does she know the astrological significance
of the bruises starring along
your wrists? if I could, I’d
run away somewhere where
the sky is silent and the people
hate honest eyes. here’s my problem,
I’ve wasted all my time daydreaming
in the universe of your scars. I wonder
if substantiality is lethal.
[when will you move on
like you know what
you’re doing with your life,
like this tiny existential
failure is only a hazard sign
on the roadmap of your journey,
like the world weighing down
upon your shoulders is an
exercise in vanity and quietude
instead of someone
lists of necessities: methods of
starvation, hours to fall asleep by, sharp
objects, words that mean nothing.
I’m sorry this isn’t better. I’m sorry
I’m not better and I’m sorry
nothing is bright anymore.
things you remind me of:
the november sky
right before it rains.
existentialism and shoddy metaphorsI was violet-cheeked and
diamond-hearted; a work
of art in reverse,
tearing between my ribs
and calling it beautiful,
and I wonder now why they
never taught me this in school;
the sepia-saturated glow life
gives out some point after
you’ve realized wishes are
for those who’ve not yet
woken more alone than when
they went to sleep,
they never taught me all
the reasons why or that
sin tastes sweet. I met
my maker once in a backalley
bar, stormy eyes and peppermint
breath, charming off a hangover;
he sighed, “I know how many
days it’ll take you to give up
completely. I know how many
dreams you’ve sold away and
how many lies you need to
swallow before you can fall asleep.
I know that you’ve never quite
grown up and I know that
you’re afraid of me” he
smiled silent and downed
another drink, losing himself
in the ramblings of a solipsistic
existence where “I” am finally all
that matters (and sometimes
I believe I was built hollow
Injectedmy midnight thoughts are scratchy like old records
pauses, cracks, holes - rips in sanity
jumping to conclusions that have no reason
how could i blame the needle? how dare i
pin a fault on the syringe that keeps me alive
(although they say it dulls your eyes, kills my spark)
disjointed, unconnected, an unfinished puzzle
emotionally blank and missing seventeen pieces.
and don't lie to me; love can't complete
a broken toy like me. but don't worry, love -
i always carry my own little repair kit
(but sometimes my hands are too shaky to inject)
i've forgotten what it was to fear god and death
or to wish for better things; shooting stars
always seem to ignore me, anyhow.
they leave me wondering what i ever said,
what i did to lead myself down this kind of road.
(mother told me i only have myself to blame)
if it's my fault, then i only have one person
that i can apologize to; myself, and i try -
but i'm sorry, i think you've gone too far
to ask for redemption of any sort now.
how can i ever a
shoot me upshoot me up, take me back down, leave me here a while and i'm sure i will feel loved again; sometime in the next five hours i'll wake up and remember you and everything might be okay.
until then hang out the washing and take care of my daughter, pretend like i'm sleeping because i'm tired and look in on me every five minutes just to make sure, because you can't be anymore. it's deathday my love, and i thought when i'd die it would be on an elegant bed with velvet covers and my family gathered all around me but that's not what it is, it's me lying on the sofa because i can't walk anymore and you can't carry me up two flights of stairs; it's me unconscious because it's too painful for me to be awake; it's me too scared to tell my family and in the end they'll find out after i'm gone already; it's me not ready, oh god i'm not ready to die i'm not.
memories pierce through my dreams but not where i can see them. my eyesight left me a while ago, i can't remember when exactly beca
breaking bonescreak, heave:
my body can do nothing
but prepare for collapse
(youth is often mistaken for health)
my blood is too water,
my flesh too soft
my ribs too cage.
what are strong are my bones—
calcium-grown, all marrow and solid
(though i have known girls
who, wanting to be like the birds,
have scraped theirs out)
there is nothing like being
this upstanding building
there is nothing like being pale blood
and ugly flesh
and solid steel.
(anyway, that was what i thought until i met you.)
i started to feel the cracks on a wednesday
after i’d smiled one too many times,
when one too many drops of acid
made my steel frame gauze.
like a great tall tower in a storm
my structures falter,
and then suddenly i am breaking bones.
now i have nothing:
i am the bone fragments and thin blood
and formless skin
at your feet.