Shy TruthsI spilled a cup of oceanand opened my handshoping to catch the truth.Empty seashells,broken clams,and a palm-fullof worn pebbleswere all I caught.I guessthe truthis shy.
time-spared drawers of dreamsi. someday the sight-starvedwill find more than just the moon -that i promise you.we've seen all of what happinesswill never be andlike liquid stars in the milky way,smiles will seep downinto the oceans of your laughter.never mind what they saidabout shady equilibrium;it's only man's insecurity.truth is, there is nokarma -no rule, no eyeswatching over you;just the forgotten remains of thegod that falls on usevery time it rains.ii. someday, my dear,those cranes won't just bean exhibition of folded paper -and those tears you cry now?[which you hate so much?]will leak into my arterial wallsand tell me they only tell stories of ecstasy;we just have yet to realize.love, it won't be longtill autumn will not be as forgottenand between thesemultiple shades of grey, will restthe emptiness within yo[us]and the broken smilesof a shattered yesterday.iii. grieve not, sweet traveler -our draining journey has just begun.and though you have been without comfort for s
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.
.please tell me i am morethan bird wishing bones and gas station lights at 11 pm. the ocean could tell youabout how it loses to the moon; and i could whisper tothe dirt about my love foryou. but that get's us nowhere,so please instead let me tell you about how i wantto kiss your stomach and tell you how amazing you are. i want to put flowers in your hair and hold your hand; i was kind of hopingthat you maybe want it,too.
bomb broker.there's a boydown the road;and at night, when the bombs fall like snow,i imagine him thinkingof anything butthe walls shaking.the people acrossthe street hid a Jew, and the boy down the road(i don't know hisname, only thathis hair is the colorof candle wax, the moon, thesand) cried when they took the womenhiding awayand shot her outside of the church. sometimes when i'min class, i sneak glances at himand wonder whathe thinks ofthe war and the stench ofdeath (it's so heavy in the air, now).he salutes likeit's no trouble, buti think he's just smart. two years after the war is began, he kisses me while hedies. it's the first timei've ever been kissed, and i tasteblood on his lips andin his words as hesplutters out hislast request:"don't hide, Leslie. don't you ever hide."
jesse owens, the boy who never died.my best friend's name isJesse Owens, after the fastest man in the world. i think his name hasa sort of ring to it:"Jesse Owens, the boywho can race the sky."and my Jesse Owens, my lightning boy, hehas eyes like the sidewalkat 11:49p.m.; if you don't know what that looks like, or what that feels like, then i don't know what to tell you.we used to race home from school. buzzing bees behind ourfly away hair, the solesof his shoes hit thesidewalk like littlebombs: taptap taptaptaptap taptap.if i listen hardenough, i can always hearJesse Owens pounding through thetown. i hear himin the quiet right before the sun rises, frayedshoelaces nipping at the pavement.but now he goes shooting straightpast my house, and wedon't run home fromschool. see, my Jesse Owens ran himself rightinto a bullet, which he swallowed better thanthe pills his doctor gave
,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?
xoxo.i have never tasted ashso sweetas when you kissed mewith death on your tongue.
narcissism.you smoke and drinkuntil you're more lifelessthan the moon at 1p.m.--tequila and bad thoughtscan be your craters. iwas never your galaxy,and youcan never be anything morethan a black hole.
indulgencei will peel away every individual shade of colourin this seven-thirty pm skylike stickers on empty beer bottles in the spacebetween your anklesi will drink down this crescent moon cocktailand get tipsy on night air,clinging to my skin and summerwill run through my veins(quick-stepped, hurryingbut i don't want winter to come)and sometimes i'll look down and realise that my fingers are still sticky with sunsetsbut i never want to be clean,not ever again.
Paradoxes in her bonesand she always dismisses herselfand leaves her pupils dilatedlighthouses and forget-me-nots tangled in her chestbut her thoughts shiver more than her dreams.he calls her beautifulas she longs to stick his eyes out with stonesand grasp his aching heart between her handsbut they both know he's already broken.how can they stop when they've never startedshe wishes she could send them reelingwith stalwart syllables and poignant sighseven though she's never made a sound.the storms outside are bitterno sweet rain after dusk to wet her lipsthe winds inside her are quiet, and seethingwith all the words she's never saidand all the promises she's ever broken.
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
to be a waste of grey matter with no self-esteemforgive theserorschach nerves &mercury veins -i am no tragedy boy,but i have self-decaydown to an art.this tar tongue only startsmarlboro conversations &self-ignition;i only start fires.
breathe like you mean it (even if you don't).my breath stumbleson an unimportant step.fracturing, my drumming heartplays jump ropewith my frenzied mind.'another, please,another.'a silverysort of chaos fills me,echoing and refractingas i beg for it to shatter.there are too many mirrors aroundand noneshow you.i noticewith the nonchalanceof a guilty childthat i haven't inhaledin a while.my mouth opensalmost, nearly,scarily involuntarilyto rectify this.'everything ok?''yes, of course,fine, fine, fine.'a laughtrips my sprinting breathand a sobshoves it to the ground.i cannot tellif the shaking i hearis coming from my breathor my darting eyesor my witheringly cradling handsbut it doesn't matteranyway.there is a footprintin the snowand a messagein the rain-'breathe.'i breatheyou.
.you are dead and buriedsix feet under yourself,still feeling the way you didwhen you were seventeenand when you bathe, you stillkeep your head under thewater, wrists upturned, redeyes open, trying to drown yourselfout
the recklessness i discarded to the starshe still lingers in the poems on my wristin the scars that were never even therebut still refuse to leave my sighthe had the sky in his eyes,mid-afternoon beauties so blinding and searing and painfuli couldn't help but gaze up at that sunbut god, i am so much lowermy eyes are the color of an early duskan ending and the tearsof tiring childrenthere is no sunset or fingerpaintingjust the darknessjust the sadness before the stars and moon and romancei have never held a love so truefor someone i didn't even love at alland the facts are all therethe math checks out even nowi still wish that the blankets smothering me at nightcould be his armsno fanfare, no lovejust reality and his scarily clear eyeson an overcast day when i am unafraid of heightsand freedommaybe that's all i really wanted from the start
too relieved to grievebecause irony made you her whore;being bad isn't having intent,it's all natural talent(even after i beggednonononopleaseno)preacher's sons aren't immune to the summons from fathoms below,harbinger
The NecklaceCliché Hallmark cardsAlways start the waterworks.Even at crowded restaurants.To know.... it's a piece,Of my Mommy JeanShaking, beaming, cryingAs that slim white gold claspclick... for the first time.A feather's weightInstantly at home on my collarbone.***Fast-forward***Hiccup-sobbingSlit-eyes red and swollenThat pendant-spot between my breastsScratched and redFrom shaking hands,Grasping for anything to ground me.Tremblingly closing that slim white gold claspclick echoing with tears***Fast-forward***Heaving my duffel up my stepsAnd down the hallway,To my last door on the rightDropping it and a gaspHands immediately undoingthe circular clasp at my neckFrantically grabbing the chain on my dresserBreathing slowing as the heavier chain,But lighter pendant comes to a restclick and my breathing becomes regularSighing as I flop into bed. Home.***Fast-forward***Sighing nervously,Self-co
love is not a number.he is 77.7 milesaway from me,and tomorrow isFriday the 13th.but i swearthat i can feel his pulsein my palmsand the sun shining through the snow.