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
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
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&
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
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;
nakedness and heavy lungsand now, I’m defined by theconfines of my body, the faultsI carry like misdemeanors againstthe ones who translate me inlines and curves and scars that readlook, but don’t touch. now, I’mbusy catching up in revolutionsaround the sun and laps withinthe indignity of my own mind;swallowing travesties and memories alike—the sun in your voice, brighteningme inside as I wake up and breathelike an eclipsing star, my bones clankingtogether like wind-chimes, my legsgiving out like ghost peoplewho’ve given up. this is beautiful, thisstripping of layers upon layersof reality and pretendingI’m not ashamed to stand naked andquivering before those who judge mein impersonal numbers and figuresas though I were irrelevant, that I’m notholding my breath in hopes I willfloat away like a balloon, beyondhuman comprehension, light and fadinglike the handwritten notes and promisesscrawled across every inch of me,just so I could be forgotten
a letter for someone who hates thinkingin the beginning i wrote poemsabout death and darkness andthe complex metaphysical arithmetic in whichthat would equate to the love i carried for you,beneath the headaches brewing like bruisesbetween my eyes, my ocean eyes;even after convincing me the planetswere dead gods, powerful skeletons withinternal expiration dates and the starswere their lingering parables, their storiesblinking out years before we were born, i knewyou were a nuclear angel, atom bombsavior sent to save me fromme.there is no more mysteryin the world. i sent youfive letters to the PO box you told meabout in florida, the firstwas a catalogue of everyangsty song lyric or campy postcardor description of a flowercrooked in just the right waythat reminded me of you,the second was a retellingof every dream i woke fromforgetting who i was, the thirdwas an apology-- i'm sorryfor who i'm not and who youneed and that your dad alwaysreeked of bacardi, i'm sorryfor my bukowski-wannabe complex a
everything I'm becomingtwo weeks until the end of the world,and i’m busy stockpiling all my regrets,writing letters to flaws i don’t careto fix, and trying to learn to drawinfinity. it’s time for two truths and a lie:1. i was drunk for an hour ongood vibes and loneliness andthat quote “from the moment weare born we begin to die”2. and god, Bianca, you still show upin my dreams; glaze-eyed andmore vocal than you ever werewhen you were half-alive1. (how close i came to arctic happinesswhen you froze in my mind,snowflake breath lingering likethe soundtrack of my breakdown)now, she tells me she is sickof the clothes stretched tight likea second skin, and the gaping silencesbetween her ribs, and the singsongunimportance glazing over herhollywood-hangover eyes. she blossomslike an earthquake, finallygrowing into the goosebumpsand hollow bones her fathergave her-- i want to cure the world,use a freeze ray to halt timeand kiss every empty wound;i'm becoming
unfilteredii’d tell you I hated youif you had a voice or a face,or any sense of tangibility asidefrom the spider fingers you useto crawl through my brainyou are not beautiful, likeall the other poets protest. youare the red in my eye, likea pen bled; the ragged tomy fingernails, the hitch of my breathwhen it catches in my throat.iibefore i go, i’ll write a million letters (a millionpennies for my thoughts, bitter, embeddedunder my tongue) and send them to peoplei’ve never met, telling them how my eyes were bluewhen i was little but now are the same grayi’m choking on, how i am maddie and how that’s shortfor a name i was never graceful enough for, howi tell myself stories of lives i’ll never live so ican go to sleepbecause when i’m really gone, that’s all that’ll be leftof meiii(it’s funny what peopletry to justify with words)ivyou never loved me,you selfish thing, i wonder whyi wasted so many nights relivin
in which I try to forget my dreamswith Sunday-heavy lips, she calls meselfish and means it. I rememberdreams better than people, strangersgreeting me in the grocery store overa common past and sorry selectionof red grapes. I remember Katiebeing beautiful and happy andwearing the same abnormal toe shoesand being a few decades older than timewould allow, I remember Emilybeing alive. I remember meescaping to France to defy logicand stow away in a pretentious,overpriced tourist resort whereI’d learn to speak a languageI’d never use and love peoplewho’d never know me; I rememberimpossible things.she tells me trust is not a virtue.responsibility is gained andtaken away when you proveunable to learn to be normal anddefiant at trying to breathe. she says,I love you, but I don’t understand,and she cries, saucer-eyed,and this time I can’twake up.
wallflower clippingsthere's scar tissue in her throat,swollen around the words she never said;dark rings around her eyeslike planets unremembered, anda staleness to her touch,the crystalline Dead Sea.she's living like a storythat's already been told"if no one loved youwould you mean anything at all?"in that moment,we forget to exist.
Ephemeral1.i wake up and tear the sunfrom the sky like this is agrade school art project and iam supposed to share somethingworthy of myself-- i thinkthere is a black hole nestledbetwixt my lonely ribs,devouring anything alive.on days like these, my greatest weaknessis weakness and i am my own fatal flaw.we live by mantras and my ears ring‘i hate every piece of me’(he put his head to my chestand heard me dying;call me beautiful now)2.we are the false ends of sunkenuniverses, we are pieces ofdead galaxies and you arestardust, god, you arebeautiful.i believe that this is all just a dreamby someone with an imaginationbigger than the word “no,” that weare pawns in a game not worthremembering, but when i’m with youi’m real.i never took kindly to thingsthat required codependency,the uncalloused portionof my frostbitten heartbut god, you arebeautiful.
denial and uglier aftermathi drink to you, raising my glass andchoking down the things you left,ignoring my gag reflex and waitingon the buzzing in my head, white cottonlullabies for the weak of heart.it kills me that we are just acollection of vignettes, that sooni might see your blossom fingersand bleeding sunset smile butonly as a memory gone static with neglect;this summer, i became a rebel. amartyr in a child’s game, a vagrantwith boxes of dead poetry to calla home, and when i asked you to want me,it’s only so you’d take the sanity and consciousnesswith you when you left. i missthe days when personality disorderswere not graceful.do you even remember taking me to the moon?you were so fucking tripped out on acidand weed and love and other drugsthat you thought we were a portrait.midnight blues and sober graysbreaking even for a story,but every planet we landed onwas already dead.and trust me, i know you wish life wasa one night stand, because youcan’t keep
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.
with lovei.sleepwalking with starslike bulletwounds, tonightis for wandering andloving people I’ve never met.I have a hole in my heart forthe boy on my bus who balancesthe world on his chin as he sleeps.I’m drawn to a sunshine girl leakingbeams every time she opens hermouth to smile. and still, I followa boy who walks across clouds;I want to ask him to send me uplike a balloon.ii.ways I need to be loved:a hand heavy on my hip to remind megravity is more than an ideal, asoft kiss to bring me back fromother galaxies, a calm whisperwhen I’ve run out of wordsbut the silence is toomuch,iii.I’m severely broken up,fragments of words andheartscraps and sky-pieces;crawling backwards throughopen windows trying to finda home. I’m trying butI was untaught how tofunction, I’m trying tobe correct. I’m trying tobe normal. I’m trying tobe correct. I’m trying.iv.words I need to hear:I Love You. i love youi love you i lov
a different explorationwe talk aboutastrology and ex lovers. the raspberriesdying in the heat, the way the waterbit our skin, the homeless man set outto buy California, the center of our universe,you. that feeling labelled “blah,”and the notion I am not my own.we leak questionslike overrun rivers, excess spillage,draining curiosities about that tragic skeletonballed up beneath your clothes.and for you,I’d travel the length between heartbeats,shallow and vain like your promises,your liquid eyes.above all, we were lucky.miracle children. one in ten,one in a million, a pair of stragglersin seven billion exempt fromclarity and unclaimed skin.-I know this guy who hadsorry lips and scars down his spinewithout a story. we didn’t havea thing to say so we talked abouthow the stars were our newest horizon,the undefined, and how we’d escape to themsome day.
Hunger PainsIt begins with a bang.I forget to eat for a few months andI drown in cheap ideas with pretty names,the ones they fill books and barren wristsand stormy heads with, and soon,moonlight shines from insidemy ribs and I am a lighthouse.Thank you for the things you gave me,intrinsically, a knowledge ofhow to properly wearmyself. Thank youfor not fixing me.I used to write about the colorof your voice, always blue-- the skybefore I fell asleep and the morningdragging me back; I wonderthat you could’ve loved me betterif you explained who theSomething was that shared your bedat night, or why insincere wordswere your favorite.My poems still cling to my skineven when I sleep. even whenI wake, an anchor. even whenI boil myself alive and unfoldlike a pallid lily inside yourheavy hands;and after enough time,I forget to say goodbye.Today,I pick the scabs on my hips,kiss the sorry out of your smile,and breathe like this airisn’t already a million years old.
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.
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
we're all drunk and always have beennoi haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause i don't breathe poetry inand out -inand out,inand out -i write it under my eyebrowswith the precisionof a drunk snipertoasted into admissionwith irony s-st-tutter-eringdown his throat.you wouldn't take a damned bullet for me.beautiful is a word keptfor the riseand fallof her tidal chest,not my shallow breath,not my sunset, heartfelt,hollow silhouette.i would have disappearedbetween your accusing index andneglected thumb -rub me,rub me?rub herrub herdon't you feel calmer?noi haven't felt smaller than thisbefore.i haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause you found a home betweenher stroking index andcomforting thumb -i haven't forgotten,no, i still remembernow twenty two penumbrae in the pastdidn't stop mefrom settlingin one of several crevassesat the bottom of your oceanic mind;you may have forgotten,and slept inon the details,but i haven't,not yet,not ye
.he splits hearts likeoranges in themorningsinks his teeth intoripened flesh, andleaves nothing but therind, too hard toswallow
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
a vespertine hauntingi was once six years oldand i was once cradledin the tired arms of adesolate woman,who could only cryand she'd call sometimes,"Cass," she'd say,"baby, i've been drinking againand your father left -baby, he left and i can't find him."i'd put her books away thenand try to find the pillsshe never wanted to take."do you think he's hiding, Cassandra?""no," i'd say, and tie her hands;i was so much moreof my father than i would have likedto be, "he told me you need these.""oh no i don't, baby.""yes, Mama you do."poppoppopgoes the goddamned weasel,but now,just in hermind-bitten mouth.it was silent in my room and silentwhen she sleptbut i was only six and the worldmade less senseto my squinted eyes anddisoriented speech becausethe night was her haven -i was her haven -she screamed and turnedenough to make the earth'srotation seem slowerand hours get longerand the tick dragtockdragtickfucking tock seemed moreand more interminablethan the f
i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost, kissing stylish arsonists + I still love every sky escaping from your lips
.you are dead and buriedsix feet under yourself,still feeling the way you didwhen you were seventeenand when you bathe, you stillkeep your head under thewater, wrists upturned, redeyes open, trying to drown yourselfout
LiliyaBright-eyed,bird-bonedwhisper girl;dark-dressed,moon-backedmistress of light.
something lacking this way comesshe smells of smoke, tastesof cheap dreams and cheaper makeup,sounds like someone who's usedto giving; her eyes are twoglossy sunsets out of a fewtrillion that have set before--when she shuts them, no oneblinks.