or-ange, mango,
banana too,
hell-bent on regretting you.
campfire-chair-sitting on hardwood floors
in a stranger's home, i think.
turn off the lights, it's raining.
i had some to drink (not enough)
but you had to drive
but so did i.
turn off the lights, it's raining
on the bannister,
your piano-key-fingers cascading over my
carpals, metacarpals, phalanges too.
topple me into a room
but today it's not for laundry,
‘cause the only thing that's getting washed away
is my record of not saying
i love you (in my head, because
strangers
don't say that to each other).
you lassoed me in and we fell
into the empty hangers that i pushed away from you;
shadows on a skeleton’s scapula.
tabloids never told me that three months’ salary couldn't
buy the rights to the song
of your heart beating darkly in your chest.
turn off the lights, it's raining
and you can't see the way i
feel you.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 11:00 PM UTC
i dressed up in my midnight-black everything
and showed up at your door with a handful
of wilted daisies.
i tried taking your arm but you chose to just walk by my side,
silent and cold and as frightening as a bolt
of lightning in the summer heat.
and so we walked along the cracked sidewalk,
both silent,
both afraid,
until we chanced upon a narrow creek running
frigid above sheets of blue-grey rock.
you jumped in and i followed suit,
but when i surfaced you were nowhere to be found.
i've been drifting ever since
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
ＯＮＥ:
we were so silent
yet the sound of
our shaking hands
and our eager hearts
filled the air like
the noise of
screaming infants
we were so young,
so innocent and
we just wanted
to break the silence
ＴＷＯ:
a year passed,
and the silence
got more comfortable
it was like
a blanket wrapped
around our
icicle arms
and i loved
this form
of quiet
it was the kind
of silence that
did not make
you crave
for sound
in that moment,
i felt deaf of
earthly noise
and all we
wanted was
to stay wrapped
around each
other's silence
ＴＨＲＥＥ:
and i don't know
when the silence
started to become
painful like a
knife with no handle
that I've been
holding on
too tightly
the feeling
spread from
my fingertips
into the nerves
that scattered
my body and
into my chest
which it deemed
permanent residence
and i can't
blame you
because i know
i hurt you too
we couldn't say
anything because
we gave ourselves
two choices:
speak a war
or let our words
die in our tongues
we chose the latter
we didn't know
what we wanted
i don't know
what i want
and we were
so silent
and silent
we remained
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
I slept 3 feet from the edge of the bed tonight
thinking it would save me from falling off
and waking up to reality.
But I woke up on the floor, delirious,
curled up with a picture of you
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
kiss me with a mouthful of mango sorbet;
you taste like
home and feel like
winter.
my craven desires, and
innocence in the arch of your
neck: caveats concealed in
kisses; you have
misgivings and we have
lain here for years upon years
desiring little more than to be
swallowed up by our
sins and shadows.
I'll be honest, if your moral
halflife is longer than the
school year, then
what's the point?
your beta decay is
pathetic, you're impotent, the
radiation is too weak to be
of any harm;
set my geiger counter
abuzz, like my phone
begging for attention like
you should beg for mine, and I
Love It,
you know I
do, quand tu manges
Le Gateaux, such an
eager little **** seeking
absolution like I have anything other than
Absolut to offer you.
you drink with the
desperation of a desert-dehydrated
man, with the
fervor of a woman throwing herself,
time and again, at the
Glass Ceiling, further success
visible and attainable:
you always spoke to me like
you had a mouthful of
broken Faberge eggs, and to
close your mouth would be to
Invite Pain.
you were always averse to pain, though you
relished in inflicting it, and I
loved little more than to be
bruised and beaten and bloodied by your
ardent affections.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
i. when I was young, I was never complimented. I never felt good enough and it hurt and somewhere along the line I began complimenting everyone because I was never complimented and I never wanted anyone to hate themselves the way I did. just because I call a girl pretty does not mean I want in her pants.
ii. we live in a country where a gay poet spoke at obama's second inauguration, where five openly gay senators serve, where all fifty states have had a gay elected officer in some capacity, so if I were to be gay, what's the problem with a relatively unknown sixteen year old girl from a relatively unknown town in a relatively unknown state being gay?
iii. do you want me to be gay? do you want a better, more socially acceptable reason to make fun of me? is my weight not enough?
iv. I was taught the term fluidity by my best friend Alyssa. she firmly believes that sexuality is a spectrum, like many other things. I have a different view on sexuality because I see it as a spectrum, not something that's set in stone.
v. I like making people happy, I like completing people, I apologize a bit too frequently and I was taught how to accept people.
vi. just because I call a girl pretty does not mean I like her. just because I say a dog is cute does not mean I want with the dog. just because I say a painting is pretty does not mean I am going to **** the painting.
vii. aesthetic is a very important word.
viii. there are three kinds of attraction, aesthetic, romantic, and ****** just because you have one does not mean you have all three. just because I like the way something looks doesn't mean I am going to have *** with it.
ix. sexuality is an Identity. not a YOUdentity.
x. I'm not gay, but if I were, trust me, I wouldn't go for such a whiny little *****
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
My heart melted at the temperature of her words.
But it would not freeze together at the absence of her voice.
The orchestra of her vocals ceased for an instant,
the musicians halted their strings to leave room in the air so that her thoughts could be heard,
mulled over by the world,
and exalted as the word of god, for truly she is a goddess
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
A bite.
A painful, swollen,
itching to be noticed
lump, that,
once I delve beneath the surface of temptation,
I see it for what it is;
a burden.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
The history books say we outgrew a "phase" of nomads.
We don't move,
or do we?
Do we move in our childhood?
Interrupting friendships and education.
Removed from a house built of brick, mortar, and memories.
Thrown into the populace of new locals.
They're kind, welcoming.
But they're not the people I know.
The school is strange and I have no friends to share my time with.
They say you're supposed to fit in after a couple weeks, right?
Or maybe it's a couple months.
Or years.
Or maybe it's until you become anorexic because you realize there must be something wrong with you, never them.
Always you.
That's when you fit in, right?
They say we're not nomads.
We're done with that phase.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
If people were like peaches
the scent of their beauty would slap your face and astound you before you catch sight of them.
The constantly blushing skin breaks when bitten to reveal the sweetness cloaked within.
Some flesh is left around the heart that has been hardened by too many days abandoned in the sun.
The body is consumed ravenously by the eyes and mouth, the most beautiful part of the fruit.
But then the heart appears, the absolute entity of the fruit.
The heart has never been a competitor of beauty for its delicious casing.
And so it is disposed.
Without a backward glance.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC