t.they say that opposites attract, but that's not really true;we both hate our misery and i'm learning to love you.but you know what they sayabout writers;they'll suck you dryand only use youto write about. carve your nameinto poems (not intoskin-- that's not "in" right now,i guess), butmaybe i'm all out of wordsand youare all i want to read about.
to become a writer.parents divorce before you can talk.write about itlike you don't care. try to mean it.go through monthsof shitty pity-leaking almost-poemsbefore you get onethat actually makes someone feeland thensay that it was all a mistake. mean it.only feel like a writerwhen you're insecure. fall in lovewith someone. anyone. tell yourself that's it's just for fun. just for being young.actually love the hell out of them.mess it up.write about it. smoke 2-5 cigarettes every day,something destructivebut with the hopesof saving your lungs for running(a metaphor? another rule: never tell)and drink and drink and drinkuntil you have the courage to call up ex boyfriendsor lovers or dead friendsto say that you miss them.write about that-act like you don't care.actually care.everyone knows that you care.write about that.
/ we smile at the universe with ashes on our lips. there are boats inside of our veins. the blood is a metaphor and, hell, i can't even begin to write about her. i could tell any story. if i wanted, i could write a novel about my mother and how beautiful she was a sixteen or i could make a lighthouse a person, but i cannot tell you the color or her eyes. it's that that i don't know it; i just can't tell you. it's not a color, it's a place. her eyes are like Chicago. there's life and lights and lakes, but there's a sadness, too. even so, it's a happy kind of sad. the kind that gives you hope. sometimes when i'm high i think that i'm dead, because i get numb. not physically senseless, but just mentally dazed. i forget where i am. i like that. it seems sometimes like i am a place, i am all the street signs and the cracks in the road and badly painted house down the way. see the really faint dot on the map? that's me. scribb
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
the days when you were a stage.i gulp down steamy trains of airand they tumble down my tunneled throatbefore i spit them up.you are my heroin for escapesinto a maze of fevered blursand overflows. in my heart i made you outto be some sort ofmonster, but you weren't.if anything, you saved mebefore i went and destroyedthe world. i think you would do goodto let me drown in a reservoirpickled with tears. i wouldn'tthink twice of it, but keep your fingerscrossed whenever you visitmy frostbitten waters. you once told methat it is impossibleto love someone who writes.but there is something differentabout "someone who writes"and a writer. because writersdrown much slower, andtend to drag others downwith us.i'll plunder and plunge the world,or maybe i could settle for you.i have reached my critical point.scar my words and keylog into mymind before i combust. i cannot speakwithout a pilgrimage of words on receipts.this is it: thisis the
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
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
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
here is my heart, and here is my home.i am done writing aboutblood. you can find mein the "new beginnings" isle, splashed with scar tissue and pale skin--i amwhole. dear child, open youreyes: there are stars, a galaxy, andthere is breath in your lungs. the past is neverforgotten, but you have lived through it,swam through it andmaybe died a little through it, but youcame out on top. when this winter ends, itwill end harshly;but spring comes every year,and i hope that youremember that;i hope you open your eyesto rain and i hopethat you fall in love with it, and i hopethat you let life movelike i had to.
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.
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
i'm not a liar.i was told to stopburning bridges. just the same;i'd rather drive offof them.
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.
.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.
xoxo.i have never tasted ashso sweetas when you kissed mewith death on your tongue.
a haiku for every boy i've ever kissed.i. our lips were chapped. itwas February and wewere so very young.ii.this was the first yeari died my hair black. we were only half in love.iii.it is heartbreaking,because i can't remember where you kissed me first.iiii.you tasted like heat,it was summer. i washardly just fifteen. iiiii.with your tongue shoved downmy throat, you told me sex wasnothing to be feared.iiiii.i part of me wanted you to be my last breath; thelast thing i saw bloom.
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.
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."
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
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.
leap through eternityi will sink my teeth into a supernovato let the stardust andcosmosslide down my parched throat andwash over my intestines,like a pebbledrowning in the sound--
.when her love left, it leftthe house emptyand she saysi hope one day it'llcome back to me,cos i don't keep this shotgunon my front porch for nothin'
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.
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
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
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.
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
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.