haley-romeWhisper

American

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Tips for self love1. Sit down and cry. Cry until you have no more tears and don’t even remember the reason for your sadness. Realize that nothing, not even misery, is permanent. / 2. Close your eyes and imagine your dream home. Don’t skimp on anything, not even the tiniest details like the doorknob or the lampshade pattern. Keep it always so that whenever you are somewhere heartless and cruel, you have a retreat. / 3. Discover a song you love. Listen to it as loud as possible, listen to it as softly as possible. Listen to it backwards, forewords, sideways, and upside down. Extract from it all the truth and magic you can until you’re sick of it. Repeat.

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Voicemail #4“Hey Mark. It’s Hope. Um, hey. So I know that I’ve left you quite a lot of voicemails in the past few days. I just couldn’t stop worrying about where you were and…and you know how I get. So, finally, I called Rita. And she told me where you were. And now I get it! I understand why you aren’t calling me back. It’s not because you don’t like me anymore or that you’ve grown bored of me, no! It’s not that at all. It’s because…well, it’s because you’re dead. And I know that you’ll never get this and I’m talking into an empty void right now. I can almost hear you laughing at me, saying that I’m just a tree falling in a forest with no one around to hear. But that’s comforting, in a weird way. Especially because of the previous voicemails I left, before I knew where you were. I mean, Jesus, those were so embarrassing just thinking about them makes me want to die! But I’m not dead. You are. Um. Well, I just called because I wanted you to know that you…you were different. You are different. Just because you’ve died doesn’t mean you’re suddenly not sweet or intelligent or courageous or loving. Now that you’re gone my world is a blur full of colors and light but lacking all definition. I went to your work yesterday. All of your coworkers were swarming around me and I just stared and couldn’t recognize anyone. Not even Rita. I had to ask her name, I was so humiliated. And she…she did something that you used to do to comfort me. I doubt she even knew she was doing it. She must’ve picked it up from you or something. Um. She started to massage my hands, you know, like you would do when I would get too scared to breathe. And I closed my eyes. I swear, I swear that in that moment it was you. I know it was you. You were there calming me down, helping me breathe. And I finally could. For the first time in years, I could. But then she asked how I was feeling and I had to open my eyes. I said I didn’t know. I don’t know. I do know that I miss you. I think it’s funny that when I talk about you to others, and I talk about missing you, I can say it in the present tense but when I say that I love you, it sounds wrong. Like they expect me to say that I loved you, as if my devotion stopped the second your heart did. I still love you. I did and I do and I will. I just don’t know if I can ever-" *Message deleted. Press 1 to record again.*

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Feed the FlameAffectionate flames. / Licking up at your ankles, / Flowing through your veins.

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In A HolocaustI can feel my body / Pulsing / Through the aisles of your mind.

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Cut Throat ParanoiaSave me from this. / This paranoia cut throat demonhead. / Save me from this.

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Arcade, JukeboxMediocrity, / Life unmoved. / Is it really all so true?

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Colin I.you left me on a warm day in November, when the sun was icy and the clouds resembled falling / snowflakes, suspended in the same disbelief that I was. I had a sudden rush of recognition that the / long red thread that anchored our bed had broken and there was nothing more keeping you here than

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For JackI want to be loved. / But who would love me? / I'm not a rock

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She IsShe flows in strange vessels, dripping out of her pores like music notes drunk on the moonlight debris. She heaves like a thousand seas and rips apart the patriarch with purple fingernails and cadaver bones. Her breathes are colored with the taint of regret, as if every inhale is a worry and every exhale is a doubt. Yet she speaks in soft shelled stutters with a trip of the tongue here and a pitch of the poem there. Her hair encircles galaxies with its twist and in each braid has surfaced such ships as Titanic could’ve dreamed of. Her hips sway in time to each blink that surveys her, staring at the endless wasteful energy she pours forth from her ****** innuendo wink and her children’s storytime simper.

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Poem For ReanneI wish you were a flower. / So I could keep you in my pocket / and read to you

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