you never taught me how to sleep.one day you'll unfold your bedsheets, and i will still be in the creases.
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
/.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.
Untitledi cut my mouthon the thought of you.blood fills myharsh tongued mouth and dr i p dri p d
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.)
.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.
i imagine she would taste like misery and spring.nothing makes me heavier than the thought ofher, and nothing makes mehigher, either. they say thatto love is to fly,but i think thatit's more like dro wni ng. your lungs collapse--salt cascades down your cheeks andall you can dois realize thatyour best is not enoughfor them. i know how hard it isto love someonewho's broken. i know this becausei had to learnto love myself,and i am a fucking mess. but time heals all wounds--and all i wantis a few secondswith her;i will wrap the monthsaround her scarsthe same wayi know she would do forme. and when we areboth okay, almost, maybe, i thinkthat i would kiss her.
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
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
we're legal murderers.how to love a writer:don't. because we will turn your passioninto works of extended metaphors for death and decay,slipping you scarsserved sunny-side-up because, hey, we all want to befixed, right?not writers. writers want someone, anyone (usually the wrong one, because pain sells more thansmiles)to try and pour cement into the dents inside themuntil they realize that they're really justabandoned sidewalks located in the wrong side of townthat cannot be repaired. that is what we do.we break peoplefor a living.
the infinity complex.9:42 p.m; i am heresitting on stained whitesheets and choking onan infinitycomplex. in a world full ofpeople, i am stuck feelingempty; there is nothinghuman inside ofme. it is allsloppy stanzas and half-finishednovels for a girl i loved and never got to love. approximately 7.046 lives on thisplanet, and i am left feelinginconsolably lonesome.
p.m.i am sorry in thedeepest parts of mybones. it aches, sometimes, andwhen it does ithink mostly ofyouwith your bloody brown eyes andyour pretty whiteteeth. the image issplintering; i feel it tear me upbecause i cannotmake youbetter.please remember me. tuck me intothe fragments of yourskinand do not forget howi tried to love youin all the ways i knew how.
ouijai tried to contact thespirits in myhouse, tried to pull them from myspine,but they didn't even sayhello– turns outyou were the only ghosti ever knew.
an accidental poem. we live hidden inanalogies; i feel them next to me atnight withcold breath and burningskin. they areinside out, like the devil, and itmakes me miss you.i have tried to find youunder all ourlost places. i checked underthe tree andin the passenger seat of mycar, but you were notthere, so i had toleave.now i am here sitting betweenconcrete wallsand for the first time in my lifei'm growing usedto the chilling white paint. when i move toofast i feel a part of meget stuck to the fence outside myhouse. it will never go from here. it willmiss you forever, while the otherpart of meget spread out in the wind; what adepressing way todie.
stains on my wings.you did this to me,i whisper, hoarse, and it ismostly a half lie.
,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?
to make love is to make hate.he used to touch me in the dark.it was always in the dark;and now i rememberthe way he cringedwhen he felt my scars.(is a little painreally that ugly,dear?)
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.
A stranger walked up to me today...A man walked up to me and asked me for a cigarette… I told him I didn't smoke anymore, and he asked me why? ––I answered "because the person I used to smoke with, isn't around anymore", and he replied…"that's why I smoke."A woman walked up to me and asked me for drugs, I replied "I have several in store…his eyes, his smile, his hands"…she whispered, "that's not a drug"…and I laughed as I said.. "if only you knew."A child walked up to me today and asked me to play a game, I told them I was too tired to play games, i'd been playing for years, they replied…"then you must be a pro!", to which I said "yes…a pro at losing."An old woman stared at me today, and I asked her…"is something wrong?" she answered "I was about to ask you the same question."© Rocio Belinda Mendez
Sticks and StonesThey say words can never hurt you.Silence does a better job.
these patched lungs want release.you've been smoking likethe world was gonna end -- (and maybe, it already has. we could've plunged to hell and wouldn't have noticed.)but now, your lungs igniteinstead of the cigarette.
you've been dead for a year, my deari met you on december 21st,the longest night of the year.you had solstice eyes: cold, dark, alluring.i knew you were not meant to last,powerful as a gale but fragile asthe tulip stems you snapped,a sickening cycle of you,an overwhelming tidal wave.they say two wrongs will never make a right,but i made so many bad choices thati wound up back where I began.it was too easy to love you,but getting you to love me back was impossible.i clawed at your chest until I struck blood,until my nails split into shards.you were born a phantom,and i, your corpse.holding onto you felt like drowning in quicksand;i fought but always sank into your arms.i breathed in dirt, breathed in dust, andfound my organs choked with you,smothered by your existence.you sucked out my breathevery time i kissed you.i died every day with your handknotted in my hair.You left on june 21st,the longest day of the year.i bit down sorrow and deconstructedthe labyrinth within me,the one you hadn't th
we're all drunk and always have beennoi haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause i don't breathe poetry inand out -inand out,inand out -i write it under my eyebrowswith the precisionof a drunk snipertoasted into admissionwith irony s-st-tutter-eringdown his throat.you wouldn't take a damned bullet for me.beautiful is a word keptfor the riseand fallof her tidal chest,not my shallow breath,not my sunset, heartfelt,hollow silhouette.i would have disappearedbetween your accusing index andneglected thumb -rub me,rub me?rub herrub herdon't you feel calmer?noi haven't felt smaller than thisbefore.i haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause you found a home betweenher stroking index andcomforting thumb -i haven't forgotten,no, i still remembernow twenty two penumbrae in the pastdidn't stop mefrom settlingin one of several crevassesat the bottom of your oceanic mind;you may have forgotten,and slept inon the details,but i haven't,not yet,not ye
Told myself it wasn't loveI told myself it wasn't love -I was afraid of loving you:rejection hurts more than a tired heartfor it squeezes all emotions from your soul,leaving you bare against reality's blank slate -a state of invisibility and loneliness.I called upon my friend, Time,to help me forget you, only you...Yet with every passing moment,you plague my thoughtswith your humour and wit,and I realise that I haven't forgotten -I haven't forgotten you.Turns out Time betrayed me,so I gave Distance a callto evict you from my heartyou unknowingly lived in.Oh, Distance tried, oh yes she did,but you just couldn't be moved,for you were so deeply rootedin my garden of love for you.I told myself it wasn't loveand I tried hard not to love youbecause you clearly loved another.I failed.And I'm sorry.
The Monsters Under Your BedYou put up a frontTo hide yourself from the worldAnd the monsters under your bedBut in the processYou become more like them, instead
9729 kilometers away, to be exact.i have these bones like flowers-fragile and finely plucked,these lily stargazersare kissing ocean beds,making love to sirenswhile yearningfor a taste of herwander(lust).i want to tape maps to my limbs-throw caution to the windas i gather upevery love letter receipt,from every false attempti ever wrote her& forget for just a momentthat even stilllight-years away,she does not love me.
let the poets cry themselves to sleepit's hard to hate you in the morningwhen you're waiting in my dreamswhat's lovely in the moonlightis deadly in sunlight, it seemsandyou won't write, and you won't callyou don't even say 'hello' anymore(but i wanted to tell you,you're still the reason i don't lock my door.)
you can't have the world.i never meant to make youhate me; i only wantedyou not tolove me.