saturday.cigarettes will killme; that is, if i do not do it myself, first.
i'm not a liar.i was told to stopburning bridges. just the same;i'd rather drive offof them.
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
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.
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.
.they told me love hurts;sixteen, torn and weighted, i wish i'd listened.
the words do not come.i am told to writefrom my heart, but i cannotfind it in my chest.
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
to love is to bleed.seeing his scars make some part of me ache to digmine even deeper.
/.there is no amount of smokethat can keep youout of my thoughts. to see youis to see stars, and i'm dizzy enoughwith the image of youright before dawn stuck in my head,but i want more.i have the instinctive needto run a finger down yourneck, to memorizehow you look when yousmile, just so that i canwrite about you,to make you realizehow spectacular you are.
.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.
.here i am, six feet under andstill singing about coughing lighters andmidnight storms.
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.
untitled.there are days when i can'teat- i am full ofcheap cigarettes and wordsi never got tosay. i have gone to theplanets. there is somethingin my bones that tastes a lot likestars- i broke them open andsaw everything i everwanted to, and that was whatdestroyed me in the end. if you were to take meapart, i'm not sure what you wouldfind; i am a mess ofhalf finished sentences and scars that have eaten their way into myheart.
Untitledi cut my mouthon the thought of you.blood fills myharsh tongued mouth and dr i p dri p d
.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).
.with the weightof the world onmy shoulders, i lookat the sky andoffer to carry the stars.
And There Was Lighti.He was seventeen when he died.I never went to the funeralbut I walked past it the day ofthe service. His motherwas 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, toscreaming, to a soft whisper thatI could only hear being carriedon the wind.ii.It was a Wednesday afternoon that they foundhis old red pickup truck parkedout front of Slim's, two beer bottles inthe back and the windows cracked to let the staleair out.I heard that his dad told the police he wasgonna take that old truck and fix it up, becausehe had promised his son before—because it's always in the before—he died.And in the after, his mother never had dry eyesand I'm pretty sure my mom told methat she saw his dad at the bar every night,drinking his sorrows down because some people can'thandle the stress.Some people can't figure out why their son wouldkill himself.iii."Some men just want to w
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
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 fangsand threatens to swallow everything i amif i don’t put a name to the feeling. even the dog’stail does not wag. he keeps watching the door.he will not even touch his food until the sun hasset as deep as possible. he is giving you everychance 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 lockand the inevitable stomping of feet on the welcome matno matter how many times they’ve heardthe 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
if you want to stop hurting:i. i have swallowed down this 3am lovelike the ibuprofen i fed myself for myswollen ankle that time in spainwhen i pushed a little too hard andlet go for a little too long.i have swallowed you down so manytimes before, kept you like little embersin the crevices of my chest, burningholes through tissue and bone andeverything that i am - through everythingthat i swore i wasn't.ii. a few months ago,i learnt that it's easier to breathewith your throat open, to take itdown and let go gracefully,like opening your palms againstthe wind outside the car and inhalingthrough 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
.fistsclench; i brush myheart frommy sleeve, thenditch thesweater
my bones awashed on the shorejonah was a man made up ofsalt and stone and piecesof driftwood he found carved withhearts and letters of teenage boys'and girls' names. he wasmore than his chicken leg bones andsagging skin, and the neighborhoodkids thought he was theghost of ol' samson, but he was justninety-eight and pushing it.jonah was a man who likedto wear his mother's curtains as clothesand used moth-eaten tableclothsas blankets during the chilly nights.he had this kind of gleam in hisold, dull gray eyes. he thought he'dbuild himself a boat andset it on the ocean and maybe he wouldfind someone out there.jonah didn't quite know who he was, yet.the neighborhood wives thatbrought him home-cooked dishes in bigpans to eat always told himthat he was no longer sane.but jonah said that sometimessanity had less to do with the mind andmore to do with the people.and on a warm tuesday,he draped his mother's old tableclotharound his shoulders and bundled up in a curtain, left h
You've Endured So Many Storms That You Became OneYou have endured so many storms that you became one.Your mother was a tsunami.Her emotions came in wavesand crashed down on you like“this is all your fault”.Her high-tide flooded your basement.There’s water damage in your roots.She taught you how to swim when you were five years old,but somehow you’ve been drowning for seventeen years.You once told me that you hid all the knives in your houseso that the waves wouldn’t carry them away.Your father was a thunderstorm.His voice shook your house so much,I could have almost sworn that you lived by train tracks.His thought cloudsgenerated enough electricity to light up your neighborhood.When his lightning cracked you’d count“one Mississippitwo Mississippi”to see how far away his hand was from your facebefore the friction in his bones was too much for him to bear.You have endured so many storms that you became one.You are an earthquake,and my heart is your San Andreas Fault
twenty-fiveripped up the dirtfrom the earthand called it home( six feet under's where i belong )
twenty-seventhe tide loved me more than you ever did;coaxed me in with her siren's song,the taste of her sweet salt on the back of my tongue.i've filled my empty lungs with the ocean—at least she wasn't afraid to fucking touch me.
january.smiling, closed eyes,we stumble into summergraves with marble lies.