excuses for why I'm shakingwe live in a world of apologies.I made a mistake a year back,choosing my addiction to oxygenover less demanding things.I’m sick of trembling for problemsthat aren’t mine and I’m sick of tryingto romanticize black holes andthe indiscriminate nature of lithium andI’m sick of waking up every morningfeeling sick. and truly, I’m sorrybut I’m not ready to accept my rolein the making of myself. I’m not readyto lament for those with a smallerpain tolerance, and for my dislikeof anything that requires commitment.I’m sorry I miss you and I’m sorryI won’t admit that out loud.how scary is it to be somethingso unalterably heavy, to be diagnosedas your own worst enemy, but god,you’re so fucking beautiful,and not in the stereotypical boymeets girl meets fairytale way, butthe kind that makes my heartbleed a million miles quicker.I just wanted to cry on allyour scars and wash them clean.when things are bad for
what we're not supposed to talk aboutI could make a story out ofthis. The blackout epiphaniesblinding me like a total eclipseof any sense of rationality I everstole out from my parents' blind spotswhen they turned the other way. Theboy I fell half in love with andmy therapist's unassuming questionsabout why he was different, the way Iwas never beautiful to him but hestill looked me in my bokeh eyes,betraying and quiet, so that was enough.My vain addiction to anythingpermanently damaging andmore or less glamorous. The dreamsI can’t swallow no matter what shadeof delusion they come in, aboutthe imminent death of stars namedafter deader lovers, and placeswhere the air is intoxicated withthe promise of Ecstasy, or whatevername heaven goes by after you begin to doubtthe reality of putting one foot in frontof the other will get you anywhere at all.I could write novels about my pathto self-martyrification and the momentsI cried for no reason except thatI had no reason tor cry. I could writea mil
resonanceidoes she know the astrological significanceof the bruises starring alongyour wrists? if I could, I’drun away somewhere wherethe sky is silent and the peoplehate honest eyes. here’s my problem,I’ve wasted all my time daydreamingin the universe of your scars. I wonderif substantiality is lethal.ii[when will you move onlike you know whatyou’re doing with your life,like this tiny existentialfailure is only a hazard signon the roadmap of your journey,like the world weighing downupon your shoulders is anexercise in vanity and quietudeinstead of someoneelse’s burden?]iiilists of necessities: methods ofstarvation, hours to fall asleep by, sharpobjects, words that mean nothing.I’m sorry this isn’t better. I’m sorryI’m not better and I’m sorrynothing is bright anymore.things you remind me of:the november skyright before it rains.
honesty isn't a weaknessI have a headache and not enough timeto explain the irony of how I want to beevery pretentious poet making art out ofthemselves, cutting open their side and writingin blood and pixie dust; or how difficultit is to make a good allegory out of carsicknessand household complacency. thisis every secret I ever hid. when I was 9someone dissected the world in front of me,showed me it was a living, wanting thingand that I was just a lonely cell, functioningthrough my dysfunction; when I was 11the boy I liked told me he’d be interestedif I were prettier and I learned starvationwas more a state of mind than a presenceof being. when I was 13 I researched the lethalityof cleaning products, because god, I felt so dirty,and nothing can clean you more than a couple cupfulsof bleach. when I was 15 I was old and decrepitand mostly dead, returning from war with flowersfor graves that weren’t filled and a heart oftragedy, vulnerable and draped in every shadeof mourning f
to the girl with hungry footstepsI'm sending all my words backto the people who need them--people who wear scars likewar trophies, like jewelry, likean identification for those sufferingfrom the same acceptance ofself-hate. this is to the peoplewho sleep with one eye open, whocry when footsteps enter their roomat night; this is to the girlswho love by cutting their heartsinto snowflakes and watchingthem melt. I left you behind andI can't be sorry for that.you are the type of beautifulthat kindly asks the worldto fuck off. the days we buriedhave decomposed, headstones aresnapshots; sanitized breakdowns,rusty tongues, sighs lacedwith fear, I love you, I loveyou. saturdays were the bestbecause we could sleep throughthe nightmare. you painted me apicture of the world with your wordsand they made us wash it awayfor being transparent.we were afraid of nothingbut the monsters in our eyelids.back then, we counted dayslike shooting stars; it took 67to wish myself away. thisis for you, skygazer;
why we pity angelsto him;you are afraid of phonecalls. youare afraid of your own voice, andopening your ribcage to letyour heart come live on your sleeve.you are afraid of living without caffeineor alcohol, whatever the day calls for;you are afraid of being realwithout laughing afterwards, becomingeverything you worked so hard to getaway from, acknowledging allthat you still are. know this:I am afraid of loud noises.I am afraid of honesty and drowning,people I don’t know and wordsI won’t say. I am afraidof growing old and living alone andyou not accepting me. I am afraidof myself. In that, we are the same.to her;I have the compulsion to grab youand cup you to me like you are somehalf-alive bird, like that soundas the lazy sun paints you a portrait isyour hummingbird heart and not my ownshallow breaths. in the beginning,you were my peace of mind. you tracedthe contours of my being with a scalpeland held me up, a shadow puppet,as the darkest, blackest figures I gav
gossamer loveyou will love a womanwho uses the wordgossamertoo often. she willdiagnose dead artists' descentsinto madness and laughtoo loudly at jokesno one understands.she will braid crowns offlowers, she will write poemsin constellations, she willtry to walk like a dancer sono one can hear herleave. she will bean ice sculpture, and whenshe cries, you'll convince yourselfshe's melting, she loves you, you'vechanged her, you'vechanged; she will wear youlike a comma, likean incomplete thought,likeapausein her story, andshe will leave you wonderingwhatyoudidwrong.
butterfliedit is a snakecoiled in my stomach,the urge to vomiteverything inside of me, to purgeall the toxic not-good-enoughs. to retellthe same story and expecta different ending isthe dysfunction that landedus in here. I'm sorryI don't follow you intoyour dreams at night. I'm sorrymy smile is not the moon,I'm sorry I did anythingto make you noticeme at all. no fingerdown the throat could evertake thataway.
beauty is a state of mindforgiveness is thescent the violet leaveson the foot that stomped it;I am beautiful in remembrance:I am beautiful in a body two sizes too large, in eyes dilated with questions (eyesyou cannot name; gray like the ocean, blue like the heart, green like the fever dream I cannot wake from) I am the hair of a lion, a wild thing, ignition upon tempted glance. I am the skinyou cannot name, always fleeting; the chameleon you always see but never truly take in. and I know a boy carved of ivory silence, &
forgetting how to sleeptake two.a week past the end of the world,and there’s something therapeuticabout not caring. I must’vereally messed up in another life. Iwake up shaking and forget to sleepshaking and hold your hand, shaking,remembering the moment I becamepoison. I feel crazier than ever; cementhead’sgood and gone with his plastic wristsand missing soul. the boy who entertainshis unfriendliest nightmares couldn’tmuster up enough innocenceto make it right. (today, he writesa letter; dear Sophia, he tells meit doesn’t get better. I’mlocked up for a crime Ididn’t commit. you did it,Sophia. you built mewrong.) but you know me,I fell in love with a problem Icouldn’t fix, a boy blindedwho’s never seen the light.He was a stormy violet but Iam cyan graying with age--I spent most of my life dying,and the rest of it wishing Iwas someone else. they tell usonly god will see your ugly;and the girl who swallowedrazorblades can&
Growing Upit seems that by now I’ve been diagnosedwith a mild case of weightlessness, mindlessdrifting past empty homes and the emptier peoplethat purchased them. I remember conversationswith you about existentialismand the almost intricate fabric of my mind andeverything in between, and you-- the way youpaused before making a point asthe words defined themselves in your head:I remember the day I told you I was God.Creator of all things unimportant, trappedin the body of a girl with nothing left to give, youbelieved meit must be a beautiful placeinside your head, with a worldthat revolves around hope and expectationsthe way it was supposed to; allstorybook-perfect like thewars promise we’ll one daybecome[I’d like to think that every great leaderonce cried themselves to sleep wonderingif they’d ever mean anything anddid things to stand out like smokingor drinking or pretending to be someonethey’re not and every morning they’d tilt
PSit's come to this-- definitionsof memories and people and dreamsI’ll never know firsthand like reasons for living;this realization that Iam a stagnant planet, loston its orbit home; thissearch for a justificationto keep on breathing oceanwhen my lungs won’t toleratesalt. I woke today in the waterto angels swimming around my feet;coral, pearlescent anchors dragging medown, down, sweetly lullabyingabout you, dear, and the daythe tides washed you away.you are written in my skinas much as the lies I live bydaily. you are the beautiful things:the sun waking up in the morning, thestars pitying at me as I try to fall asleep.the watercolor sky sighing, thevirgin clouds crying, the last notesuiciding itself into silence.
sati(ate)dit's ironic,isn't it? the waythey say "hunger gnaws"like the way our teethscrape against bones.for all thecalories that are counted,you still feelempty. you aren'tbeautiful untilyou are digestingnothing but airand maybe your own guilt.that's just the wayliving is thesedays: swallowingglass shards toslice up your insides soyou can ignorethe other kind of pain yourstomach is feeling.but when people askif you're doing okay you justsmile and nod even thoughyou can't help butthink "if honesty wastangible, i'd eat it rightnow."life hasan acquired taste andsome days you'dlike to rip yourtongue out.
an apology to anyone who'll listen It begins with a wishand ends with a sigh.I am in love with boys whodon't exist and girls who I sometimespretend are myself. Spineless,spiteful, and one hundred percentsporadic, I'm becoming undone.When I wasyounger I thought itwas a sin ifyour parents didn'tlove each other. Now Iknow that it'sjust the way this world works. And hell,I need you right now; to tell me that gaining four pounds in three days is typical to tell me that living in a dream every second is perfectly okay to tell me that I'm normal, that I'm still sane, that I'm not going to close my eyes one day and never open them again.Don't look at me. Please, just don't lookat me. I can't remember the last time I had no regrets.
.i dream of drowning inlakes, belly up, a petalshaped bruise of your thumbon either wristi dream that what laysin my bed is so muchmore terrifying than whatlurks underneath it
CapriciousWords have becometasteless to me,I'm afraid—like rotten applesfit for the worms.Quite frankly,it feels asthough I amdancing withoutglass slippers;pirouetting my way througha ballroom full oftongues made for poetry.Where's awicked witch whenyou need one?All I seem to do isdream while I'm awake and,if we're being honest,I was never much of an alluring talein the first place.
Evanescentonly the mostbeautiful of creatureslive the shortest.red roses and quiveringbutterflies and otheruseless things, like theway she wishes on every starshe sees for a differentsoul because she can't standthe way it's rotting inside.and it's only whenthe thorns beneath her skinstart to bleed that hermonsters whisper, "haveyou ever trembled, my dear?"because they knowfor every whimper that hidesfaintly in the dark,there is a pair of lips stretchedinto a smile pretendingthat all that is beautifulis timeless and unbroken.
.she calls down angelsjust to burn theirrighteous wings,to see them rise thenfall, those flailingdovesshe tells them, thisis what it's liketo be humanand they say judgementwill arrive for you, mygirl, you will becleansed by burninglightand i strike another match
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,you are notthumbed bruisesor honey bones& you have onlyever been a godinside of your own head
I was never a writer. I: Halfsleeper I fell in love, once.A snowstorm melting from my hair - dripping cataract: diluted coffee. A dark room filled with languageso beautiful, I almost understood what was said.Children are getting younger, and this land has no end, where do you rest your head?All things are in a constant state of vibration, a harmony in the space between our fingers. our hands. I’ve only ever stopped to listen
You WillICatholic school can really fuck you up.Petty insults; “you have ugly hair” “got milk?”Breasts at the age of nine.Bullying makes you someone you don’t want to become;hide all that blackness in your heartwith overly cheerful hyperactive personalities (that make others think you’re a little strange),quickly forgotten.Friends can’t tell when you just want toscream and cry and be alonebecause of how deep you’ve dug yourself in.Afraid of yourself, you think and think, and THINK,until you are terrified you’re going to give into those dark thoughts - (and if you do, then you’re just numb afterwards. Staring at hands blankly).IIFaith in everything, the world, God, people around you, yourself;all you can see is horror.You hide it, fake it, pretend to be okay.Why would anyone care to listen?Just one person of billionswith worse problems than you th
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
I'm talking myself in circles,I screamed,"There is nothingwrong with me, not a damnthing.”I wanted to believethe big dipper on my armmeant something morethan sun marks & kisses.But, how can I trust wordsthat slip through my teethas easy as breathingwhen this starhas only ever learnedhow to f a l l ?
How to pretend that you are a writer.Act like you're notokay when you are andthat you are when you'renot. Run barefoot inthe snow. Stand outin the rain for an hourand think about anythingand everything you can.Fall in love withriddles and things thataren't real and theway some starsshine. Cry whenyou realize that life isjust one big sham and writeone hundred cliché poemsabout it, and then write onethat you actually mean.Use profanity. Be theone fucking introvertin a room full ofextroverts and screamshit just for the fun ofit. Swallow every goddamnmetaphor you ever dreamedof and write them downwith your own blood.Eulogize your ownmisery. Put a crown onit and let it rule yourheart for six years beforeyou throw a coup d'etatbut just end up withyour head in a basket.Ask yourself whyyou feel soempty and whenyou forgot how tolaugh and where youlast left your smile andwho you even really areanymore. Mean every word.Don't cry at funerals. Cryyourself to sleep everyother night for
.hangman, could you showme the ropes? i'd rather doit all on my own
.i've been breaking out ofhell, but the devil don'tstop mehe slips a return ticketinto my pocket and says,you're gonna wannause this, kid
The Problem With Elia.she could have been a violin;born a week too late, she hadmelancholy in her bones: doctor lizbettook time out of her schedule to pluck hernewborn strings - calloused sanitation againstmottled pink-and-yellow flesh & thrashing limbs.in three more years, she will havenothing in her bones at all: doctor estairdiagnosed her with iatrophobia to fuel herinstinctive chords - ripple-free shells of liquidlobotomy & a capsule to callous her pink-and-yellowflesh against the thought of just getting over it all.ten years after that, her mother willfind her face down and thrashing: her dustbunny bones will flex as she retches up her memoriesfor display - lawyers will spend the next few years pawingthrough them with clawed hands and heaving breathing untilone day, they find lizbet and estair huddled amid the rubble of her bones.
in which I become beautifulI drown my conscience inthe holy water of my wrists,I carve hearts from emptypaper for my galaxyboywith stars written in his skin,and I swallow moths tomuffle the emptiness andhelp me fly away.