I see shapes in your sunken eyes,
pressing like last night's lifeline,
telling you to keep your heart safe,
but I have to look away.
Please don't cry,
I can't possibly turn tears to gold.
I'm not the type to indicate
what should fill these empty spaces
and I don't know what to say
when you don't say it first.
When the shivering starts you'll see,
I can't be your blankets and late-night radio,
or anything you used to believe.
When those eyes mean oceans in mine,
you'll see how nothing I can be.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
Every time the butterflies come,
they crawl up my throat and start to choke me
but it's a good kind of choking,
like scratching an inch even though it makes the rash burn
or liking the pain of dotted blood lines on my skin
after a long day of holding in monsoons and earthquakes
beneath calm serenity.
Or like telling myself I can never get better
even if a part of me knows, knows I can.
It’s like deciding never to speak again,
or stop eating just because you can.
And why is it that pain tastes so much like love
when I willingly dress myself in it,
yet someone lays a finger on me
and I feel the same way
when my friends are mistreated
and animals are abused,
I feel a surge of fierce hatred
throughout my whole body
and *don’t you ******* touch me
ever again.*
I believe the world can be better than this.
And what does that say about me?
Does it make me a hypocrite in a sort of vague way?
Because I keep wondering
if I do things without thinking
that another me would hate me for.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
I want to be their eyes,
to light the match and fall into a trance,
becoming one with destruction by flame;
I want to be the fire,
to eat away the world around me
and rise my wings from the ash;
I want to be the bird,
to fill the hollows of my bones with dirt
and sink into the earth;
I want to be the earth,
to search the surface for your feet
and decompose you into me;
I want to be your eyes,
to see a world of melting flesh
and all things obsolete.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
I didn't hold tendons between my fingers like
street boys on rain city rooftops,
crumpling their futures up to smash into shredded jeans,
shredded hearts,
some wrappers escaping, flying over this city
as our neglectful witnesses.
Their hands were broken bottles. The black top
made my guts look like escaping snakes,
my eyes hoping to be Medusa.
Fictionalizing gets me through most things.
Sometimes pain tastes like metal, sometimes like cherries.
I stare at the sideways sunset, a wrapper spit up
and drying out, a pipe dream promise;
reviewing my time strips as if they'd had a spelling change,
recounting every drop of blood word and smile.
Sometimes I forget that I'm real.
Sometimes I'm not.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
You've taken too long to come haunting,
wading through instances of mud, of regret,
until my wanting has all but dissolved.
You've broken my spine with curious fingertips,
an innocent ghost with fireplace eyes,
where questions went unnoticed, unsolved.
You've come knocking with empty cages,
pulling behind what you'd begged to forget,
you spoke to my spine like needles, absolved;
until my teacups are dust on the shelves
and your flowers don't wilt, but burn,
of stove and house and noose and all.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 10:15 PM UTC
A sea of glass eyes
plagues my waking, breathing, fault
dries my brain with salt
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 3:03 AM UTC
that night, I saw bodies in the motel bathtub
beckoning like a 50's Cadillac
back seat beats and Father's
bottle of snatched brandy up
to bring back our youth
and stay
for one last whisper in a last-innocent ear
the diner lights buzzing like
a lifetime of loss to mistakes
that can be little more or
less than broken glass lies
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
Those nights it would rain
Mud and vines grew through my spine
And earth I became
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
You woke like windows,
shattered in Jewish hellfire,
shade by burning books.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC
I'm with you in the bluegrass, swaying like the ocean's floor
singing like we used to dream of all the things we'd one day see;
I'm with you under florescent bulbs, of late night cubicles
laughing in tune with the hum of his fax machine at our inside jokes;
I'm with you at every gas station, a blanket-full truck bed
crunching every loss under my boot heal, taking us back to perfection;
I'm with you tying shoelaces
and each sigh of the new moon,
of every heart or new blood wound;
You--you're with every piece of me, familiar like childhood scars,
tear salt soaked and burning like ritual fires in each corner of world,
in wanting of my body to be sewn, to rise back and reclaim ours, anew.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC