I am too full.
At capacity.
Feeling
seeps from my seams like
radiation from a faulty nuclear reactor.
Meltdown.
A slow motion disaster.
You have a death wish
I'll do the trick, but something
else might **** you faster.
You are so empty.
So impotent.
Like trying to start a fire when
the wood is wet.
Like soil devoid of nutrients.
Like a house no one has lived in.
Curtains drawn across your eyes like something is hiding, but
open those shades and there's nothing inside you.
Just uncomfortable silence
Unending.
Honestly,
you meant nothing to me.
You were just a lie I told myself so that I could sleep.
In complete truth,
I meant nothing to you.
There is no meaning in anything that you do.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 3:53 AM UTC
We wandered the night aimlessly.
The children of street-urchin-anarchy
sacrificed to the detrivores
of the sky-high metal labyrinths.
(For fear they’ll devour the living)
I remember it vividly.
The iron foundry air
cut like a razor through my sweater skin.
The concrete beneath my feet
swallowing the warmth like a vacuum.
Then you wrapped yourself around me like
a Mylar blanket.
And seeped into my skin
in a cosmic osmosis of lost souls.
For a moment we were home.
Only a moment.
We were thin white plastic blowing in the wind.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 7:50 AM UTC
Restlessness,
My oldest friend
Pulls me from my bed.
3am.
A lonely pilgrim searching
For a holy land.
Finding nothing but
The light of dying stars.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 7:49 AM UTC
I left at first light.
Packed my bags for the 23rd time.
(Or was it the 24th?
I've lost count.)
I went south,
To a sad little factory town
Where I spent part of my adolescence.
I thought it would be interesting to see if
The townies still remembered me.
If their booze-soaked brains had
Retained the memory of the strange
Little homeless girl with crooked hips.
I have changed quite a bit.
And I've just seen the medicine man,
He knows who I am.
I saw the fear in his eyes when he came in.
To him I am
A ghostly amalgam
Of memory and imagination.
A dream.
A nightmare.
Something he never thought he'd see again.
He walks right by me without a second glance.
I let him pass.
I only exist in the rear view.
Just a minor case of déjà vu.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
My twenties came
And buried my mind in a shallow grave.
But it's okay.
It's okay.
They say damaged goods wont keep
Without a refrigerator
anyways.
Let it spoil.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 3:01 AM UTC
Complex PTSD made even more complex by frequent bouts of mild psychosis.
Neurosis.
Impulsivity.
Mood swings.
Suicidal tendencies.
Inconsistent personality.
Writing uncontrollably.
Questionable hygiene.
Obsessive pineapple eating.
Veganism.
Atheism.
Humanism.
And I have a horrible sense of direction.
Wait,
What was the question?
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC
The lonely little girl in me
Wants to hug the scared little boy in you
Until you stop being scared and I stop being lonely.
But this is a grocery store.
And you are a stranger buying cauliflower.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 6:06 AM UTC
My sister loved sunflowers.
Anything worth loving in me died in a ditch behind a trailer park in northern Wisconsin. I’ve never been one much for talking. But I think I’d like to say something. I am all nerve endings. Don’t touch me. Don’t look at me. How dare you look at me? Keep your money, I come here to be lonely and broke. That is the whole point of me, you know. I’m like some sort of plot device the author chose to show how lost the human soul can be. I’m supposed to die horribly to teach you that life is short and beautiful or some ******** like that.
My niece liked pie. Not just any pie.
Pumpkin pie.
I could go on this whole speech about how you don’t know me. But I’m probably just as ridiculous as I seem. A stereotype confirmed. Go tell your friends you’ve found Waldo in the wild. It probably won’t happen again.
My mother collected angel statues.
No, I wouldn’t change anything. I’ve tried so hard to fix the people in my life. To fix myself. But my hell has made me complacent and I just don’t give a **** anymore. Spite is the only thing keeping me alive. Spite and Jack Daniels.
You know, I used to like to sing. Isn’t that interesting?
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 4:49 AM UTC
Don't tell me to shut up and be grateful,
For the rights "given" to me.
Nobody "gave" me my sovereignty.
It is mine, inherently.
To say that I should be grateful to possess more rights
Than the women before me,
Is like to say I should be grateful to the theif
Who only steals twenty dollars, when he used to steal fifty.
As long as I live in a society that blames a **** victim
For being too ****
As long as I live in a society that creates an institutional
Gendered Heirarchy,
And as long as I live in a society where people feel trapped
By their ****** identity
I will not shut up and be grateful.
I will be loud and angry.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 4:55 AM UTC
We work our fingers to the bone
For a pitiful paycheck.
Our clothes smell of chlorine and bleach.
We stay up all hours to study.
Our futures are bought with our sweat.
Women like us don't wait around.
No time to be idealistic.
Sure, we dream of a better life.
But we're not afraid of the means
To our ends.
Women like us have ***** hands.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC