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the nevergirlyou didn't believe in growing
up or growing old with someone
because you always confessed it
would be so much more magical
to stay young with them forever
you had the map of neverland
branded in your bones and
sometimes i swear i could hear
those little lost boys howling
and running through your spine
i cried the day you realized
peter wasn't coming and that
you would never learn how to
fly but let's face it, staying
young was never apart of the plan
but you found a way to not
grow up and i wish you hadn't
because now you are a shadow,
never growing and leaving every
night just because something else
wasn't bright enough for you
hide and seekeveryone looks to the stars
but maybe if we focused more
on the grains of sand
beneath our feet we might
just find something a little
she didn't believe in anything but cigarettesmy mother tells me not
to cry over spilled milk
but it makes it so much
easier to forget about
the bloody bird laying
dead on the bathroom tile
wendy was the lucky onedrowned by somber
in a sea of atramental
"black as November,"
my mother said
he went peacefully
in his sleep, they wept
17 is too young
for the hands of death
but death reached anyways
i knew why he kept
his window open in
below zero temperatures
and let the cold in
i wonder if his tears
froze to his cheeks
i love you because you existjust two little boys
playing with matches,
they started a spark i
could feel in the
pit of my stomach and baby
are tongues are like daggers;
each time we kiss it's
a sword fight i can never
quite win but there's still
something beautiful about the
way you call me princess.
maybe it's because you make
it believable or maybe it's
the way this wildfire
is devouring my being,
leaving nothing but a desire
for the way you hold me
we shouldn't be so afraid of deathi waited for death to wrap his
frail hands around my neck and
feed me to the unknown
but he just took my hand, fingers
laced between my own
i'm afraid i'm easy to forgetthis flower just hasn't
bloomed and yet you still
stick around waiting
to see if it is just as
beautiful on the inside
but darling i'm only scared
that when the day comes
that i bare my soul
you will see that it just
wasn't what you were
asthmaand i remember the ground
a supernova; of
dead lungs and oxygen wasted on me
and i remember being scared
and i remember asking why because
when you're young answers come without a price
you told me it was because he thought
i would be strong enough to live through it
and i remember believing you
but how could you be so wrong
i speak too fast for necromancya cigar-store solipsist
stuffing towels in doorways,
i was crowned prince asphyxia;
oh, do not fall in love with
dead boys - you can't make
martyrs out of suicide drones.
You've Endured So Many Storms That You Became OneYou have endured so many storms that you became one.
Your mother was a tsunami.
Her emotions came in waves
and crashed down on you like
“this is all your fault”.
Her high-tide flooded your basement.
There’s water damage in your roots.
She taught you how to swim when you were five years old,
but somehow you’ve been drowning for seventeen years.
You once told me that you hid all the knives in your house
so that the waves wouldn’t carry them away.
Your father was a thunderstorm.
His voice shook your house so much,
I could have almost sworn that you lived by train tracks.
His thought clouds
generated enough electricity to light up your neighborhood.
When his lightning cracked you’d count
to see how far away his hand was from your face
before the friction in his bones was too much for him to bear.
You have endured so many storms that you became one.
You are an earthquake,
and my heart is your San Andreas Fault
i saw the moon
leaking into the sea,
a great big silvery slick
on the waves
and as i held my hands up
to the hole in her side,
she smiled and soaked
(gentle, gentle, she doesn't have long)
i am worth it.and if this feeling
only lasts for tonight,
i'll swallow the night;
rearrange the stars
to map the
letters of my name
because i am worth
every second it takes
to let the world know
to be a waste of grey matter with no self-esteemforgive these
rorschach nerves &
mercury veins -
i am no tragedy boy,
but i have self-decay
down to an art.
this tar tongue only starts
marlboro conversations &
i only start fires.
aubreyYou are a three-day lightning storm
that leaves only plastic bags and stray dogs
flitting through the river runway streets.
You are dark purple and blue cacophonies,
searing-white and shredded muscle tendrils,
and seams bursting from blistering electricity—
I am not afraid of you.
My father has whirling weatherveins too,
but my mother coaxed it to his irises and fingernails;
typhoon boy, you too will find your stormchaser.
She will have a flagpole straight spine and sunshine
clenched in her fists like crumpled dollar bills, and
more importantly, she will make you feel okay.
You deserve okay.
this isn't something i can
sweat or starve out of me,
i'll have to write and it will
see i've often thought about
placing my head in the pestle
and mortar, i wonder if i could
grind out the hell inside, become
a red pulp on the worktop, and
even the oven keeps tutting at me,
it's so easy, just open the door
stick your hand in, feel his forked
tongue on your palm,
orange lover, you
and it's true
that the dead are never really
silent, they grunt and they groan
in their damp soil sheets,
toss and turn over
(fill the bath with water, and just drop me in it)
i was never good at starting these things
did you know some flowers
only open at night?
they must not be very afraid
of the dark
i wish i could say the same
i can't light my candle anymore,
maybe it's telling me
that i should stop trying
i didn't really like that blister
on my thumb anyways
i noticed that my veins
were the same color as the ocean
and i made myself bleed
my veins lied and blood is red, not blue
i guess i just thought i was different
i wish you could read these
i don't know how to write anymore
and i always knew this would happen sometime.
but god why now?
i still haven't figured out what i wanted to say
this will be my last letter to you
and i thought i'd let you know
that i will never know what i wanted to say
i was never really good at ending these either
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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