my 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
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
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
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
safety pinsi found you sitting on the dusty
bed sheets poking holes in your
softer-than-silk skin with a
rusty safety pin (you told me
they were your favorite)
i asked you why and you said
you loved the way the stars
looked and you were hoping that
maybe you could be as beautiful as them
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
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
we're all a little impatientit's 6:04 in the morning and i'm
still sucking on life savers until
the roof of my mouth goes raw; i
guess they're not doing their job
very well because there's a single
knock on my door and i know the
devil doesn't like to wait
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
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.
sweetheart, let's head out. let's
drink up the desert asphalt and that last bottle
of johnny walker blue--
one last toast to the copper sunsets,
to the good earth. a pair of
tailgate stargazers, you and i:
roaming curves across the glove compartment map, until
every foldline is worn flannel-soft
and it'd rather stay open
let's forget route sixty-six. let's forget
and pick up terra cotta dust--
breathe in the mojave. let's pretend
that the world's already ended
and it's just us.
let's leave the door unlocked
we're all drunk and always have beenno
i haven't felt smaller than this before
and it could be
because i don't breathe poetry in
and out -
and out -
i write it under my eyebrows
with the precision
of a drunk sniper
toasted into admission
with irony s-st-tutter-ering
down his throat.
you wouldn't take a damned bullet for me.
beautiful is a word kept
for the rise
of her tidal chest,
not my shallow breath,
not my sunset, heartfelt,
i would have disappeared
between your accusing index and
neglected thumb -
don't you feel calmer?
i haven't felt smaller than this
i haven't felt smaller than this before
and it could be
because you found a home between
her stroking index and
comforting thumb -
i haven't forgotten,
no, i still remember
now twenty two penumbrae in the past
didn't stop me
in one of several crevasses
at the bottom of your oceanic mind;
you may have forgotten,
and slept in
on the details,
but i haven't,
every night my hair is falling outI have heard that in 7 years
every cell in your body
& isn't it beautiful that it will be
a body you have never touched
but I know that when your brain cells
fall like ashes through your skull
they stay dead
& I can never scrap the memories out of their corpses
to the girl with hungry footstepsI'm sending all my words back
to the people who need them--
people who wear scars like
war trophies, like jewelry, like
an identification for those suffering
from the same acceptance of
self-hate. this is to the people
who sleep with one eye open, who
cry when footsteps enter their room
at night; this is to the girls
who love by cutting their hearts
into snowflakes and watching
them melt. I left you behind and
I can't be sorry for that.
you are the type of beautiful
that kindly asks the world
to fuck off. the days we buried
have decomposed, headstones are
snapshots; sanitized breakdowns,
rusty tongues, sighs laced
with fear, I love you, I love
you. saturdays were the best
because we could sleep through
the nightmare. you painted me a
picture of the world with your words
and they made us wash it away
for being transparent.
we were afraid of nothing
but the monsters in our eyelids.
back then, we counted days
like shooting stars; it took 67
to wish myself away. this
is for you, skygazer;
how i like the skin stretched over your bonesyou are not above me
not some unreachable god sitting far away from view
but, oh, there are galaxies spread across my chest
and stars aching in my bones, climbing through holes where flowers once grew
thorns and roses, a songbird's fragile nest
your sunlight shines through the ghost of you and i -
i miss the warmth you used to provide
our walls are too thinsitting together
you can hear my heart hitting
against my chest like a broom to the ceiling
& the neighbor upstairs
begins to scream
the wind breaks a hole in my skull
you can hear my thoughts:
words whispered in paper rooms
& you have a cup to my ear
i am 16 now
but sometimes we forget that
we are not teapots or socks in the wastebasket
& the holes in our heads are not signs of well-worn affection
what to do when he doesn't say it backa)
you will give all of yourself to a boy who won't know you at all.
he will recycle your parts, make you stationary, bind you into
paper that he will gift back so you can write poetry about him.
you, too, say i love you quickly.
when he doesn't say it back, evaporate.
he will kiss you in places you didn't know existed.
until him, you were a peasant in your body's palace.
he crowned you princess, broke the lock of your castle's gates.
when he doesn't say it back, load your cannons.
you are a fountain pen.
look him in the eye when you write him letters on your skin.
when he asks to read them, surrender.
you have always been this way: too eager
to make wildflowers bloom inside of him.
when he doesn't say it back, trim the stems.
when he tells you that your eyes remind him of tree bark,
show him that your gaze is sturdier than nature's limbs.
without breaking eye contact, slowly back him into a wall.
when he expresses discomfort,
ask if he knows what choking is like.
blind alley scrawlings metaphysics won't save you;
battles won't save you;
distance could have saved you
however it is not to be trusted;
on drowning, swimming, and the difference thereintwo girls are swimming in two lanes, separate with a timer overhead
counting up their seconds. it’s a race to first, to the end of the lane,
to the medals and the glory and the place where water turns into land
and the dry hugs that wait there. it’s a race and
there’s a winner in the pool right now and it’s
either the girl with the red swim cap
or the one whose goggles fall off as soon as
she hits the water.
they are both in high school and they both do not know the other’s name.
the girl with the loose goggles is the crowd’s f
Her Hysteric Obsessioni've ripped off my scars &
plastered them amongst the sky
because you didn't believe i was
insane enough to love you.
finalepeals of laughter
been lying in the snow for hours
standing at the gates of heaven
leaned against the pillar, wondering when he can
here is my heart, and here is my home.i am done writing about
you can find me
in the "new beginnings"
isle, splashed with scar tissue and
dear child, open your
there are stars, a galaxy, and
there is breath in your lungs.
the past is never
you have lived through it,
swam through it and
maybe died a little
through it, but you
came out on top.
when this winter ends, it
will end harshly;
but spring comes every year,
and i hope that you
i hope you open your eyes
to rain and i hope
that you fall in love with
it, and i hope
that you let life move
like i had to.
the roads are
so am i.
take me back to something
star gazers out
on dusty bridges-
the ones who
could never see
Black hole BulimicThe Composition:
I birth poems — not amaranths
in graveyards — not gardens.
sows seeds of doubt
into skeleton weeds.
A farmer plucks the bones
from Apollo's hyacinth; his
I binge on broken
cracked collectors of rocks,
of pebbles kidnapped
from barren beaches:
where crooked kings
buried in books whose
pages creak to crickets
in an abandoned abyss
of an attic—caskets on
an antiquated shelf. I
choke on the dust and
twitch in recoil.
The bickering sky
A cloud coughs—
The clock's scythe hand
swivels to the beckoning
twelve. Spastic ticking—
each bleak stroke
of a midnight heart.
The sundials do not work
now. The vampires know
I kill poems—