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.
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.
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
tenI've politely declined deathfor maybe the seventh timebut he's a rather persistentfellow; he never lets myfingerstray toofar fromthe trigger
sailyou were the boat that deliveredme happiness, crates filledwith flowers and honey.but anchors rust,ropes fray,and all boatssail away.
Yesterdayyesterdayi nearly disposed ofmy existenceand i still have to wakeup, caked in a layer ofunfeeling burn marks, justto be swallowed by crowdsof ignorance again.just because i'm notcoughing up a lungdoesn't mean i'm notsick, and if you won'thelp me slay this monsterby giving me over to ahospital for souls, it's yourown damn fault i'm nevercoming home.
fourdo not wish upona star, the starsare dead; the skyis filled with corpses
Defeating a Mental Disorderthe sludge in my frontal lobes isbleaching white; a clear photonicpuzzle of what my thoughts usedto be. my mind feels about fivepounds lighter without the constantbombardment of negative chemicalsrushing through mushy grey matter.if summer were a medicinei'd take three doses everyday,injecting raw sunlight into myveins and swallowing your smilewith a heavy glass of water.my demons won't freeze, perhaps they'll burn
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)
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
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)
Moving OnAll I can tell you isI haven't gotten farwalking throughtwenty years of yesterday.
sewingyou can cut yourselffrom on personand stitch yourself toanother, but the oldcloth will alwaysbe there
homesick for childhoodshe was a carefree little girlwith smiles hidden deep downin her pockets, and she'd onlygive them out to the most deserving.when the quarter hour of her lifestruck, however, things changed.her world was painted blackon accident, millions of shadesturned ashy due to a sicknessthat breeds on those emptyspaces between words.she was dropped into summercovered in homemade scars,and with summer, her innocencewas eaten away. pinned to a bedlike prey, she watched herselfconsumed into anotherhuman.(this world is the 7 a.m. frostleft on winter windows. and it scares me)
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.
twothese scars will meltwith time, but the emotionsare forever branded tothe hour that birthed them andthe strangers they belong to
WitchcraftCall me Sarahwas all she saidand I had the uncomfortablefeeling of being haunted.I let her legsand red nailsdo the talking -stories I grew upnot believing in,silver spoons and moonshung so lowI could taste them,and autumn lostbetween her shoulders.I never said the right wordsand night retreatedwhen she turned her headand smiled.We let the candles burn -rich foliage of airand starsthe only traces left.
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
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
.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)
a study in arthroscopy (manus)oh, i'll take these muddled words & cigarette burns,spit 'em out or sell 'em as cinema or cemeterial.i've got these dirty fingernails hooked like cat clawsinto my prey-heart through pericardium; i wanna tradein this light head(ache) to admire snapping bonesor splitting skulls 'cause i can't keep the talk cheapor the drum-beat outta (always best inside) my mind.my spine has never meant prowess; i've always been yourfavorite migraine, baby: all potential & no promise.
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?
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.
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).
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.
aubreyYou are a three-day lightning stormthat leaves only plastic bags and stray dogsflitting 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 sunshineclenched in her fists like crumpled dollar bills, andmore importantly, she will make you feel okay.You deserve okay.
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.