http://vocaroo.com/i/s0WQ9j4rDjc8
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There’s something about the word flesh,
your circuit board is copper,
there’s no way to tell who is made of metal,
I am made of metal and blood and your voice is sort of like ice which is to say that it’s too hot for me,
that your saliva is acid
which is to say that your breath is possibly an antidote.
How many times have you been opened up like a white man’s mouth, and do you think you could swallow me or should I skip dinner again? Should I skip family again?
Should I break myself into bite size pieces to be more palatable, should I be another long sleeved t-shirt so you do not need to ask me why I am cracked-
We are a doll’s tea set. Sometimes you try to hold a tea party and even the dolls stand you up, sometimes you hold a teacup at just the wrong moment and it shatters.
Sometimes you never manage to pick up all of the pieces.
I’m fine, which is to say that part of my head is on fire and the right side of my body is made of wax.
You are beautiful, which is to say you are constructed out of pain.
you are not broken which is to say you are destroyed, we are fighting which is to say that we are blasphemy and gospel at the same time.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC
when i say i want to take kickboxing,
join the gym
it's for the meatheads
it's for the men who think their cars are armor
who think their voices are god
it's a properly thrown punch for the girls
who do nothing but exist in the world
in their own bodies
in their clothes
this is the one time my mother excused me
for screaming **** you
to the man who said
a girl walking on the other side of the street
was
a **** **** ***** and
honking his horn
i want to learn how to down someone three times my size with a single strike,
to be the silent
protector
of the world
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 2:55 PM UTC
I did not want to write a poem titled obituary because I was worried that it would become about you. I did not want to read a poem about you out loud because I did not want anything that I wrote for you to fly away from me like you could have flown away from me, but this poem isn’t about you anymore, it’s about me. This poem is about everything I could have written my own obituary about. I was made out of the kind of smiles that show your teeth and I was always made out of the kind of skin that nobody thought they were going to need to turn into metaphors. and my scars are as pink and white as anyone else’s scars, my bruises don’t look like flowers, they look like tiny blood vessels under my skin have burst. I do not want my obituary to say that I was a valued member of a community I did not feel safe in, I wrote this poem as I dissolved in a hotel room in yokohama, I wrote my obituary once on a bus ride home from school, I wrote a suicide note on the back of a US history assignment that I never turned in, I write my own obituary once a month, sometimes once a week. I am not broken. I am not sad, not shattered. I am building an altar inside of bones that don’t usually have poems written about them. I wrote down all the words I couldn’t pronounce without breathing, and I wrote it in ink but it may as well have been blood.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
the less you eat,
the less you weigh
it'll show more every day
the more you eat,
the more you grow
and getting fat is a big no
so stop eating
it'll all be fine
just stop eating,
but dont you whine
if you stop eating,
you'll look like me
and dont you see
how happy you'll be?
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 11:02 PM UTC
it was the kind of year that lasted longer than the ones around it, at least for some people and i guess that i cant really say what kind of year it was because how am i supposed to remember that far into my childhood? i was little. littler than i can remember being and it's been sixteen years since then and i keep trying to calculate the weight i have gained since 1999. and what i've lost, who i've found, since 1999 we were a tangle of potential. since 1999 i lost weight, i gained weight, i gained heavy strain on my shoulders and i didnt carry water buckets at camp because i thought i'd thrown out my shoulder, since 1999 i have been existing but i dont think that all of the time i've been exposed to the elements counts as being as alive as i am when i'm the only sober one at the park, when the boy next to me is whacked out on codeine cough syrup and asks me to punch him as hard as i can i will try to remember 1999, when i couldnt remember existing.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 2:27 AM UTC
i've always been good
i thought
about cleaning out my wounds
and bandaging them
if not with proper bandages,
with clean salvaged items.
but i thought i was done, thought i wasnt going to pull so hard anymore and that i would be satisfied with thin red bubbles of blood that scabbed over in an hour,
i wasnt
so when the skin on my thigh split like an ocean, like a mouth,
i wasnt ready to disinfect properly.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
i just got back from a trip to japan and i know i should be grateful to my parents for taking me but i'm getting dizzy from blood loss, i never really had enough self control.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC
the body of this poem is about two bodies, sometimes poetic things are ***** and sometimes ***** things are poetic things under the dirt of what i'd been taught my whole life about my virginity. i was told that if i lost it i wouldnt be able to find it again. i was not told about a boy, tall and skinny and blonde, blue-gray eyes, i was not told that i would kiss him, i was not told that my kiss would be his first. i didnt know at the time that summer would collapse into one moment, i could never have guessed that two crazy transgender boys could coincide with virginity as strongly as we pressed our bodies together. i was fourteen years old and my body was a choppy pencil sketch of anorexia and rib damage, of breast tissue and scar tissue, of anxiety and hipbones. he was fifteen years old and to me he was beautiful, everything strange and weird in our brains was erased and forgotten, fogged up with our heavy breathing. i am wrapped up in firsts and lasts and the first time was not entirely the world-shattering that it was built up to be, we were built up, and then i forget why we stopped. but we stopped. but we stopped being far apart and afraid to tell each other how close we wished we were. we learned how to commit heavy sins, the kind that make you feel good. we learned that our relationship is textbook unhealthy, but unhealthy people means unhealthy partners means unhealthy- means **** off, we are trying our best and **** you, this is what love means. this tangle of fingers. we learned that we have to not only have secrets but become them. we didnt have to be taught what it feels like to need someone. we didnt need to learn how it tastes to be absolutely sure of something.
my entire life i was taught that i should save myself for a man, but instead i let go of myself and loved a boy.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
Is this more than you bargained for?
you dont have enough tissues to soak up the blood and you wanted this didnt you?
I wrote the gospel on giving up
you read my text and took every letter to heart imagining the power behind my apathy
Dance, dance, we're falling apart to halftime
just keep jumping and moving and keep yourself sunk in the crowd of poisoned children
*And you can **** me, **** me*
It doesnt matter how many times I say it, just shoot me, oh ******* hell **** me now, you think it's just words out of mouths but ***** lips are not making a joke.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
His eyes are grey-blue like the frozen sheet over a lake of
Infathomable
Fear.
His eyes are soft and sharp at the same time like the sweet kiss of metal and they’re dark like holes in my heart
His eyes are open wide and his pupils dilate when he looks at me and I don’t need to ask when he’s that close because I can tell from the softness of his breath and his fingertips
That
He loves me
Like falling rain that runs down my glasses or plaid flannel shirts that we cannot abandon,
His eyes are light when he looks at me and they gloss over like clear nail polish when he walks into a crowded room, animal instincts wide open with fingernails he doesn’t know he is hurting me but I let him hold my hand as tightly as he needs to.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 1:40 AM UTC