I don't love my body.
But I love my body with yours.
I don't love the rain.
But I love the rain as it drips from your bottom lip.
I have memorized you,
And I know you.
And like this you know me.
I know every inch of your skin.
Every scrape and scar.
I know what hurts you,
For what hurts you, hurts me.
I want to hurt when you hurt,
I want to cry when you cry.
And laugh when you laugh.
Then hold our breath together.
I want to inhale your exhale.
And give everything to you.
I want to look at you forever,
The way you look at me.
I want to hold your face in my hands,
The way you hold me together everyday.
You are my keeper.
Keep me well.
And everyday ill keep your heart,
Inside my heart.
I love you from its deepest depths,
And from its highest heights.
When you walk, I walk.
My footprint fits in yours.
What fills me is you.
What kills me is you.
My heart, My keeper, My love.
Empathy is a disease.
It's a mirror that you always look into.
It is the situation that you are inherently bound to.
Empathy is asking for spare change on the corner of a street.
Empathy keeps you dedicated
Like a nun in it for the pearly gates.
It stamps a scar on your heart that can turn to hate.
Empathy is the cheapest coffin in the whole place.
Empathy encourages that charitable sorrow
That plagues the psyche with a bittersweet notion
Of unbearable understanding and sympathy.
Empathy is all alone, drinking wine and watching WWIII on the t. v.
another tear cried,
another empty lie
another broken heart
another painful start
another wish-less star
another ageless scar
I wish I was nine again.
Tiny and happy.
I wish it was still me and Erin playing in mud, and picking up bugs.
Fretting when we'll have to shower, or go to bed.
"I miss that."
As the ages went up, my happiness went down.
Like I was slowly being submerged under the deep cold water.
"I miss that."
The way we'd meet up on neopets instead of Facebook.
"I miss that."
I didn't have to worry about my size, or hair. I don't like to worry. Care free and friendly.
"I miss that."
Sometimes I think I should end it all, and come back as a beautiful, size zero, daffodil.
Ha, I wish.
"I miss that."
I try and try again, but the scars on my wrist show what a failure I've become.
Seeing scar free wrist's.
"I miss that."
Me, a size twelve, depressed bitch, who is doomed to a life alone.
I'm not the prettiest flower in my garden bed, in fact I'm poison ivy plant
that threads your precious "daffodils." I once was a daffodil, not a care in the world.
"I miss that."
I'm now the sun that wilts your leaves and drains your life.
Except now the hot rays are hitting me, and my blood is boiling and my roots are drying up.
Anxiety haunts me, as razors taunt me.
Oh how I want to be young again,
"I miss that."
my father always tells me
"Red, if you weren't so gosh darned picky,
you'd be having babies by now."
my father always tells me
"Red, why not just try
this one? why not just
say ok? just this
one time
go for
ice cream
with him
he likes you...
just
try
this one
time."
my father always says
"Red, honey,
you don't have to be so skittish.
not everyone leaves
some people
stay
don't let your mother
take away
everything
from you."
my father always says
"just try
just try
just try
maybe it'll be fine
you'll be alright
you can't live your life
in fear."
i always say...
"Daddy,
it is the people you love
that hurt you
and one more scar
might do
me in
daddy,
i love you
but i won't
love
mommy taught me
not to."
Look at me, what a waste.
Torn apart and made a mess.
Look back, who is that?
Not me that's the past.
Watch me now, who am I?
Dangling of the cliff, ready to fall and sink.
Extend your hand, I'm in pain.
Tried so hard just in vain.
Made your prey, carve your name.
Let it scar and throb in pain.
Seal the pact in the night, let the shadow override.
Turn the filth into pure,
Let the day sink to night,
Covert pure white, to crimson red,
Let the pleasure be my pain.
You, tempter, become my knight,
Never lose and always fight.
Exchange my wings for your vow,
Brand your name unto my skin,
Watch it burn and fade to pink.
Personal martyr grant my wish,
Let me float before I sink.
When, if, you love me,
Don't tell me it is with your "whole" heart,
For your heart is but a mere organ that will someday rot and decay.
Words will not be understood if all you do is talk.
Caress me, cherish me;
For a day, which will come unnoticed,
I will no longer be standing at your side.
So, how do we love if our hearts are flesh?
Where does it hurt when words are sharp and the distance long?
Not the heart but somewhere in our "heart".
When, if, you leave me, be sure to make a scar;
So we won't forget the passion and horror of this, our, love.
To another day
passing like the parched foliage
dangling from the roofs in
the dirty Bronx
left of the ferry,
right is the skyline
doubled three times,
cloaked in solar panel
glass and shimmering
against the smoggy array of light
that
will
quit—
in due time.
Daddy, sweet
East River father,
where is the little
meatball you had grounded
up for eyes.
For a Roman nose
and Mafian stubble
when your Sicilian tongue
was clipped at age five.
For English-Only stamped on the roof
of your waste factory
of a mouth.
For the neo-tongue that
was bred liked
strong As
and
young cunt;
And copious liquor upon
the grounds of your hiking
trips.
Mutation
of
vile majesty.
Cannibalism of the XX—
Buttons budding
for breasts.
I saw your phantasm
figure, soiled in
dark tan, curve in
my lens.
Swallow the hazel
like a viscous sauce,
sweet, fresh.
A fuckable baby—
of five. You clipped
my tongue with now
cloying giggles and in the bunk bed,
red and cum,
like a locket, limbs
dangling out the sides, fleeing in
a fountainhead of
DO NOT.
Effaced by an amnesia.
The old man in my skull speaks,
— I was thirty two days ago.
Now the IVs DRIPDRIP,
Chorus with the TICKTICKTICK.
You are the hour,
I am the minute
Hand.
You are slow, I must
go-go-go in compulsive haste.
Run for sixty,
start anew,
encore, solo, imbrued
with the days that twine the middle, framed in
white.
Forget.
The doctor parses the old man like an
obsolete phrase with theatric hands,
-touch-touch-
push, press.
Then comes the Shakespearean
soliloquy:
—He hasn’t the coverage.
The trigger as a glove of flesh
hits its target, quiets the machine,
puts me to sleep.
What is it that
I must do?
-become the platoon,
an infantry of sun-empired men.
Fight the shrapnel,
the blitzing of
scar tissue.
Become the fireman
with an axe wielded—
Scale the towers like cracks in a mountain.
Die from the smoke or
the spherical flames of the
planes that rode like the hooves
of a horse with bubonic pallor.
Fall like a worker
for stories down until
God, or some sadistic keeper
of this earth, slacks a noose
and reels me in like
a bluefin tuna, prized,
as you
salute. You ‘Nam
prevailer heralding
the lacy harlequins of corporeal
God’s pardon
on
you.
I am in
eternity from
the waist down,
object of the tight, frictiony
satisfaction you
almost indulged in.
To be a daughter, so sonly,
revoked of all features.
Stripped of the places
you liked to touch.
Tell me, where does your smile go when you exchange it for a frown?
Does it really just get turned upside down?
Or does it go into the blushing bride’s wedding gown?
Tell me, where do your tears go when they dry?
Do they impatiently wait for another blossoming love to die?
Or do they happily absorb into the ground with a simple, heartfelt sigh?
Tell me, what happens to every child’s innocent wish upon a shooting star?
Do they fly towards the sky, only to get struck by reality’s speeding car?
Or do they follow you around, waiting to heal heartbreak’s cold scar?
Tell me, why does a hug seem to make all your worries and woes disappear?
Do they only temporarily take them away, quietly waiting to make them reappear?
Or do they really and truly take away all your uncertainty and fear?
Tell me, will the touching moments you have with a friend ever cease to exist?
Do the icy lips of reality make them disappear with her deadly kiss?
Or does the caring hand of dreams and make-believe write them on its forget-me-not list?
Tell me, was the beautiful friendship we had never meant to be?
All the words that slip past my lips don’t agree with yours,
Every second of my time with you is starting to feel like a long list of chores.
Tell me, what will happen next in this tragic story of you and me?
Copyright 2013
Words can be so beautiful,
And so harsh
Just a few simple phrases
Uttered from quiet, pursed lips
Can change a mood, a day
A person.
There is no protection
From words.
They're irreversible.
They scar the soul,
Leaving fadeless bruises.
