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,the thing they forgot to mention
about being a writer
is that we all live the longest
and die the fastest.
we feast on metaphors
with numb fingers and hearts
until we crawl under a half moon to sleep
and just don't wake up,
because everything we are
is arranged in our work
and we start to become
everything we've written about,
slowly but surely.
and now i'm not so sure
if i want to be a poet.
i just know
that i want to be a writer.
to become a writer.parents divorce before you can talk.
write about it
like you don't care.
try to mean it.
go through months
of shitty pity-leaking almost-poems
before you get one
that actually makes someone feel
say that it was all a mistake.
only feel like a writer
when you're insecure.
fall in love
with someone. anyone.
that's it's just for fun. just for being
actually love the hell out of them.
mess it up.
write about it.
smoke 2-5 cigarettes every day,
but with the hopes
of saving your lungs for running
(a metaphor? another rule: never tell)
and drink and drink and drink
until you have the courage
to call up ex boyfriends
or lovers or dead friends
to say that you miss them.
write about that-
like you don't care.
everyone knows that you care.
write about that.
i hated him first.when I was 13, a boy leaned over his desk and asked what was on my wrist, and i showed him, because they were just words. that was when i still wrote on my arms in blue ink; i needed some kind of reminder (though it's hard to say what for). his eyes flickered over my boney arms, and he pushed himself back to his seat and grinned-- then laughed.
"good," he said, "i thought you were cutting yourself or some shit."
i laughed, too, and while i laughed, something in me changed. i hated him. i hated him and his blonde hair and scarless skin and i hated the way that his teeth looked and i hated him. and while i smiled i started to hate myself, too, because i realized how ugly this made me.
but i still laughed.
i laughed because, yes, i was cutting myself, but i laughed because he was ugly, too. i laughed because i was the best actor in the world, and the best liar, too; i never had to lie and say i was fine, because nobody ever asked me if i were.
in that moment, we w
narcissism.you smoke and drink
until you're more lifeless
than the moon at 1p.m.--
tequila and bad thoughts
can be your craters. i
was never your galaxy,
can never be anything more
than a black hole.
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.
nicotine.there's something burning
about the numbness of menthols
and his eyes
when they bring back all the fucked up memories.
it's not like
i don't remember. no; i know
exactly what he did,
and i remember falling apart in red puddles
curled up on my bathroom floor.
but his love
is just like cheap cigarettes;
i just can't get the taste
out of my mouth.
we don't want to die. but
we're all going to.
slowly, and then all at onceand for once, he slips on his wedding ring, to cure the monotony. it slides over his knuckle, a perfect fit, and in the morning release of sunlight the silver gleams at him. it glares, calling him a liar: she is not a whorehouse and you are too broke to own her, you harlot, you. he buttons up, tucks in his shirt tail, and buckles his belt. the clinking of metal parts is the only sound in the room besides the dusting of her breathing beside him. and when he's gone, the only thing he leaves behind are the bruises on her collarbone.
you find him because you're lonely, (well, it's actually the opposite.) he finds you because his wardrobe is black and his shoes are scuffed and he asks you where your castle is. you're the only princess he sees 'round here. the rain soaks into his shirt and he curses it, grinning. and damn girl, you follow him, because you think you see some kinda warmth in his ice blue eyes.
it takes you days t
the higher they stand, the harder they fallhe considers her a stranger.
she could've been a singer or a
dancer or a baker or a star, but she
chose to be a fighter because
lovers always lose (in
the ironic, metaphorical sense.)
she could've been happy, but she didn't
choose that path.
because "it is better to have loved,
but sometimes old washed-out poets
like tennyson are not always right.
love is a hurricane of
sticks and stones that may or may not
break skeletal frames and hearts.
once: he considered her a maybe-
infatuation, because eight-thirteenths
of a heart is not,
i repeat not,
enough to love someone.
twice: he considered her just another
feather in a bird flock,
and strangely, that was okay with her.
but she was a fighter and
he was her magnum opus of sorts.
goddamn, did you see that girl
thrash at the waves
just to hold on to a tiny piece
of a man not strong enough to hold his own?
she was a fighter because
he claimed he was a lover, but in the end
she lost and he was still
You Made Me Hate Myself,1.
I always thought of you as my sort of homeostasis. And maybe you didn’t always keep me upright, but when I was going down you were the one that pushed your hands upon my breastbone and forced me to go up, because sinking is not the way to get things done.
My equilibrium has never been the greatest, and neither has yours, but you taught me that things will only balance out if you make them.
Sitting in your room, crying in the middle of your floor is not the right way to make things happen. Never have weak moments. Never feel pity for yourself, because you don’t deserve to feel sorry for yourself. Don’t you ever think that you have it bad because being a teenager is nothing t
about apologizing,sor·ry, adjective: feeling sorrow, regret, or penitence.
do you still think about me?
do you hear the word
"dance" and think
about a girl who had balance issues
and thought the stage
was her world, but the world was not
do you ever look back and
think about a girl
who referred to herself as a princess
and was located in
a castle a country away?
do you ever remember music
theory and bass guitars and fingers too
short to reach strings,
and when you do, do you ever think
about the fact that you
told a girl you loved her, and then
turned around and told
another she meant something to you,
and do you ever think
about the fact that
it hurts to be not good enough?
do you still remember me?
i fell in love the first of july,
when you told me you liked me like:
"the way angelica likes arnold,
(if you have ever seen that show.)"
i fell in love with you in the worst month of
summer, when teenagers
tangle their legs together under bedsheets and
beaches get colder at ni
dos.she is sitting in the middle of your
dirty kitchen floor,
leaning against the plastic counter
and fumbling with her
and she's got the window open
because there is no
air-conditioning in your one-story house
(which she thinks is
not even close to heaven, but she
deals with it anyways.)
there's a glass half-full of
whiskey and ice and
it's making a ring of sweat on the
corner of your coffee table
with a broken leg.
and when you slide over to her, knees
you can smell someone's spicy cologne
all over her shoulders,
but you inhale it anyways because
your mother was always a
cheater, too, and your father always
drank up his sorrows.
she's winding stems around stems,
cutting slits into it's flesh,
and she's weaving
dead flowers into a crown she knows
will not fit upon your
.you are dead and buried
six feet under yourself,
still feeling the way you did
when you were seventeen
and when you bathe, you still
keep your head under the
water, wrists upturned, red
eyes open, trying to drown yourself
The World, Our Teacup"Unlike in Beowulf's time, there are no monsters left to conquer."
There is no pondering around the room. Just the scratching of pencils against the lined notebook paper that everyone is writing on. It's quiet. A kid slams his locker door shut in the hallway and grabs no one's attention.
It is a simple assignment: We were asked to discuss what we thought about the sentence in a short essay, either agreeing or disagreeing and telling why (because we were always telling someone why these days.) We were asked to put our name, teacher's name, period, class, date, and assignment in the top right corner and god forbid anyone question why the hell someone would even write such words and put them together in such a declaration of stupidity. Plain vocabulary, plain grammar. There is nothing to even question. But yet, I'm still left wondering the severity of the topic.
Break it down:
unlike - different from
Beowulf - a hero
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
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
s. Midnight came like a storm. I watched it take him by the waist and drag him away, fingers clawing at his sheets and shivers climbing over his limbs-- fever dreams. Moans died out in the back of his throat. I sat still as a winter night on the foot of his bed and didn't wake him, because the only thing worse for him than being eclipsed in a nightmare was being awake for one. We all know that.
People told me that there was no way that I could have seen the signs; no way to know what he was doing behind closed doors. But they didn't know that I did know. I saw the marks on his arms; not just the ones made by a needle, but the ones that ran horizontal for miles down not just his arms, and the ones I knew father made (another thing that I knew). I was there when he tried to dissect his wrist the first time, and I joined in with the echoes of 'oh my god I had no idea' and 'what a shame'.
We used to sit by the fir
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