you should be home by nowlast tuesday the house took my hand & said,it's more of a hurricane than a firesince he broke in & burnedmy curtainsmy floorsmy bridgesmy selfbut sometimes I see her with a lighter& she finishes what he didn't do(I think she's afraidof settling in,being quiet)but last tuesday I realized that she kept the lights onto frighten away the bridges & the peopleso no one will come inside& smash the teacups, steal the pipesbecause since he burnt her beds outno one lives there anymore
these patched lungs want release.you've been smoking likethe world was gonna end -- (and maybe, it already has. we could've plunged to hell and wouldn't have noticed.)but now, your lungs igniteinstead of the cigarette.
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.
2.i pick and choose my thoughtsuntil i am left with nothing morethan worn out wordsand small town hatred.
i was doing so well at this happy thing.from age fiveto twelve, it was the constant voices (at homeand in my head) telling me that i wasfat. and then for 3 yearsi was nothing.i was the child that dyed her hair andtold her dad thatshe didn't want to get marriedbecause it was alltoo much.for 3 years,i was the girl whowrote stories and folded them up inpaper cranesto hang above my bed. now,at 16 years old,my dad tells methat i'm too thin. i don't eat enough.and i know that it's nottrue. i eatwhat my body needs. and i had finally gottento the spot where i felt comfortable. no-- fuck, i felt good.but nowwhen i look in the mirrorall i see is my dadtelling me that i am a mess(even though he never said it) and that when he was my age,he didn't have anxiety attacks and my brothermay be a fuck up butat least he'smentally capable (sort of).no matter what,my dadwill always be betterand so will myalmost-dropout br
control freak.it started withband. that firstperformance, when i dropped something and everyone's eyesburned into my back (i swear, i still have thescars). and theni realized that whenmy notes fell flat,i was the problem with the ensemble.that coxed me intoa steady stream of drugsand new pencil sharpeners. but that was lastyear. that was a lifetime ago--i should be better.after all, i'm perfecton the field. never missa move. hardly miss a a note(you don't want to be in my headwhen i do). now, it's gottento the point where i need to controleverything.i evaluate my life in segments.i know that i can't sleep because i'm unableto let go of thefact that i might die tonight.i know that it's okay to like girls, too-- my mom alwayssaid that peoplewere made to love, notto judge. i know that if i get hit head on by anothercar, that's okay. life hasto end for everyone. iam not excl
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.
1.words clog my throat.i'm beginning to thinkthat typewriter keyslook a whole lotlike fresh pack of cigarettes. but thatmight just be the bitter poet in me trying to surface.
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.
.i feel change, the waythe birdsong changes when thecat goes out for lunch
if being afraid is a crime, we hang side by sidethe future terrifies me,so i'll continue todrag my evisceratedcorpse under yourdecaying ballroom.don't you worry, there'salways more room inthis neverending jail.
maria:she is splayedbeneath the moon, a[star]fish out ofwater; dry-eyed &melancholy, sheswallows the sounds ofsummer, devours clumsilykeyed piano concertos& suddenly, sherealizes - this is how it must feel tobe [at peacewith] death.
.she wants to taste the moonbetween forefinger and thumb sheplucks it from the sky, and likesome great pearly gobstopperrolls it over her tongue,licks the dust from herlips,shuts her eyesand smiles
Dear LostDear Lost,Hello. I've likely not met you in reality before, butI can assure you that we have more than a fewthings in common. Maybe you like to sleep with thewindow open. Maybe you like to carry a wallet inyour side pocket instead of the back. Or maybeyou walk down the stairs with your feet poised toeither side instead of straight, rigid motions. There'smore, I'm sure of it.But we both are our own person. It's plausible to saythere's much more which keeps us distinct than loopus together. And I'm fine with that. Maybe you single-knot your shoelaces while I double-knot mine, or youfind a cup of tea much more enjoyable when you'realone, with a good book in hand. Or maybe you thinkthe stars are just wispy balls of gas, whereas I find abubble of solace whenever I see the hearty light.I think I can trust you with a secret. My grandmotherpassed away a while back, and I can't remember e
.she calls down angelsjust to burn theirrighteous wings,to see them rise thenfall, those flailingdovesshe tells them, thisis what it's liketo be humanand they say judgementwill arrive for you, mygirl, you will becleansed by burninglightand i strike another match
.i would shed my skinwith autumn, but my veins wouldcrack like the dry leaves
sleep.the boy with the kaleidoscope handsoffers me a revolver and we take turnssmothering plumes of breath and killinglapselands.bags of grieving skeletons hang from yourcliff eyes, dreading the momentwhen they will have to fly.
.in the nighttime you arebetter; moonlightembroiders yourskin and stitchesyou up with apurer love, untilthe morning comes,the sun runs histeeth through yourseams again, splitsyou open
dinner for two.i keep Chinese fortunes and your hopefolded up in my pocket,staying warmhand-in-hand with the worst thingsabout me.