the skin on my bones, the sun on my fingers.at 8:54 p.m., i realizethat i love you morethan the sun loves the moon,the seaand the sand and shells,and morethan the wind loves therain. i love you likei love the last dragof a cigarette,the humming of the airbefore a thunderstorm and i love you likei love my blankets afterwork, like i love my habitof turning offevery single lightbefore i go tobed.you are morethan how the sky looksand midnight in the dead of winter;that perpetual ink-spill ofpink;and you are more dear to methan the thousands of wordsi have written. if i couldi would put the worldinto my palmand then burn it, torch it all and pick awayat the flaming remains andi.o.u'suntil i can paint a lifein ashesso that it half way resembleswhat i feel for you.
you never taught me how to sleep.one day you'll unfold your bedsheets, and i will still be in the creases.
/.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.
pine cone heart. it is 9:36 on a Tuesday night. i don't know if it's still snowing, but i do know it's cold and my palms are covered in a thin layer of sweat. slowly, it eats away at my epidermis like a parasite. soon i will be nothing more than skeletal muscle and a decaying pericardium. i think this is beginning to happen already, this disintegration. it began five minutes and thirty seven seconds ago when i realized two things: you will never love me. i will love you all the same. our timelines were never meant to connect, not really. there was just that second-long contact, a chance, a lifetime in my eyes. i keep replaying that moment again and again. i don't remember what you were wearing, how your hair looked, the way your smile looked. no; all i can recall is how your skin felt on your forearm, the sound of a marker against flesh. i realize that that is all we will be: a fleeting smile. a promise to keep in
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
.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.
m.a.m.ji.marchthe wind had eaten through myflyaway bones. i think i had started killingmy own heart to pass thetime.ii.aprilit was the warmth that i always seem to fall in lovewith. sun. and the grass undermy hands. i started tobreathe again.iii.maywith unopened books in myheart, i found myselflost in the homeof an almond eyed boywith a pocket-knifeheart. he pushed me intoa bed of roses. i now havetwice the scars.iiii.junei sit, now, withtypewriter keys between my teeth. while searching my ribcagefor a spare battery, i found, insteada fresh set of lungs (and i really am beginning toneed them).
.i.the high is at itsbest when i can't remember why i hated myself.ii.death is a nightmare only when i realize youare not in the dream.
brittle teeth.my dad always warned me thatthings in life were veryfragile, and that i had to be carefulnot to break them. (he never told me how to not be broken by all thecareless hands.)
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.
hello hello.she asks meto be careful, to be safe;but i am sixteen and restless, caught upin the past lovefor a boy 4 years older than me and choking on my could-be-lovefor a girl that i metonce. let's face it: iam a fucking mess. see, but there's somethingthat nobody ever realizesabout that: it's okay. i'm almost seventeen now,and i have come to theconclusionthat we live to learn. we are not bornspitting out symphonies orcatching birds in ouryouthful palms;we are born crying,bloody and unable to comprehend why we're here; we remain that way for decades. we do not grow upwhen we're eighteen. we grow upwhen we see our parents fight andwhen we watch our best friendsslowly spiral into depression and drugdependance. and we grow up when we realizethat we do not love someonebecause they exist; we love themfor how they exist,and i realized that when i almost fell in love withher
Untitledi cut my mouthon the thought of you.blood fills myharsh tongued mouth and dr i p dri p d
6:39 pmi'm finding it harder andharderto eat. maybe i'm fed upwith winter,and the snow is clogging myarteries as i try toswallow. for me, substance as becomenauseating and sends me plummeting into a holeof desperation. i am clawing at my skin and punching my thighs, becausei read somewhere that human contact makes ushungry. i think what they really meant is thatwe need the touchof another,or else we willstarve. (baby, i'm alreadyhalf way there- hands offthe merchandise.)maybe i'm guilty.i read a lot about nutrition, and hownobody ever does it right,and how kids are starvingwhile others areobese, and maybe thatscares me. my dad tells me thati look sick,but i never tell himthat all i do is sleep and it's been dayssince i've had a decent meal. instead i'm inhalingsmoke andstars, and i've realizedthat i can usually eatwhen i'm higher than the moon.i think that i'm brea ki n&
i am not what i am.don't tell me that iam weak. you arrogant boy,i have dragged myselfout of hell,and i did so with the smell of your sheetsstill tangled around my throat.i loved you desperately, suddenly; and i realized it when you took me to the lakeand told methat your mom drank, too, and thatyeah, it hurts. i loved you for the painyou understood, andi hated you for the agony youdidn't. i think you loved me mostwhen i was naked, and you put your lips to myear, breath heavy andyour chest thundering,and told me that you loved me. so don't tell methat i gave up, because it was youwho told me that i'll never get anywherewith my head in theclouds, andlook at me now;the scars on my skin andaround my heart are not, and will never be,nothing. my lips are chapped and my skin is torn but i am whole, like the dollmy father once glued back togetherfor me.i will be cherished again and iwill come ou
live'n in a box.a guide to sweet talking a girl into hergrave:i) tell her she's beautiful and that she looks like she fell straight from heaven's top 10and landed with crashon your lap. ask her to come homewith you. keepasking.ii) touch her hair when she sleeps, just to reassure herthat you're there,and make a promise to herthat you won't just write about her when you're stoned. say,"i'll write about you every time i breathe, baby."iii) keep telling her that it's not too soon, that, yesit's okay to love againand that she's only human,after all. everyone makes mistakes,you know, and hewas a massive one.iiii) start to realizethat maybe she's not your princesstrapped in a tower; in fact, she's more like a dark hearted teenager convulsing in the corner of her own thought process, andwonder if you want to fight the dragon.iiiii) buy her a ringand smile at her, because you love her, as you slip
the price to pay for breaking a heart.this is a fact: it hurts to bebroken. but what hurts evenmore isbeing one one whodoes thebreaking.to be the personwho stands over the otherand watchthem choke on theirtears and thenhand them their ownheart- rip someone apart and thennot be able toput them back togetheragain.and when you close youreyes, all you can seeare the ribbons coming undonefrom their wrists. you crumble from your owndisgrace.
it's only spring when you first wake up.pale lamp light onwhite sheets- the soundof rain against window pane and thunderthrobbing miles away.it's moments like thesethat make my bones achefor new bird songs andguitar strings, forwind laughing and grass kissing myback and me kissingyou; i long for summerin the belly ofwinter.
on being savedi am sorry youhave never known salvationfrom another's touch
Inordinate-she's petrifiedof being fixedbecause being brokenis all she's ever known-
.you brokea heart,convincedthat there wassomething goodinside
BrokenCan't fixwhat's never been whole.
Sticks and StonesThey say words can never hurt you.Silence does a better job.
LiliyaBright-eyed,bird-bonedwhisper girl;dark-dressed,moon-backedmistress of light.
linguistics of silence 101don’t drop your ellipseson your freckled-with-pitywalk out of our sentence. Ihave only been tamingyour paragraphs into stanzas. don’tlet your rosy chest-wings quitjust yet.breathe, my love,find a sinus rhythm in yoursporadic juxtaposed days;there is a typo errorin your impulsive ways and i’mafraid that is moreediting than i’m used to.let’s uncapitalize those articles, it allstarts from therebreathe, you mustsilence yourself.page break, turn it over,skim a reading, halt that anger andfilter those stronghomophone-leaves; Iam trying too.let your grown-out hair layfree for once instead of yourtongue. punctuate your eyes withsleep, with peace;breathe. it allstopswhen you forget to see.but you’re still here hopingto correct me.pace yourself when youbraid your patience. don’tcurve too fast like the sharp turnsin your purge-swollen colon.whereis your punctuation, darling?where is your grey,calming hyphen? have you
The DarknessImmortality is wasted on the youngbut fortune has chanced me eldest.I was the beginning, and will be the end.Darkest, truest, endless.
.i heard that eventhe dead have nightmares; sometimesthey roll in their graves
you can't have the world.i never meant to make youhate me; i only wantedyou not tolove me.