xoxo.i have never tasted ashso sweetas when you kissed mewith death on your tongue.
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.
baby, baby, it's just blood.he used to remind me of grass wet with dew on the soles of my feet. when i was a kid, i would stand in my front yard, waiting for my dad to come home. he never did. my mom would take me inside, and she smelled bitter, like how he smelt during that first summer. like old vodka and car grease, gasoline on his slippery tongue.oh, i loved him.but stars can only take up so much space inside my head before i start to shatter.i can't say that i love him. baby, i'm too high, maybe i'm not coming down this time. winter came in like a fucking lion. it ate me up. i'm here inside its belly, and if there was such a thing as hell, i think this is what it would feel like.the only time i ever miss him is when i've been smoking. ironic, because he told me how someday pot is going to ruin me, break me, and i guess it is. after all, the only thing i can see is the image of him after sex, with his eyes extravagant but hazed and my handprint on his thigh. i never said no. i wish i had. but we can't go
you never taught me how to sleep.one day you'll unfold your bedsheets, and i will still be in the creases.
show me god.he smells likelate nights and moonshine and stars,drags elongated underneath country bridges because"there are just too many people,you know?" skin rough under my palms,but we're so coldand we're each other's fire;knocking teeth against teethandlimbs against limbs.if we tried,we could be some hollywood heartbreak movie;but i've become weary and heis still numb from his own head. two halves make a whole;it's too badthat we're only sliversof a moon, at best.
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
imessedup.eons pass him by.starsget caught between his teeth, fingersand woe; and this is my fault.there was a timewhen he broke me to piecesjust like everyone does to me.and he does it by asking what's going on with me.i can't talk about it. why not?(because i think about offing myselfon a regular basisand i feel less than human,like a self destructive whorethat likes to play with thinks that aren't toysand i've become everythingi promised myself i wouldn't). i just can't. it's nothing.
autumn.i press leaves betweenmy ribswith the intention of preserving everything i once was.
carry on.i count milesby the cracks in the sidewalkthat i try to step on(old habits die hard)andby cigarette buts thrown like Hansel & Gretel's crumbs down main st;count them by how many times i think of youand how many timesi wish i hadn't (those numbers are neck and neck).someday not so far from nowi know that i'll wind up to bethe monster i always said i wouldn't,and i'll sit back, mind a million miles away because i just want to keep going.
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
a haiku for every boy i've ever kissed.i. our lips were chapped. itwas February and wewere so very young.ii.this was the first yeari died my hair black. we were only half in love.iii.it is heartbreaking,because i can't remember where you kissed me first.iiii.you tasted like heat,it was summer. i washardly just fifteen. iiiii.with your tongue shoved downmy throat, you told me sex wasnothing to be feared.iiiii.i part of me wanted you to be my last breath; thelast thing i saw bloom.
praying for dawn (and not you)nighttime falls downmy throat--i still find myselfcalling your namewhen i'm a mess of half-dreams andmelting moons.
side note: maybe i'm the sea.he stashes sandbetween his wishing teethwith the hopeless desireto taste the sea. those half-smokedpacks of Newports won't gethim far, and the extra air in his lungscan't keep him afloat very long,so it would better for us both if he just shrugged (again)and walked away (like always).
11:43i'm too highto be this alone--tell me, baby, please,how the hell did i gethome?
to love is to bleed.seeing his scars make some part of me ache to digmine even deeper.
sex is candy and i am diabetic.i curse youfor all of yoursweet talking andheavy hands in the dark,and all the times you told me"it's okay, it's okay", because, god dammit, it was neverokay. and you are the reason that i cannot bring myselfto writing a scene where a girlloses her virginitybecause you took that from melike it was pocket change.
love is not a number.he is 77.7 milesaway from me,and tomorrow isFriday the 13th.but i swearthat i can feel his pulsein my palmsand the sun shining through the snow.
for ellie, always.it may be too latebut i want to drop kisses onto yourstomachand tell you that you're beautiful at 3:17 amor pm,i don't really care.
leftoversthe worst iswhen you're brokenand your body just keepstrying to put you backtogether againand there are shardsof your heartwhere your tongue should bethey catch at your cheeksand leave your chest hollowbut somehow still manage to bleedand there's souldripping from your fingertipslike an IVfeeding the empty veins of all that you touchuntil you've withered intonothing but paper skin and splintery bonesthe worst is whenyour mind already knowsyou're defectedbut the rest of youcan't seem to catch up.
She was hisHope can be dragged through memoriesand ice skate blades; it can begracelessly covered with clothesthat mismatch the seasons, butit butterflies inside her chest with a simplebrush of chastened skin.
.here is a love storyin quiet words:she pressed her hands to my heartand her palms came awaydusty.
it's like we argue every dayfragmented heartstrings bleed me a melodythat sounds more like a broken soulthan it does a songwe're just trying to figure outwhen we dissolved into strangershating each other inside the same houseand we can't rememberwhen laughter turned to sobsor when smiles turned to screamingdown the road, we lost trackof the first 'i hate you,' but stoppingmeans losing and we're too stubborn for thatso you scream me a verse andi cry you the chorusbut the chords don't come out rightand i guess our pianoisn't tuned the way it used to bebecause it used to be so beautiful--and now all we getis noise.
i am alpha and omegaShe stands up, dizzy and drunk. Wonders when her heels came unstrapped, and grips the glass she's got in her hand tighter than she holds her rosary on sleepless nights. Her vision hazy, she trips over her own twisted ankles trying to stand up and pulls the bottom hem of her dress down because her mother taught her two things: One, a lady never shows her ass in public. Two, a lady only drinks the strongest of whiskeys. That was before she had skipped town to pal around with her new boyfriend that had pockets deeper than Lake Baikal, if you know what I'm saying.The silence is heavy as she slowly makes her way out of whatever hallway she had found herself in, stepping over someone else's body that's marinated in liquor for only god knows how long. It takes an effort not to tumble down the stairs in her shit-faced state, and she barely makes it out alive. There's a door. Opens it. There's a city outside cast in the glow of a purple sunrise,
(Un)windi could drink youlike heavy sipsfrom glass bottles(hesitant,shifting lips)you flicker likewax light,jackal-eyed girlbut youwill notbloomgolden-plated
what I forgot to sayto the girl who lives like a hurricane:don’t expect to tell me aboutyour addiction to self-harm andNyquil and have me smile;although, as I shiver from lakewaterand things less tangible, I seem toacquire a talent for glossing over the listof things I need to tell you--your boyfriendis an asshole. California does notbegin and end in a tiny town wherepeople operate like clockwork aroundthe same happy working song. I am nota fountain of wisdom, and, to be honest,I can barely understand you over thethunderstorms in my own brain.you are beautiful and you arewrong..to the girl I left back in time:purpose is not a given. I amthe same teenage angst who usedto wear too much eyeliner andcomplain about my futureas I’d foretold it-- loveless and whiny,like me. I am her plus a few moreself destructions and minusa lot more days to continue strivingalongside you for simple goals andsimple friends and simple memoriesI won’t remember..to the girl who see
enduranceyour words, why should they be so small?are you an ant-like Atlas caving beneath the weight of neverending skies? a hundred times a thousand. and you, little loyal son of his dead memories floating on her shifting oceans,why should your voice be so soft? why should you tread on tiptoeacross cracks in this mortal armor where a child would boldly speak aloud,fearless of stray sparks among dry timber? "you are the stubborn, weary feet that march forever on."
we've never been experts on anything else.i've never beenas much as they told me i would be.i've always believed in the sayingthat you would whisper to mein the dark, that"a whole is always greaterthan the sum of its parts,"but what happenswhen the damned parts won'tfit together?what makes these piecesinto a whole, anyway?do you know howto attach the uneventiles of a mosaic into aportrait of a mindlessyou and i?am i supposedto model my completed puzzleof a soul after you,you masterpiece of dust,you constant constellation?i've seen you.i've watched as youglued yourself back into anillusionand i listenedwhile you screeched your wayinto my chest and held yourselfin contemptwhen the dried bloodthat held you togethermelted.i could feel you breaking apartwhen you burrowed into one ofmy fragments and gripped tightlyas i clutched at that empty holethat you always wanted to fill,and i knew that when you appeared to me nextin the mist of night,clenching your broken fingers intofists and crumbling
baby"i miss you," i choke outand you kiss me againbut don't understandthat i don't love youand i don't thinki ever willagain.