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.
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
Once upon a time our stories were simple.
Once upon a time our mothers turned the pages for us, held our hands, and promised to read out the words we still stumbled over, sometimes, if we were tired or alone.
Once upon a time we were taught to walk only so we could begin that ancient human race: the desperate sprint for success, power and fame. The one where your mother lets go of your hand and tells all her friends that you can do it without falling sometimes, if they pretend they aren't watching or they shake a rattle at you; the one where coach says the people sitting at the side-lines are only kids who can't run fast enough, who didn't try hard enough, who aren't enough; the one where you are named by your number.
Sometimes we are drowning in the texts.
Sometimes definitions escape us, and questions will plague us, and it feels as if our teachers taught us words only so we could understand what we should not say.
Sometimes we are reading so hard that we forget to stop and
Your BonesSaltpan white,
Grained with innocence that runs in years
Like the tree rings we counted as children.
Your bones are beautiful, she murmurs to the pale jigsaw.
They hold no regret.
They hold no memories
Except of falling off roofs
And the places we should not have been.
There is a softness that underlies cold rigidity:
A boy who spoke without smiling,
A God who remained unseen.
Quiet skeletons lie down serenely while the rest of us washes away,
Awaiting some change in the weather.
The clavicle curves aside,
Cresting like an ocean wave,
The sternum shielded your soul.
She used to love pressing her fingertips against your acromion
As it yearned towards the vertebrae of your spine.
Reaching for something.
Your gentle bones with their secret, whispered names
Olecranon, ilium, femur
They hurt her now.
You never let her see your grace.
Shes left with just the framework.
When I die, she traces metacarpi,
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
scraps and sacramentsyou,
beautiful siren girl with melodies
entangled in her hair: you are
shell-shocked and sea-struck
even though you cannot stand
the sensation of sand beneath
you have fingers for prying, picking,
pulling at your skin and nesting
in that hollow space between
your bones. and if anyone asks,
you will swear there are monsters
sleeping in the concaves of your ribs;
there are ghosts beneath your tongue,
embittered, and you are not the words
they say there is an answer, little girl
(sometimes you begin to believe you are
a scarecrow on the border of reality
begging people to turn the other way;
and the mirror will agree)
how far have you gone? a feather in
the breeze who won’t promise to return
again; there is a wandering warmth in
the hesitation of your harbored fear.
where will you be in six months when
the future has become itself and you
are still astray? little one, no one is like you
in the way you sway to the cadence of a
dissonant night. no one knows your