In the beginning it was shaking,
Butterflies so bad they all came up.
And first kisses.
And naivety.
The shaking never went away,
But soon it was all begging.
Come home.
I need you.
I miss you.
Then it was drunk phone calls while driving at night,
Love confessions.
No responses.
Now its fantasies.
And teasing.
And reminiscing about how the only reason we ever were
Were our self-destructive tendencies.
Bad habits.
But I’m better now,
And you are too, right?
I haven’t been able to write
Since I last drew blood from my body,
I guess that’s a little concerning.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
Articulation;
The act of grasping a fleeting idea
and fitting it to symbols and sounds
Of which can be comprehended
par les autres.
Mais et si je commence parler dans une langue
que vous ne savez pas?
Well, you're out of luck, I suppose.
Then, my ideas, of which are still transformed into the same alphabet,
are no longer of any meaning to you.
Ça c'est le problème avec l'amérique, par exemple--
nous sommes trop occupés avec nous-mêmes.
Il y a trop des idées que nous ne saurons jamais
simplement parce que nous parle seule l'anglais.
But sometimes, a language barrier is a good thing--
I can't understand the crude remarks from the kitchen staff at work.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC
smiling in my pictures
but I'm vomiting glitter
and killing butterflies;
not fatally, just enough to bandage.
self-destruction is not exclusive;
physically, maybe, but skipping meals
and writing on your wrists
will make your mother cry a hundred tears
for every picture of you with bloodshot eyes.
I'm okay, mom, please don't worry,
but knowing how much cheap perfume it takes to cover the smell of cigarettes is not something I wish I knew.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 10:46 PM UTC
I wish I could put my tongue
on exactly what I want
as much as I put it against yours.
I wish I could hold your heart
in my hands
instead of leaving mine in a ****** pile
in yours.
I wish I was addicted to my heartbeat
after three (or four) **** rips
instead of my heartbeat
when I'm dressing to see you.
I wish I knew my mother
as well as I got to know yours
when we sat side by side
waiting for you to wake up
after swallowing a bottle of aspirin.
I wish I cut up your letters
instead of my own arms
but I can't think of any other way
to get you out of my skin.
I wish I loved myself
as much as I love you
but I wasn't lying when I said
you are the better part of me.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
I saw galaxies in your eyes
and you left stardust in your footprints
but I keep it in a jar on the shelf above my bed
you're not here anymore but you are
and the voices in my head won't shut up
shut up
shut up
sometimes they sound like you
and they whisper sweet things like good morning and you're pretty
but sometimes they are your mother screaming
screaming
screaming
I can't erase the scars on my skin
maybe I wouldn't have cut my arms up if I didn't shake all the time
sometimes I am numb and empty but seeing blood run down my wrist reminds me that I'm full of pretty colors
other times I feel like I am housing the universe and I am too small to contain it
there's only one way out and you always said it was bad for me
but it's good for me I swear,
just like the drugs I force down my throat to forget ******
******
******
I can't think or form sentences right now
I am tired and I am sick
in my head
there are monsters in my head and I have not stopped to think
just typing like a machine
I am a robot to my own mind, just repeating
repeating
repeating
sequences like math but it's not numbers
it's swallowing pills or slicing my body into pretty geometric patterns
caffeine is a drug and I am awake even though I feel dead
last night I cried for three hours straight
and I was terrified of not knowing what I was capable of
suicide is not pretty
you can't romanticize it with pictures of ****** wrists and hand guns next to a bouquet of daisies
even though sometimes that's what it looks like in my head.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 9:17 PM UTC
it's funny how easily words flow through the rivers in my brain
when I write about killing myself or missing your teeth on my neck,
but as soon as I have to write an essay on a quote by Ben Franklin about his position on global affairs,
a drought occurs in my mind and I draw a blank.
it's not that I'm not smart enough;
I can't help that I am incapable of forming seamless sentences unless I'm hyped on caffeine at 3 in the morning when the rest of my world is asleep.
but here I am,
writing about a paper I can't write right now because it's only 6 pm and I'm still distracted by the light cast on my bedroom floor.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
what is religion?
it is stories
of one or two or a hundred
"higher powers"
that do nothing other than
give "faith" in the name of "God"
but what good does God do?
if you have *** you are going to hell.
if you drink alcohol, you are going to hell.
basically, if you find pleasure in anything,
you are going to hell.
but you sit in church every Sunday morning
and pray
to who?
I couldn't tell you.
how can you be sure that God is real?
how do you know you're not worshipping the devil?
not that the devil is real, either.
should he be capitalized to?
I suppose calling the devil He could be offensive,
not that He isn't present in everyone.
people tell stories all the time
of seeing God right before they crash their car
or coming back to life after being in a comatose state for five days.
everything is a story,
passed down from your mother's cousin's aunt to your mother to you to your children to their children and their children's friends,
altered, changed, ultimately completely different than what is was at the start.
but your mother said God is real so God is real, right?
maybe God isn't real, maybe people believe in the qualities of Him,
he could be present in all of us, I suppose, but then the devil is real, too.
I've not seen either,
but then again I've not seen electrons but I got an A in chemistry.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
I found myself on my bedroom floor,
dizzy from seven beers I stole from my dad,
thinking I could replace your memory with alcohol.
when I forgot my name before yours,
I tried emptying my veins,
but watching my blood run down the sink brought no closure.
my lips are cracked and my skin is rough;
your hands left burn marks where you touched me
and your kisses took every ounce of moisture from my mouth.
I know you're not the one I'm looking for
but I'm so cold and a fire is a fire;
I might be drunk right now but I'll still wake up
wanting to kiss you.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
you are not the smell before rain, you are a ******* hurricane. you tore through every ******* wall I put up and now I'm left with broken pieces of your old coffee mug and ripped receipts with ****** I love you's written drunkenly on the back. my hands are numb but my mind is as sharp as the razor blade that kisses my wrist and I'm cutting up my arms trying to cover up the slashes you left on the inside of my collapsing rib cage but nothing pierces through me the way your ice blue eyes did when I woke up next to you. my head is spinning from brandy and coke and your voice is ringing in my ears and my eyes are burning but I haven't slept in two weeks. I started binge drinking tea instead of liquor and I guess that's a good thing although I'm just poisoning my heart with caffeine instead of my liver with alcohol. maybe I should start reading again but I'm only attracted to the beautiful things that are constantly destroying me.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 4:47 AM UTC
today I
drank seven cups of tea
slept for five hours in the middle of the day
wasted fifty-two dollars on shoes I (didn't) need
wrote six poems (all about you)
smoked eleven cigarettes
threw back four shots
and made three cuts on my rib cage.
I don't know what happiness is,
but I'm pretty **** sure this isn't anywhere close.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC