x.i can't put her into words;maybe it's becausenone of them are good enoughto match her.
.i am thinking ofyou at two twenty one inthe morning, always.
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
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.
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.
.you page tearingthief boy--give back yourwings, because there is a reasonwhy they were rippedaway. you cannot hold onto what you lost.in the eye of a storm, you were the onethat fought the eye. andas much as it breaks me, that is the reasonwhy i once lovedyou (but i can't hold on to what i lost).
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
,i used to part my hair down the middle,but then i stoppedwhen i was twelvebecause innocencewas heavy,or something likethat.besides,we all have to grow up,don't we?
11:43i'm too highto be this alone--tell me, baby, please,how the hell did i gethome?
twenty-three she takes your wrist, presses the pad of her
.grievingmother,a full moon;fit to burstwith silvermilk,weeping
philosophy has lost its appealYour absence isn't the elephant in the room;It’s the invisible parasites lounging in the floorboardsJust writhing for a taste of lonely flesh.My repaired left half is gone;Without you, I’m faulty once more:The half-blind broken wind-up doll is here again.There aren't words to describe the emptiness:just return soon.
please answer meI'm trying to keep you alive.
.a scalpel fromwrist to elbow-you will not beliving under myskin anymore
.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
Training?Training Is For Dogs,Human Needs Teaching.
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
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
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.