we stumble into summer
graves with marble lies.
an ode to winter, to her.i.
there's a mix
of cheap cigarettes and
coating my lips.
all the scar tissue
can't make up
for everything i've lost,
i will gain.
i have never met someone
who distracts me
more than metal and
pot, but i guess
that there's a first for
mid summer alley.you are locked away
between my eyelashes
whenever 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 away
if 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.)
i remember more of you,
bits stashed away
behind my teeth.
i think about every breath
you ever took by me, every
(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 land
on your shoulders.
light kisses you, lifts your
hair like i used to
do. you are the sun, again,
the space between the atmosphere
and the stars and the mountains.
red.these cigarettes will kill
me, but only if
i 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 to
die, so what's one
day less? it seems like an
honest bargain to me,
but then again, you should never
listen to a word i
say, because i am
a class A fuck up
(or so they say).
see, i'm either too fat
or too skinny,
much too heart wild
for 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 now
that i don't
for me i am good enough,
good in general,
/.there is no amount
that can keep you
out of my thoughts.
to see you
is to see stars,
and i'm dizzy enough
with the image of you
right before dawn
stuck in my head,
but i want more.
i have the instinctive need
to run a finger down your
neck, to memorize
how you look when you
smile, just so that i can
write about you,
to make you realize
how spectacular you are.
how to be a poet: the basics.kiss all the people
you know you shouldn't,
solely for the reason
that they look good
look at your scars
like mothers peer into
cradles. then make
more; make yourself into
a 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 hair
damp and your lips
chapped (refer to stanza
one). change. grow.
it's what we like to read,
miss the people in your life
until they leave,
and then miss yourself
as well. screw everything up,
and then write about it
like it had to happen.
try to believe it, ignore
the voice in your head that hisses
and groans in your sleep,
behind your eyelids.
"baby, you're a fuck up,
you know it know it know it".
try to carve the humming
out of your body
by exit way of your veins.
be hospitalized. give in, give up,
play along, stop writing.
but then you start writi
.how to comfort someone
with an anxiety disorder:
tell them to
that they only panic
because they're just not
to handle themselves.
say that it's not
since it's not bad for you,
it can't be for
that's just how it works,
is my personal favorite.
because the one thing
that i want to hear
when i'm choking on my own sweat
is that i need to calm down.
untitled.there are days when i can't
eat- i am full of
cheap cigarettes and words
i never got to
i have gone to the
planets. there is something
in my bones that tastes a lot like
stars- i broke them open and
saw everything i ever
wanted to, and that was what
destroyed me in the end.
if you were to take me
apart, i'm not sure what you would
find; i am a mess of
half finished sentences and
scars that have eaten their way
to myself.i'm happy,
i tell myself
when i get in my
almost running late for
i'll be okay,
is what i whisper to myself
during the middle of a test.
knows all the answers,
it gets better.
that's what i'm going to say
the next time
i see someone with
weeds.they say that if
you love a flower, you
shouldn't pick it.
because if you do,
it will die
in your hands. the petals
will be soft
but they will be as meaningful
all the passion in the
cannot make life bloom
again inside that stem.
i think this is what
happened between him and
he grabbed me and
yanked me from the ground,
leaving my roots
to grow numb in the autumn
air. lust and greed
and this thing called
swallowed us up, and
now i am wilted;
the winter is coming,
and i have yet
to regain my color.
.you page tearing
give back your
wings, because there is
why they were ripped
away. you cannot hold on
to what you lost.
in the eye of a
storm, you were the one
that fought the eye. and
as much as it
breaks me, that is the reason
why i once loved
you (but i can't hold on
to what i lost).
And There Was Lighti.
He was seventeen when he died.
I never went to the funeral
but I walked past it the day of
the service. His mother
was in the backseat of a blue Dodge,
door open, head in her hands.
"My baby," she kept repeating.
"My baby." It would go from sobbing, to
screaming, to a soft whisper that
I could only hear being carried
on the wind.
It was a Wednesday afternoon that they found
his old red pickup truck parked
out front of Slim's, two beer bottles in
the back and the windows cracked to let the stale
I heard that his dad told the police he was
gonna take that old truck and fix it up, because
he had promised his son before—
because it's always in the before—
And in the after, his mother never had dry eyes
and I'm pretty sure my mom told me
that she saw his dad at the bar every night,
drinking his sorrows down because some people can't
handle the stress.
Some people can't figure out why their son would
"Some men just want to w
six steps to fixing youstep one
cry. scream. bang your fists against the walls
that keep you locked inside.
kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupid
and wrong and that you've never loved her.
cry. scream. apologize via him to you.
let your tears catch on your lashes
until you can no longer see anything but your own
demise. taste the bitterness left in
your mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.
break a mug. break two. kick
the 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 this
sort of pain. you are empty and yet
you are filled with so much anger.
break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.
you are okay, you tell them.
you break three days later and you lie
in bed, unable to move.
start picking up the pieces. clean up the mess
you've made and he's left.
use windex to polish off the dirt and
if you want to stop hurting:i. i have swallowed down this 3am love
like the ibuprofen i fed myself for my
swollen ankle that time in spain
when i pushed a little too hard and
let go for a little too long.
i have swallowed you down so many
times before, kept you like little embers
in the crevices of my chest, burning
holes through tissue and bone and
everything that i am - through everything
that i swore i wasn't.
ii. a few months ago,
i learnt that it's easier to breathe
with your throat open, to take it
down and let go gracefully,
like opening your palms against
the wind outside the car and inhaling
through your nose.
iii. if you want to stop hurting:
listen to them speak but do not hear their words, hear only their voice,
feel it reverberate against your spine and tell yourself -
this isn't a bad thing.
rebuild your body like jenga blocks. if somebody comes close,
hold their hand and tell them -
i trust you.
let the air rush between your fingers,
let the fire in your arteries sizzle aw
my bones awashed on the shorejonah was a man made up of
salt and stone and pieces
of driftwood he found carved with
hearts and letters of teenage boys'
and girls' names. he was
more than his chicken leg bones and
sagging skin, and the neighborhood
kids thought he was the
ghost of ol' samson, but he was just
ninety-eight and pushing it.
jonah was a man who liked
to wear his mother's curtains as clothes
and used moth-eaten tablecloths
as blankets during the chilly nights.
he had this kind of gleam in his
old, dull gray eyes. he thought he'd
build himself a boat and
set it on the ocean and maybe he would
find someone out there.
jonah didn't quite know who he was, yet.
the neighborhood wives that
brought him home-cooked dishes in big
pans to eat always told him
that he was no longer sane.
but jonah said that sometimes
sanity had less to do with the mind and
more to do with the people.
and on a warm tuesday,
he draped his mother's old tablecloth
around his shoulders and
bundled up in a curtain, left h
i don't have a dog1. i get up at ten.
this is an accomplishment.
by eleven, i’m awake enough to miss you.
to be honest, that part never goes away—
but eleven is when the typewriter grows fangs
and threatens to swallow everything i am
if i don’t put a name to the feeling. even the dog’s
tail does not wag. he keeps watching the door.
he will not even touch his food until the sun has
set as deep as possible. he is giving you every
chance to come back.
i try to tell him there’s no use,
that you will never come back.
but dogs don’t understand things like that,
don’t believe in the concept of ‘never come back’.
they believe in the sound of a key turning a lock
and the inevitable stomping of feet on the welcome mat
no matter how many times they’ve heard
the car engine start and the crunch of gravel as it pulls away.
2. this must be what missing you feels like.
i have lived lifetimes in the minutes i keep breathing.
i keep breathing. this is an accompl
i keep my hair like i keep my blue jeans: shortthe beginning
she was all curls falling over shoulders and small hands and slender ankles, but she was also all crooked toes and cheek moles and half-baked smiles. she wore skinny jeans too long and too big on her and she always wore a jacket because she was always cold. and he thought that she was pretty beautiful the first time he saw her in a parade, sitting on top of a dodge truck and waving with both hands so that no one was left out. she was the kind of pretty beautiful that only came around when he said something stupid and she shook her head at him, trying to hide her teeth but failing miserably.
she wore glasses but only when she was doing work or when she had a headache because she thought that her eyes looked too wide in them and all she ever wanted in life was to be people magazine's definition of pretty—which she wasn't (but don't tell her that.) she drank tea on sleepless nights, sitting on her porch and stargazing; she thought that ma
you left at 11on saturday night when we were at that party and
you told me you didn't want to leave that kinda made me feel nice
and you hugged me so tight like everything was
do you know what i mean?
probably not but anyway i feel like everything is bra\nd new again
like yeah i know it's been what a year and three
months or something ridiculous but you're giving me butterflies all
over again and you don't even know it man y ou really break my heart
i felt like we were best friends that night and i wasn't
even drunk i mean i may have been a little tipsy but i think that's just
because i'm a bit of a lightweight but i'm kinda thinking that
maybe i was a bit tipsy on you too
i don't know what was weird
i was just myself like completely me i was by myself me you know
like i wasn't putting anything on i wasn't accustoming myself
to anyone i wasn't changing my "register" or any of that dumb crap my
english teacher was telling me about
but it just fe