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.
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.)
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.
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
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 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
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).
.x.the roads are empty, but, my dear, so am i.y.take me back to somethingmore than suicidal thoughts andslacking intentions.
,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?
LiliyaBright-eyed,bird-bonedwhisper girl;dark-dressed,moon-backedmistress of light.
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.
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&
Untitledi cut my mouthon the thought of you.blood fills myharsh tongued mouth and dr i p dri p d
.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.
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
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.
Those Who CareHold me close,Then kiss my hair,And just remind me,There are those who care.
Story Time.You are an open bookIn a language that I cannotRead.
BrokenCan't fixwhat's never been whole.
I Never Was, I'll Never BeI Never Was A Good Whore.I Fall In Love With Poor Guys,but that's ok, I'm Used To MySelf.Once One Of These Guys Was Also In Love With Me.Not From The Beginning,but after the third meetinghe finally accepted our truth.And I was Happy and He was Happy!!!When He was coming To Our Fourth Meeting,he had an accident with his bike.I Never Was A Good Whore.I Never Was,I'll Never Be.
Dream CriterionIf you can't fly on your dreams anymore,I'm sorry, but don't worry,you have simply grown up.If you can't build a little empire on your dreams,I'm totally sorry,you are a dead man walking.
I Fucked Your Mind, SorryI'm Sorry I Loved You,I'm Sorry I Love You,but I'm a sick bastardthat cannot stay away from you.Nothing less,Nothing more,I cannot let it go,I will not harm you.What I'm Going Through, It's Not Your Fault.What You're Going Through, It's Not My Fault.The moment I was bittenby the crazy dog you hired,I realized that my crazy lovehas fucked your mind.It passed a long timesince then,but you can't recover.I'm Sorry I Loved You,I'm Sorry I Love You.
It Wasn't MeI felt such a shamethat I found you lovelywhen you were crying.I know you can't forgive me,but please at least rememberthat It Wasn't Mewho made you cry.
Eros is WarEros is WarI just love youand I just need to confess it to you,every night, every day, every hour.I just love youand I just need to see you,every night, every day, every hour,Even though you ignored me,like I wasn't there.Ignoring... the worst thing.But I was lucky,lucky enough, to scare you.You must know that I didn't want this,but I was lucky,and you started a war.All this time I was fighting myself.At last you became my enemyand now I have a chance,because you know; Eros is War.
Name testA girl that lies to you about her name,she may hide something or she may wantsomething of yours.A girl that shares her real nameeither she wants nothingor she wants everything from you.
you can't have the world.i never meant to make youhate me; i only wantedyou not tolove me.