Railroad tracks all down her wrists
Some raised so high she still trips a little
When she sees them.
Ghosts of past bruises haunt her skin
Some so raw she still flinches a little
When she thinks about them.
And the people stare as she shudders
She's faces the coldness of her past
With the brightness of the future.
And the bruises have faded
And the railroad tracks will
And she will smile.
People seem to think
that because i
or dress in only black,
or slit my wrists
or am suicidal
or am anorexic
or clinically depressed
or or or
They seem to forget
is short for
tonight, i think i'll just watch as my world
falls to the ground.
a plastic band. a hope for observation.
they watch, they watch, oh, gods be good.
(just another one with daddy issues and
a slight stab in the dark at her own wrists.)
i was never much one for sanity, especially
when this is just another fever dream.
you play kiss and tell with saint peter and i
watch from mount olympus in shame. a goddess
is hardly the right word, but i am hardly the right girl.
doesn't every father hit his children? and other
cautionary tales from earth's own devil.
(desecrated be thy goddamn name.)
we're only pure in our idiosyncracies, only perfect
when we're told how to exist.
and though this heart is totally broken,
it could be all yours.
(i could be all yours.)
old makeup spilled on my floor
dirty clothes strewn on my floor
You can hardly see the carpet for all the clothes carelessly being trodden on.
Blue holiday lights are strung around the mirror.
I am watching Andy Warhol eating a hamburger
I am watching Andy Warhol eating a hamburger
on a new, thousand dollar laptop, slick-as-a-whistle, paid with a magnetic swipe.
For the past six months,
I have had less than four hundred $
combined in checking and savings,
and that number dwindles by the day.
I have no groceries,
but I've got fistfuls of orange prescription bottles,
and I was handing pills out like treats and candy.
(but they are needed, much and every day)
Where did all these bills come from?
Money is paper, but it means things.
Suddenly, it costs money to breathe.
Eating? Oh pshaw, that costs money, time, and the store's six blocks away.
We can subside on government cheese, beans, and the fiery licks of whiskey.
I pout on my throne of dirty cotton, thinking
"I get what I ask for, when I ask, and it always comes--at a price!" I sigh.
It's always over a hundred dollars more than I could spare
and brings bad luck, moreso than a couple broken mirrors would,
smashed over a the front of your mother's blackest cat.
"Quick! Let's do designer drugs with the paltry change given by our parents, given as allowance!
I wouldn't feel like I wasn't nothing, nothing at all," I say, batting my eyelashes, "Wouldn't they feel proud of our feelings of entitlement to the greater things in life and consciously responsible adult-like decisions?"
I crack open my father's checking account with that swipe of a magnetic strip,
it makes me seem responsible when he sees I just use it for pills and foodstuff.
(I prove I love him, and he loves me in this way)
Now, together, we will buy strawberries with his money, until our lips are pink.
They must be four dollars, at the very least, then we eat like the bourgeoisie (!)
I kiss the cheeks of my reflection in the bathroom
"Como ca va, darling? Comme si comme sa. . ."
I lick my lips, put on red lipstick and then blot,
tousling my hair, tipsy, as I touch up my face by
licking the tips of eyeliner up like a cat's little tail,
the ends of eyes, coated with eyeliner as black as
my tightest velvet pants and dark, dark heart.
We go together. You and me.
Lying on the floor, holding hands, in vinyl bliss
listening to the crooning of sweet Francoise Hardy,
and the addictions of the near-dead soul of Lou Reed
You should move to a big city
and I'll come call, prepaid, with
a voice that is thick and ripped,
from expensive French cigarettes
chattering of sugar-white beaches
as I cross the seas all on a plane,
burning money all along the way
all the while drunk on red wine,
twirling my fingers around, with
bags under eyes, a little anemic
(I think it adds to the glamour)
We will go out to a dimly lit place
We will go out dancing then after
I will put on dab perfume under my ears and on my wrists,
I will wear black tights for pants, but first, do a little cocaine
and you will fasten the clasp on my silver necklace tonight,
while I smoke, before helping me put on my favorite fur
And we will go see Andy, at the factory
I hear he's doing something
with that Basquiat fellow (!)
I will go follow false luxuries, come with me.
I will gamble with you in Monte Carlo or Las Vegas,
just as long as you pay my rent at $695 per month,
until I die, or overdose.
today you hurt me
and yesterday and tomorrow
i hurt you
that you never meant it
though you did
at the time
and the courage
to say such a poisonous
than any kind of love
you had for me
at the time
but i guess
i just have to forget
because my love for you
is too weak
and far too tired
to hold up restraints
and build walls
you’re the clots in my blood
the scars on my wrists
the tumour in my brain
and the salt on my cheeks
this is a shout out to the kids who haven’t cracked a smile since last summer.
To the kids who’s wrists turned to cutting boards
and stomachs intentionally went empty.
This is the anthem for saturday nights spent on the couch just asking yourself “why”
For hours spent thinking that it’s your fault your parents split and theres nothing you can do.
For the kids who drag a blade across their wrist and carve grand canyons into their wrists although its still not the same.
A song for the kids who crack their knuckles as a distraction from the glares they get from across the classroom in fifth period science.
A harmony to the kids who are trying so hard to fit in but cant seem to get the hold of the right words to stick on their tongue so instead the wrong words slip out of their mouthes and roll into a ball of embarrassment.
A five star dinner served to his four friends which left him three years later and two years later he was just one kid by himself fending off the monsters we call classmates all alone.
Another sleeping pill for the boy who prays with his eyes shut but cant sleep because his eyes have already been closed for hours.
A brace for the broken and the weak as the week drags on to the point where every word that ends in the letter y makes you want to pull your hair out.
A poem dedicated to the kids who cant fend for themselves in the jungle.
Its a hard existence.
But we can make it through.
my name is
and i got
a C in psychology
and i am here
to try and
get over it.
i feel like
i have a big red
a big red C
on my forehead
and that my dad
i had a nightmare
that i couldn't get it off
no matter how hard i scrubbed
i am expecting
four more C's
to join it
on my cheeks
it's not that i'm not smart
i just didn't go to class
because i wanted to slice my wrists
not get out of
i wish you
As a small girl your words used to lighten up my day.
As a small girl and boy we followed our parents and did as they say
As a small girl we jokes and played around.
As a small girl and boy we were innocent to the harshness of the sounds.
As an elementary girl I opened my eyes.
As an elementary boy you grew tall and spoke lies.
As an elementary girl I dealt with the words.
As an elementary boy, you were busy shooting rocks at birds.
As a middle school girl I was shy and closed.
As a middle school boy you followed the boy code.
As a middle school girl I was beaten and belittled.
As a middle school boy, you were oblivious I even crippled.
As a freshman girl I bleed and cried
As a freshman boy you were busy and never even sighed.
As a freshman girl I hid my scars at gym
As a freshman girl all the girls never even thought to help. or had even a whim
As a Junior boy you were popular and handsome.
As a Junior girl, girls knew we were old friends and for you, threw tantrums.
As a Junior girl I was taunted, and forced to tell you what they wanted.
As a junior boy Talking to me as to be beaten and to have friend that only taunted..
As a Senior girl I had long since stopped talking
As a senior girl I had long since dealt with the mocking.
As a senior girl I gave up and left tattoos on my skin for you to see.
As a senior girl It was all too much and I could no longer plea
As a Lonely broken girl I slit my wrists and soon died.
As a Oblivious boy you without a thought cried
As a girl strangely obsessed with macabre tales.
As a Saddened boy you were given my journal hued in grey.
As a Heart-Hardened Girl it became a weakness. The tears stains on those dog-eared pages.
As a Shocked boy once in love with me in middle school. You never though in all the ages.
That the Gorgeous, womanly, Middle school girl was beaten.
That the Picture perfect, Middle school girl All her anger had deepened.
That you the once self-conscience middle school boy had not seen her cry.
That If only---
The Elementary boy
The Middle school boy
The Freshman Boy
The Junior Boy
The Senior Boy
The Oblivious boy Had seen any of her scaring.
Then the Oblivious, boy senior year would have had a diamond ring
But he never saw her cry .
And now her will never see her happily in his arms with solely a sigh.
In second grade,
My mom made me wear dresses everyday.
My mom would part my hair down the middle and make two long braids with colorful hair ties.
I would go to school and the boys would make fun of my dresses.
The boy that sat behind me would pull my braids anytime I said something smart.
In fourth grade,
I told my mom I could dress myself, but she still had to approve of every outfit.
I told my mom I was old enough to style my own hair.
I would go to school and the boys would make fun of my weight instead of my clothes.
The boy that sat behind me would sit next to me and call me names for being the stupid one in smart classes.
In seventh grade,
I told my mom that I didn't care what she thought.
I cut my long hair shoulder length.
I started wearing dark makeup.
The boys didn't make fun of my weight but they would ask me out as a joke.
The boy that sat behind me and then next to me, liked me and texted me every night saying how pretty I was.
In the ninth grade,
My mom wasn't awake to see what I wore to school.
I regretted the very day I decided to cut my hair.
The boys that called me fat; left me alone because they found someone bigger to pick on.
The boy that sat behind me asked me for a naked picture and I said no.
He called me a fat, ugly, prude and never talked to me again.
In the tenth grade,
My mom borrowed my clothes and I borrowed hers.
My hair fell out but I wanted it to grow.
Boys no longer call me fat because they never saw me eat.
And the boy that sat behind me wanted me back.
I cried myself to sleep and hid my wrists in my sleeve.
It's funny how many things changed since the second grade.