shatteredi watched youlay the darkest partsof yourself along my bed,kept you safe as theygrew violent.they may stillbite like razors,but your armorhas grown thicker.
5:20i went to the forestto purify my lungsthen i saw the thickand uglythree letter scari left in a slenderbirch, and wondered howi could let you poisonanother living thing.moths aren't afraid of pinstill they're stuck to a piece of styrofoam.
fivemaybe if i tear out myveins, replace them withflowers, stitch myself up withlace and ribbons, i'll be pretty
nineit's funny how carefulwe are aboutdamaging ourselvesproperly
sailyou were the boat that deliveredme happiness, crates filledwith flowers and honey.but anchors rust,ropes fray,and all boatssail away.
tenI've politely declined deathfor maybe the seventh timebut he's a rather persistentfellow; he never lets myfingerstray toofar fromthe trigger
the scientistsso i guess the sicknesscame back. my cells are charred;so manipulated byfailed doctors and theirfaulty operations, you can't evendiscern the real me. oh well,aesthetics are trivial.days are ruled by Nirvana;the sweetest doses ofCobain and Grohl and Novovselic.nights turn into Sinatra, coolsheets and dizzy air. the calendaris swollen, about to perish. youtell me you'll do whateveryou can to reach the remedy.our beings' areacidic and basic.neutralizing antibodiessurge around our lips, healingevery unspoken nevermind.
nostalgia is poisoncall me a hoarder if youwant.i steal memories fromnettle-strewn alleywaysand crystallized diningrooms,collect them inkisses and nasty littlescars.i can't seem to partwith them, no matter howseverely they threaten myhealth
elevenremember how numbyour lips werethe first time your heartsnapped in half?how every inch of yourskin flaked off andsticky heat trickleddown your ribs?i wouldn't wish that feeling on my favourite enemy
because i'm like a relapse (of you or youth)baby blues cannot cure suicide agendas.all these poets do is wither, wither,waste - decomposing bones justenough to trade them in forwords & kill themcell bycell &conversations bloom between my tongue &teeth or two choice vertebrae; thoughtsburst like blood vessels,like self disgust(i am more catatonicthan i am catastrophic).
i am made of nights like theseativan boy, you cannot empty out this skull -not with a pen nor with a bullet. you canbe my hallowed head(case) for spitting outwords like teeth; oh, but i will only love youwhen you're weary. i will keep crows cagedbetween your lungs like veins, like palpitations.i will rot you through bones & car radios,but i will never get (you) out of your skin.
a note on ex-loversdo not make the personyou deemed unlovableinto solid granite;for they, too, are human.and they may not deserveyour softness anymore,but if you treat themlike a monster, you'reno better than them
these bitter kids have sharper hipsoh, i am aching to pry apart this skull &meet the ghosts thumping at its insides.i'm just pining for a rib cage like afuneral pyre or a staircase;i want to bloom from thesebitter bones & waste -(until i'm the corpsesleeping in the casket)
specter boys have always looked best sinkinghe says,i want to count all 206 &feel the notches of your ribs -i want you, weary boy, tophase yourself down whileyou are burning inside out.i will seethe inside your skulllike thoughts, like cigarette filters;you will thank me as i molder in your marrow.
i can't keep walking on these dry-rot bonesoh, i am not a poet;like the ink scratchesof plath, i ama diamond-dreamerstraw-stitchedspecter boy: decay,dispose, & disappointbecause this is the waythat writers wane -(this hangman head is nosurvivor story, & godsdo not burn outin supernovas)
fourdo not wish upona star, the starsare dead; the skyis filled with corpses
i hope you remember to bring the flowers.the stars whispered lateone nightas we lay beneath theirgrandeur."what if i die today?" you asked.and i told you in that case,i'd see you by tomorrow.
sixhe plucked six white rosesfor meand even though they'll diein a week,it's matchless to any other gifti've received
now i see the stars.there was a time when icouldn't catch my breath whenever ithought about you , (crippled lungs and-boy, you hit me like an asteroid,there's a crater on my chest now that I can't ever seem to fill,even withoceans of my tears cried onnights when you couldn't be there to sing me to sleep.thirty two poemless days after you joined the constellations,i walked out into the yard and howled to the empty sky,andfor a moment i was Gaea, rivers running down my cheeks,weighted to the ground andburied in myself, butwhere there is no light there are no shadows, andsometimes, i wonder if i miss me.yes, yes i do.i may not see the moon, but
Moving OnAll I can tell you isI haven't gotten farwalking throughtwenty years of yesterday.
Pretty metaphors are for pretty girlsI told you to stopspewing pretty metaphors at me,for with each elaborate comparison,I feel a bit moredetached from this worldAnd maybe I don’t feel so strong at the moment,but would you beif you felt like the entire universewas resting upon your shoulders,and someone was just there saying:But you’re stronger than the powerful beatsof a butterfly’s wingsAnd maybe I do need more confidence,but would you exuberate itwhen the part you hated most about yourselfwere the freckles that have speckled your face for years,and someone was just there muttering:They’re not flaws,but rather stars that form constellationsYes, I can’t help but hateall those unrealistic metaphorsyou choose to pelt at me when I’m low,yet the irony is,I know that those beautiful wordsare realistic in your eyes,So I can’t hate you.
you're so blind.here i am drowningand you have no idea what to do,you're so lostand panicking.why don't you take your handsoff my shoulders?
fall in love with (splitting hairline fractures)we swallow blues insteadof talking them out. oh,kids like us are specters,spectacles: boys countingrib(cage)s & (de)composing don't you hate (this body) is a vesselwe're deities or tomb-raiders; noin-betweens for writers these days
.and they knew,they knew i'd gone -when they found me outside crouchedwith a string box and stick, singingi'm going to catch me my death,make him sick -now i sit in a gown that is whiterthan white, doesn't suit me,this ghost to myself -on the corridor bench with my kneestucked in under my chin, rattlingwith green yellow blue(i've told you, i know where i'm going)
she's gone, she's gone.don't tell a broken girl withgrief pouring into the juts of her cheekbones,hunger suffocating into the curves of her ribs,that her eyes are madeof moonlightand her hair was weaved fromsunshine when you arelight years away and millennia too late
dead girls don't write poetrydear someone,there are no funeralsfor the fleshno hospitalsfor the mindno curtains & no cremationsfor all our pretty wordsparadigm,you can't save every patientsweet,a corpse would warm your bed
i don't have a dog1. i get up at ten.this is an accomplishment.by eleven, i’m awake enough to miss you.to be honest, that part never goes away—but eleven is when the typewriter grows fangsand threatens to swallow everything i amif i don’t put a name to the feeling. even the dog’stail does not wag. he keeps watching the door.he will not even touch his food until the sun hasset as deep as possible. he is giving you everychance to come back.i try to tell him there’s no use,that you will never come back.but dogs don’t understand things like that,don’t believe in the concept of ‘never come back’.they believe in the sound of a key turning a lockand the inevitable stomping of feet on the welcome matno matter how many times they’ve heardthe car engine start and the crunch of gravel as it pulls away.2. this must be what missing you feels like.i have lived lifetimes in the minutes i keep breathing.i keep breathing. this is an accompl
surgeryi promised not to scarmy skin. so i cut out mybrain and hurled it intothe river.just like cancer, the worst of me is dead.