you ate the stars and i ate my heart.this is how i wasdestroyed: ifell in love with a boywith razor sharpteeth and apoet's heart. it's really adreadfullypretty kind of thing.using his borrowedcraft-man'stongue, he took me in like afour a.m cigarette (slowly, andwith loneliness in every one of hisjoints). we both thoughtthat enough smokewould fill in the cracks in ourrib cages; we were bothwrong.he told me that he wouldlike to be aplanet: "all that openspace, all those dyingstars. it would give me room tobreathe".instead of telling him thatthere is no oxygen inouter space, iwatched him feel his lungsimplode. it broke mybones to witness it; but it's really adreadfully pretty thing tosee.
a poem about too many people and too much heart.you were myconclusion- the last paragraph and the last thingi got to say. i loved you and itook words frombetween my eyelashes and iput them down foryou, i took you aparta million times in my mind and always put youback together-and i drewyou, soft and silhouettedagainst mywindow, the panefoggy and i thought of youin the darkest of times, because i kept telling myselfthat you were thelight (like you promised). i know that i am justa girl withtoo much heart andtoo weak of ribs; buti was hopingthat you would help the foxeshunt the hounds, just fortonight.
untitled.there are days when i can'teat- i am full ofcheap cigarettes and wordsi never got tosay. i have gone to theplanets. there is somethingin my bones that tastes a lot likestars- i broke them open andsaw everything i everwanted to, and that was whatdestroyed me in the end. if you were to take meapart, i'm not sure what you wouldfind; i am a mess ofhalf finished sentences and scars that have eaten their way into myheart.
bird lungs and a burnt tongue.someone once asked mewhat it's like to be awriter;and i thought abouthow i always feel like there is a crow stationed in my chest, residing under my lungs like they arean umbrella- it hums andi think that i hate this bird for the wayit is pecking against myheart in the vain hope of findingspare typewriter keys. it puts thefiction in my blood; it keeps mealive, and that is the worst thing itcould do.so when someone askedme thatquestion, i said that being a writer isvery lonely, and it is very sad, and that i would not choose any otherway of living.
underdog.if home is where theheart is, thenthat's probably why my bones feel like they cannot yetsettle: i have been homeless for seventeenyears.i find myself caught betweenthe fibers of thread andthe curls of a lover'shair- and i came to realize thatit hurts to be thisvacant. the light behind my eyes isflickering out.the wind tastes of lonely nights andmakes me wonder if anyone elseknows what it'slike to have your soul residebetween the pages of abook that nobody cares to open,to have dust caked on your lipsfrom kissing highways andthe places you've never been wrapping around yourneck like a noose.late at night or very early in themorning, i think to myself thatif home is where theheart is, then we're all justfucked.
oh, hell.she was like the sidewalkat midnight; beautiful,lonely, begging to beloved.(but my curfew is elevenp.m).
.quietly, i was kissedin a house ofcandles. they burned out;i began to fall in lovewith all thewax stuck to myskin.
cherry blossoms.one after theother, we swallowedsong birdsuntil we bled ourselvesdry.bones andall- their feathers stuckin my stomach. you, darling,you bloomed under my palm like amountain, like thesunrise. i watchedas you traced two goldenwings with yourtongue, like some kind ofdusk and dawn godhybrid. after all thatskin and dust and love was gone, you turned to meand almost smiled before you went away. i am still tryingto understand how tomiss you.
april.here is thetruth: i am just a sad teenage girl withtoo many scars anda healing heart.but here is whatis true: i am learning to findhappinessin the misery-i am internally alone andseemingly petrified (which is aterrible mix, really), buti am finally ableto let myself fall in love. and i may be bad atendings, but i thinki'm beginning to understand that minedoesn't have to beright away.
1:33 amto the angry young man withhungry ocean eyes: i do not wish to knowwhat crawled insideyour ribs todie; i just wish you wouldlet it leave.
the lives of past loves.i. nabove all else, iwould like to thankyoufor waiting under themulberry tree; i'm sorry i never gotto see youthere.ii. myou- the boy whoate my heart. i'm glad you showed me whatmonsterslook like. iii. jyou made me believethat i actually didhave eyed as brightas the ocean.but you taught methat following yourbrainis not always the rightchoice.iiii. gwith your heartin places you'venever been, you left behindthe only onesthat gave you a placeto love-that red Camaro won'tget you outof your head.iiii. boh, those big gentle-killer eyes- i loved you for wantingto put me backtogether;you loved me for howi cameapart in yourhands. iiiii.i ethe one with his soulcaught in theclouds- don't let these one way streetsbring you down.just promise me that youwill always rememberhow happiness tastedon your tongue.
a poem for the roads and skies.shaking, icarve religion into myarm just to remind me that i amdifferent.somehow, i have lived inhellmy entire life- i'm telling you, thedevil is in the details.it's in the waythe trees bend outside thechurches and thefuneral home, the smell ofconvergence in thepeople;and i am stuckhalf-in-love and humminghallelujah while burning my heartout.
10:59if you by chancefind someonelocked away in their ownmind,let them be- it might bemore pleasantthan the outsideworld.
8:15i.silently, with hushingeyes, he watches the atmosphere-he treads it around hishair and his fingers and heart, breaths it in; ii.when he is done dancingwith devils and dead friends, he reaches into me andpulls out a flower- he puts it behind myear, and he loves while he burns.iii.i take his ashes andi put them on thepetals (he said not to forgetthe beauty indeath, and i'm tryingwith all the heart inside me).
the words do not come.i am told to writefrom my heart, but i cannotfind it in my chest.
How to love a poet: Expect them to be flawed, a field of wild flowered- imperfections, sticky metaphors & an inability to speak. Love them anyway. Know that when they look at you they are noticing the little things.
reflexive verb.a note scribbled in a torn notebook: "Quedare": tostay (oh, i wish i could).
.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.
Morpheus Hexi.I am the moon walker,the black coffee athletein the star-dotted evening gown.I am young, but I feel old,like an antique withfresh paint.Sleep lives in my shadow,a morphine caregiverwith gentle hands,but I dare not fall into his arms.There is a sad knowledgein his eyesthat I do not trust.ii.You left me behind,but my pillow stillsmells like you,and now my bed feelslike a fucking coffinwithout you in it.iii.Nights like thismake me wonderwhat it feels like to die.It bothers me thatonly the dead know,and they refuse to share their secret.One day I will find outthe truth for myself,and that scares me.iv.Three a.m. teaches youhow to suffer quietly.Sleep pulls on my sleevelike a black-cloaked child.He tells me everything will be alright(but by morning, I knowhe will be gone, andI will be alone again).
six steps to fixing youstep onecry. scream. bang your fists against the wallsthat keep you locked inside.kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupidand wrong and that you've never loved her.cry. scream. apologize via him to you.let your tears catch on your lashesuntil you can no longer see anything but your owndemise. taste the bitterness left inyour mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.step twobreak a mug. break two. kickthe 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 thissort of pain. you are empty and yetyou are filled with so much anger.break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.step threeyou are okay, you tell them.you break three days later and you liein bed, unable to move.step fourstart picking up the pieces. clean up the messyou've made and he's left.use windex to polish off the dirt and
windfallI would gather allthe seven seas for you.for me, you would notspare a raindrop.
clipped wingsI wonder if gods fear dying.
you are what you eatdomine, adiuva mei never wanted thisto happen the way ithappened.it was supposed to be soclean-cut;i was supposed to be gone beforethey evennoticed.cunabula methere wasscreaming and shoutingand vomit andoh-my-godwhere are my fingers?my vision is so blurry,ice cold water rising up,touching my chin.i do not rememberhow i got here.i do not rememberi do not rememberi do not remember when ivomited upon my body,nor when i was lainnaked.diligo mihithere was an openbottle of pain meds when shewalked through the door.three little white pillslined up,the rest missing from theirplastic jail.where are the pills, she asked.where are the rest?she found her baby in the bedroom,lying face downin her own vomit.she found the pills.interficiet mei was not sorry untili woke up the next day,vomiting up bloodand my own guts, and mysister called mecrying.i was not sorry untilshe sobbed, "i was so worriedabout
twenty-three she takes your wrist, presses the pad of her
are my words poetic enough for you?maybe not.because i will never be the fire-hearted girl with remedial stardust lips,dancing with the astral wolves that hunt beneath her moon-kissed skin,with the courage to plant wilting lilacs into every crippled soul she finds.but what if they were?then i would be the ink blots coating the archives of humankind,the fractured jewel tucked away in a catastrophic dragon's chest,and the lyric every mismatched bone engraves into their marrow.if only.
Breaking SupernovaHe bleeds nebulae from quasar veins.
a poem on the inner workings of my chaotic mindit isn't like i'mlazy or anything it's just thatthe thought of getting lostin a crowd of ten or more peoplemakes me want to puke.this is not just somestupid little hang-up that you canjoke about when i'mdigging my fingernails into my palm sohard that blood is drawn as we walk throughschool hallways so packed that it feelslike we're suffocating from too muchoxygen but i just grit my teeth andlaugh "yeah, i know, i just don't likebeing around people sometimes."but you know,there's just something about the waymy mother says "go out and have a lifeand stop looking like the worldbetrays you every day"that makes my stomach dropor when my dad looks at me and justsighs, like they've finally realizedi was never good enough to betheir daughter.and to everyone who believes thati just need to relax,to just calm down and think:fuck you. fuck you for trying to pretendlike you know how it feels when mybones grind together like brokengears as i walk by people who mayor
.she said to lookat the sky whenever i missed her-"i'll be the closeststar". but she never said what todo when it'scloudy.