fourteenthe cake is underdonerunny and lukewarmbut if i layer the frostingthick enough, no onewill know the difference
twothese scars will meltwith time, but the emotionsare forever branded tothe hour that birthed them andthe strangers they belong to
nineit's funny how carefulwe are aboutdamaging ourselvesproperly
sixhe plucked six white rosesfor meand even though they'll diein a week,it's matchless to any other gifti've received
twelveim thirsty for the moonand not a drop lessfor chilled grassand a crisply toastedbreeze. i want my breathsdappled with cloudsmaybe i'll even purifymy thoughts for a time
Self-destructionyou do not knowfresh out of the wombhow to tear yourself apart.you know how to respirateand nictitate butyou are not taughtto want to spill thefew calories you just consumedbehind a locked door on thecold tile floor.no one tells you thatfilling your lungs with taris dangerous. or howsipping away at Smirnoff can'tnumb the screams inside yourhead forever.you receive nowarning on how addictivecarving your own scarsor charring your skincan be.and no one mentions howphysically taxing it isto talk with a loaded gunbetween your teeth.you aren't born self-destructiveit's a diseasecommunicableand deadly
ugly/beautya goddess taught me how to carvehighways into my arms, but she neversaid my blood would cease flowing. soi washed my veins with ink and lead,turned my sorrow inside out, and neverspoke to her again.
Mother's Dayeven though i wasa stain to you,you still chose tocherish me, and i'msorry i tried destroyingwhat took you nine monthsto perfect.
thirteenmy heart is not withered,but you can see thehatchet marks, the spotswhere lighting struck.it grew up crooked, and ihaven't pruned it very well.it's wild and overgrown with weeds
The PlaylistA group of us lying on the floorin a too-small apartmentthat can’t hold a fraction of our disorderssyndromes and symptomstucked under the kitchen sinkand in between self help booksand in the pages of love poetryonly half meant.A group of us lying on the floorwishing we could see the stars.but thats not how the architecturehas been set up for uswe have to live our lives blinkeredfrom the celestialbut at least we have each other.A group of us lying on the floorletting music replace our immune systemsnot caring if a misspent lyric saves us,not caring if a dropped note kills uswe don’t care about anything but the floor,these walls, these chains,that sound so familiar in an acoustic’s voice.A group of us lying on the floorcaring about nothing but the ceilingthats blocking out the light.
ChangingMy thoughts were not mine anymore.
RestfulLeaves tread upon crypts.Restful oceans; tender grass.Safeguarded pathways.
Hope is a beaconHer lighthouse eyesguide him home.
fivemaybe if i tear out myveins, replace them withflowers, stitch myself up withlace and ribbons, i'll be pretty
fourdo not wish upona star, the starsare dead; the skyis filled with corpses
...and everytime i flipthroughthese empty pages,alli can seeare the blankstares glaringbackat me.[i have nothing to say .]
...i stand facing the windso i canfeel the world hitme at a 1000milesa minute,to provei can take a blowstronger thanyou.
no one ever counts the blood inever since i gave you my addressi've been getting weekly airmail packagesin plain brown boxes marked handle with carefilled with your old skin neatly folded and tightly boundi unpack each one gently andplace in the same drawers withdried flowers from my many birthdaysand the jeans i wore when i was sixteen.but now that we began comparing scarsi've been waking up with handfuls of your lungsand pieces of your spine scattered across my bedi change by bed sheets each morningbut the blood still stains the floor a little.
WalkThe foolhardy say "I wish something would happen."The wise say "Nice weather today."
OsteophilicHe loved his bones.The way they never asked too much of himor protested his requests.There was nothing superfluous in their design;simple, sleek, and uncomplicated.They were spry, robustready to take on the world withsharp and fluid motions.His bones were not brittle like she was.Not so breakable or frail,not so expendable.They didn't bend under pressureor fracture under stress.He loved his bones -their ivory purity eased his soul -and he was proud of the waythey held everything togetherso effortlessly.She knew one day he'd stomp thisold flame out, long before 'death do us part.'Cremation had never been part of the plan.
Suffocation At Its Finestif the walls closed in,i think i'd survivebecause my existencemight as well bemicroscopic
LifeI'm not livingI'm only survivingThere's so much to doAnd so little timeI'm always in a rushTrying to keep up with lifeWithout a moment to restWithout a moment to thinkThere's no joy in lifeBeing here makes no senseSometimes it comes to meThat I should put an end to it...
Rewind, Get the WhisperRewind it,Play it.Now watch carefully.Turn up the noise,Let’s dance to it.Technology rulesSo let’s leave mankindTo rot in its pitAnd smile at a screen.Get up.Walk forward.Don’t trip on that wire,Lest you end up dead.We’ll pull you downThen watch you floatHand me that plasticMy friend’s a mope.The keys… here.I don’t need themGod only wanted me to be freeBut unbreakable doors stand in my way,So let’s climb the postsMake it to the sun.CrashBurnNow it’s their turn.Whisper, softlyNow scream it to meBow to my kneesThen watch me bleed.I’ll fall when I wantAnd bring the ground with meFor there were two individualsWith the same beating heart.
Untitledhave you everasked yourself ifa daisy ever wonderswhy it can't be arose?
...And the spaces betweenthesewords, are likemy heartbetween beats.irregular and unsatisfied.[you kept my heart beating .]
we can only hurt ourselvesthe light from your cigarette was the light in your eyes
Plaidanother night with plaidtrickling down my arm -it spreads without me feeling it.another night waitingfor the squares between the cutsto get smaller and smallerand eventually vanishso my body is nothing but negative spaceand I'll finally disappear.another night with plaid,with stripes and spots and streaks -another night painting over thesamedamnbroken canvas.
oneeven the golden memories go sour