train out of the
her tears were diamonds,
dripping like your own cum
off a thirty-bucks-an-hour-whore's
you say goodbye like an
eighteen-wheeler in a wreck,
and she bit into her
bursting like a pea
homicides are not always humani tried to forget but you planted a seed
in my brain that you constantly watered with thoughts
that i was never good enough. i tried to forget
but it sprouted between my scalp and
shut my eyes tight and sewed my lips together
without words. you punctured my trachea to let the
sunlight into my ribcage, my lungs pumping
oxygen to the weeds that grew steadily around my
neck as if you had built me a noose. and once
its leaves had coiled themselves around the bone
structure called my spine i gave up, because
nausea paralyzed me as your fingers dug deeply into
my chest cavity, looking for the thorns inside so
you could press them into my skin. i tried to forget you,
but i was soon enraptured by the rose that bloomed
from my brain matter, shouting "we won't sink this time, we
won't sink," but it ended up wilting as the petals
fell down my cheeks. i counted them: he loves me, he
loves me not. but i never found out which one it
may have been because you pluck
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