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.
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.
Untitledi cut my mouthon the thought of you.blood fills myharsh tongued mouth and dr i p dri p d
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.
xoxo.i have never tasted ashso sweetas when you kissed mewith death on your tongue.
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
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.
and i am a poemi think that her scarsare more like words than they areold flesh- she is prose.
.sooner or later,the tooth fairy picks up ahammer and chisel
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.
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
advice for a stranger do things to regretthem in the morningthen sleep until noon
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,you are notthumbed bruisesor honey bones& you have onlyever been a godinside of your own head
Inordinate-she's petrifiedof being fixedbecause being brokenis all she's ever known-
.here is a love storyin quiet words:she pressed her hands to my heartand her palms came awaydusty.
.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'
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
you never taught me how to sleep.one day you'll unfold your bedsheets, and i will still be in the creases.