sex is candy and i am diabetic.i curse youfor all of yoursweet talking andheavy hands in the dark,and all the times you told me"it's okay, it's okay", because, god dammit, it was neverokay. and you are the reason that i cannot bring myselfto writing a scene where a girlloses her virginitybecause you took that from melike it was pocket change.
you can't have the world.i never meant to make youhate me; i only wantedyou not tolove me.
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.
death is slimming.i.last yeara boy in my gradetook his own lifeand people said howsorry they werethat they all picked on himbecause he wasgay. they gave a shitfor about two weeks,but after that, itall came down.ii.they were backto calling each other faggots in the hallwaysand making gay jokes as if they don'thurt. as if theyhadn't ever hurt. iii.then this yeara seniorwas drinking and he got in a car to gohome. you can tellme what happened next,because we've all readthose stories. thosetragedies. and the day afterit happened, all the students were cryingbecause this was a boywas a great guy. hehad a girlfriend anda life ahead of him, and thiswas such a terrible accident.iiii.they said that thegood die young. butwhat is goodabout getting behind the wheelwhen you can't even see straight? iiiii.and when someonefinally got fed up with thelies and the idolizing,they called her the same thingsthat they called the boy last year
my coffee is cold.i love people likei love daisies; forget until i seethem,and then i burn up the sunjust to say goodbye. i have this habitof forgetting thati am more thanjust stardust andoverused words.the universe will only keep mefor so long,before the ashes stuck between myteeth become too muchand i am exiled. don't look at me likei am a scarecrow (i'm sorry,i didn't mean to chase you away), because i am lion-hearted madness, scrawlingpoetry in bloodon the order for my tombstone.
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
4/8i place a shellon your knee- it'sa silent plea for you to ask mewhy i'm looking at you likethat,and i would have told youthat it's becausei love you.i would have told youhow i lovethe way your hair curlsupward, like one massive cowlick and how i love your onedimple, the slope ofyour nose and the space where your collarbones meet. but you smiled andslid it into yourpocket, which is okaytoo.
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.
/.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.
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.
carry on.i count milesby the cracks in the sidewalkthat i try to step on(old habits die hard)andby cigarette buts thrown like Hansel & Gretel's crumbs down main st;count them by how many times i think of youand how many timesi wish i hadn't (those numbers are neck and neck).someday not so far from nowi know that i'll wind up to bethe monster i always said i wouldn't,and i'll sit back, mind a million miles away because i just want to keep going.
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.
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
.sooner or later,the tooth fairy picks up ahammer and chisel
i wish i was a temple.i brush the ashesfrom my teeth and for the first time in yearspray to the Godthat i sometimes lose faith in.all of my scars will heal: thisis all i know right now,and that is enough.
weeds.they say that if you love a flower, youshouldn't pick it. because if you do,it will diein your hands. the petalswill be softbut they will be as meaningful as soot.all the passion in theworld cannot make life bloomagain inside that stem.i think this is whathappened between him and me. he grabbed me andyanked me from the ground,leaving my rootsto grow numb in the autumnair. lust and greedand this thing calledloveswallowed us up, andnow i am wilted; the winter is coming,and i have yet to regain my color.
and i am a poemi think that her scarsare more like words than they areold flesh- she is prose.
Untitledi cut my mouthon the thought of you.blood fills myharsh tongued mouth and dr i p dri p d
advice for a stranger do things to regretthem in the morningthen sleep until noon
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,you are notthumbed bruisesor honey bones& you have onlyever been a godinside of your own head
six steps to fixing youstep onecry. scream. bang your fists against the wallsthat keep you locked inside.kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupidand wrong and that you've never loved her.cry. scream. apologize via him to you.let your tears catch on your lashesuntil you can no longer see anything but your owndemise. taste the bitterness left inyour mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.step twobreak a mug. break two. kickthe 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 thissort of pain. you are empty and yetyou are filled with so much anger.break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.step threeyou are okay, you tell them.you break three days later and you liein bed, unable to move.step fourstart picking up the pieces. clean up the messyou've made and he's left.use windex to polish off the dirt and
.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'
it's like we argue every dayfragmented heartstrings bleed me a melodythat sounds more like a broken soulthan it does a songwe're just trying to figure outwhen we dissolved into strangershating each other inside the same houseand we can't rememberwhen laughter turned to sobsor when smiles turned to screamingdown the road, we lost trackof the first 'i hate you,' but stoppingmeans losing and we're too stubborn for thatso you scream me a verse andi cry you the chorusbut the chords don't come out rightand i guess our pianoisn't tuned the way it used to bebecause it used to be so beautiful--and now all we getis noise.
.here is a love storyin quiet words:she pressed her hands to my heartand her palms came awaydusty.
.a spider weaveshis silver lies on myfront door, and iwalk right in;the flies laugh
you're hurting mePlease. My bones do not bend.
you never taught me how to sleep.one day you'll unfold your bedsheets, and i will still be in the creases.