to myself.i'm happy,i tell myself when i get in my freezing car,almost running late forclass. i'll be okay,is what i whisper to myselfduring the middle of a test. nobodyknows all the answers, right?it gets better.that's what i'm going to saythe next timei see someone withscars.
don't love me until you've seen me bleed.i think thati'm falling in lovewith you.no. no, no no, don't you say that, because you've never seen meat 4 amwith my eyes glazedand my mind a battle field (and my arms paying for the weaponry).you haven't heard mechoke back sobs after midnightbecause god dammit i can't sleep,and the screams in my earsaren't helping matters,and i don't thinkyou will ever see me bre a kand shatter andfall into the greedy gripof a panic attack and then try in vainto claw myself back up. but there is that hot hope in methat tells me that youare different. youcan look pastthe scars and the tearsand the screams and the nightmares. andmaybefor once in my damn lifei'm praying that i'm rightabout someone for once.
an ode to winter, to her.i.there's a mixof cheap cigarettes andJanuary coating my lips.ii.all the scar tissuecan't make upfor everything i've lost,and everything i will gain.iii.i have never met someonewho distracts memore than metal and pot, but i guessthat there's a first foreverything.
.how to comfort someonewith an anxiety disorder: tell them to grow up.god knowsthat they only panic because they're just not old enoughto handle themselves. say that it's notthat bad.because, hey,since it's not bad for you,it can't be for them. that's just how it works,right?"calm down".this oneis my personal favorite.because the one thingthat i want to hearwhen i'm choking on my own sweatand heartis that i need to calm down.
i'm not a liar.i was told to stopburning bridges. just the same;i'd rather drive offof them.
.i am thinking ofyou at two twenty one inthe morning, always.
to love is to bleed.seeing his scars make some part of me ache to digmine even deeper.
x.i can't put her into words;maybe it's becausenone of them are good enoughto match her.
january.smiling, closed eyes,we stumble into summergraves with marble lies.
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.
train tickets are like 200 bucks.i loved her forthe miles between us,and i think i might always do so.she is printed in my mind,upside-downlike some halfbreed stoner dreamand i feel her colors likesun. rain. hurricane. leaves side vertically in my veins, the left side of a bicycle wheeling around my brainand she is a fucking drug, man.i think i'm gay.i'm not saying that just tosay it, either. i justwonder.why else would i write letters to hereven though she'll never read them,and why do i wonder how she looksright on the verge of sleep? i think about kissing hera lot. it's always her. she is my now. my then. my way bak when. but most of all, she is mywhy, and that is fucking fantastic.
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.
the King and his moon.i.this is an odeto the King. Wewatched him blowaway like an oceanof black feathers,and our Father mutteredthat he was forgiven, always, truly forgiven. But we all know that nothing gold can stay-- he had togo. It was written. ii.that was when theQueen cut her hair. Again,we watched it fall toher chamber floorin heaps of strunggold. But we already knew that it would haveto go. We already knew that she would go, for itwas written, and it was already forgiven.iii.the Prince grew upwith the memory ofblack shoes and hairlittering the halls ofan empty palace. TheQueen was busy, alwaysbusy, and then she was sick-- and then the Prince put onhis black robes for her, eventhough he always remembered her in shades of red.iiii.on his father's throne,the boy-king realized thatthis was the place that swallowed up his love,and it gave way to war. You know what theysay-- "A heartbrok
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
mid summer alley.you are locked awaybetween my eyelasheswhenever i blink,(you always had the softest skin, especially in the summer. there was this glow to you. you were competing with the sun, even when you were shielded by your own clouds.)just a glance awayif i could just keep my eyes open.(but baby i'm bleeding out, i can taste death on my lips. it almost smells of you. sweet and tangy, with something acidic under you tongue.)every secondi remember more of you,bits stashed awaybehind my teeth.i think about every breathyou ever took by me, everydamn one.(we always used to say that we saved each other. i once told you that i will always rescue you, but baby i'm so scared because how can i do that six feet under?)i think feathers started to landon your shoulders.light kisses you, lifts yourhair like i used todo. you are the sun, again,the space between the atmosphere and the stars and the mountains.
how to be a poet: the basics.kiss all the peopleyou know you shouldn't,solely for the reasonthat they look goodin stanzas. look at your scarslike mothers peer into cradles. then makemore; make yourself intoa symbol for infinity,or at least try,because it never works. patch yourself up. say, "darling, you're okay," while staring at yourself in the mirror with your hairdamp and your lipschapped (refer to stanza one). change. grow. it's what we like to read, isn't it?miss the people in your lifeuntil they leave,and then miss yourselfas well. screw everything up,and then write about itlike it had to happen.try to believe it, ignorethe voice in your head that hissesand groans in your sleep,behind your eyelids."baby, you're a fuck up,you know it know it know it".try to carve the hummingout of your bodyby exit way of your veins. be hospitalized. give in, give up,play along, stop writing. get better. but then you start writi
in our minds we rot.my lips taste like soot.feverish,i realize that we are nothing but hell-brought fire,the seven deadly sins(you be lust, i'll be pride) and a mess of upside down picture frames. my teacher once told methat most writers are introverts; we drink in the worldand spew it back in ink and titles.we tattoo wordsacross the inside of our eyelids--but somewhere in the processi must have drawn youinside the convex of my irises,because all i can think about is your wind-shaken frame and flames licking across your hips.you turn black beneath my hands. i can't write about that.
2nd hr.9:01 a.m.-holy shit, i need a smoke;how do you say "i'm suicidal"in Spanish?
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 scalpel fromwrist to elbow-you will not beliving under myskin anymore
threeshe left the sweet-soft scentof her vanilla perfumeon your nightstand;a little bottle of writer's tearsbecause she loved you –but not enoughto stay
Training?Training Is For Dogs,Human Needs Teaching.
ObsoleteObsoletemy mind revels in antiquity,the shadows of tomorrow.showing shaded silhouettesof the future,while phantoms paint pasts.penumbras partiallyparasol the sun.eclipse of what was,sprinkling flashes of dustand what could be.but what could've beenis nothing but a memory.and these fading reflectionsare not your grandmother's antiques.
twenty-three she takes your wrist, presses the pad of her
CurrentsCurrents Some men yearn to claspThe edges of stars by their fingertipsTo at least hold onto the debris,That creates golden iotasIn midnight oceans;And whispers of olden tales,Singing of a microscopic sphere,That twinkles within the vastness of emptiness. But I yearn to hold wind in a jar,Capture the oxygenAnd never let go of its essence. Carry it with me.Take it to a place only she and I know of,And cradle the edge of her hand,Into the wrinkles and crevicesOf my solemn grip. I’m not big, nor very strong,And I don’t have the powerThat could protect you,From all of the injusticesThat could befall you— But what I do have,Are my hands to hold yours,To feel the warmth of my palm,Meld into your grasp. A body to shield you from theDebris of falling dust,Cascading words,And descending storm. And words,That can cushion gusts,And quell hurr
Somewhere I Belong"You okay?" Well... No, you see. I don't belong anywhere It seems Not in a group Not at a table Not fitting in with what's considered 'normal' Do I belong anywhere? I question aloud And with that his arms wrap around me Whispers in my ear "Yes, yes you do. You belong here, with me." And with that I can hardly breathe.
NightmareWelcome to my nightmareWelcome to the darknessWithin my mindA place where hope is lostLove is a dreamAnd joy doesn't existA place where pain rules over allSuffering is a mustAnd demons are everywhereA place where life is meaninglessThe living dance with the deadAnd insanity is imminentA place where the voices in your headNever stop haunting youAnd all the memories overflow your mindA place locked within meGrowing in secrecyUntil the day I can take it no moreWelcome...Welcome to my personal Hell...
biting my nails is almost better.i have this habitof missing the peoplethat are still in my lifeand loving the oneswho i will never meet,and the placesi fear i will not go.