my mother has taught me ten things;
1. *** is a sin. pleasure is a sin. cursing is a sin.
2. happiness and selfishness are equals
3. drugs are only bad when you are a teenager, but it is okay to sulk about them if they are a part of your damaged past.
4. the mirror you stare into each day should be looked at with disgust and agony.
5. when looking into another human's eyes be wary of swimming in the colorful veins and muscles of each iris. you will get too attached and become broken.
6. love is to be given, not taken, nor accepted. every compliment is undeserved and every wound is earned.
7. let a man take your life and crush it into powder the jet-rockets up to your brain. let him dissolve into your bloodstream and control every muscle movement.
8. a mother has the right to every possession that you call your own. she brought you into this world through unholy actions, and she may take you out the same way.
9. the world breaks you body down into soil that will be dug up and replaced with busy sidewalks. you are impermanent.
10. you will never be complete on your own; you must always lay your heavy head on someone else's shoulder instead of learning to balance it between your own.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
my father is a blind man.
heavy drooping lids with even heavier dripping blood.
i am his failure that was only good at one thing.
swimming past the others.
and maybe i'm not the perfect daughter;
maybe you weren't expecting the *** or drugs or parties or ****** language,
but **** you for acting like it meant i was dead.
you do not own me.
you will not write my eulogy when i finally succeed after failed attempts.
you will not say how i had a beautiful heart and YOUR sense of humor.
i will write my own goodbye letter.
and yes, maybe every i love you feels like a swallowed, searing coal.
and yes, maybe my signature at the bottom of the loos-leaf sheet of blood-stained paper will remind you to acknowledge your two other children, and stop saying that i am your favorite.
i am not your favorite.
you should be willing to stay for a favorite.
so leave me the **** alone
to bleed in peace.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
1. You’re my entire universe. I see you in every single star. Every single planet.
2. I don’t need you but I want you so much that I can barely breathe.
3. Please stop smoking cigarettes.
4. Come to bed.
5. I wasn’t afraid of dying until I met you.
6. You’re mine. If I could tattoo tastes, I’d get your coffee soaked lips stained onto my tongue. I don’t care how much it would hurt. I want to swallow you down with everything I touch.
7. You’re a wildfire.
8. I feel you in my fingertips.
9. I can’t get enough of you. Even when you’re here, pressed up against me, intertwined with me, so close that I feel the blood flowing through your veins, I’m still finding ways to get you closer.
10. I’d sit through some horrible french film without subtitles for a few hours if it meant getting to accidentally brush my knee against yours.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
It’s Whatever
Multitasking is impossible, did you know that?
Especially when you’re focused on one thing,
And not really worrying about the other.
When you love someone you give them your heart, did you know that?
Then they carry it around with them,
And if they love you in kind, they’ll hold it close and keep it warm.
I gave you my heart, did you know that?
I gave before you were focused on another,
And you shifted your focus a dozen times since then, yet never once onto mine.
It sits in the crook of your arm, did you know that?
Like an afterthought in what little space is left, while you press another into your breast,
And mine bounces around as you step.
It gets cold here, did you know that?
Sometimes the wind is chilling,
Yet that little warmth you spare is enough to live on.
Sometimes my heart falls off, did you know that?
It tumbles off your arm, into the dust and the rocks you might even step on it,
Yet before long you pick it up, brush off the shards
Dragging each bit
Rending its flesh,
Leaving tiny, almost invisible bleeding slashes,
Not because you don’t care,
You just don’t take the time to notice.
Then you set it back in the crook of your arm.
…
Tiny cuts add up to a grievous wound, but you already know that.
And it’s too cold out here to heal.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
you take a girl.
average weight, average height, average smile, average tone of voice.
you give her a pen.
you give her a pen and tell her she is golden.
that she can do anything she puts her mind to and that she is a shooting star and you tell her to collect all of those scratch-and-sniff stickers that her teachers put on her tests.
you give her hope and love and anything else good that you can think of.
you tell her she can fly.
you buy her a cape, and when she climbs to the roof and jumps off, only to sprain her ankle, you kiss her.
but she will still have bad days.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
this tornado was made of light..
it was breaking apart all the darkness.. in this shaded world
with orange skies, tornadoes of light color the black and orange
and bring forth shine..
but light is not always a sign of goodness and hope..
this dark world would seeing the end of itself..
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
my mind is filled with shadows and weakness and
he is sleeping in his bed 6 miles away.
walking distance; running distance.
every pore of my scarred skin is filled with missing him and alcohol.
every dent in my flesh was raised by werewolves;
they only turned red at night.
my eyes only flow oceans at the hours I feel emotionless.
my mother puts crayons and coloring books in the backpacks of her children.
says that when they are angry, they should write down what they feel in the color that fits best.
now when I go to school it is all Ticonderoga #2
happy gray
sad gray
angry gray
scared gray
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
The pavement glistens with it’s new top coat of shiny rain and she is driving back to school; back to too much noise and too many faces. I don’t want to go. I would give anything not to go. It happens then. I hear the impact first: metal pushing and crunching upon and into itself. The windshield gets closer and closer and in this moment it reminds me of a first kiss, but glass is inexperienced and uses too much tongue. I think I hear her say something. I am praying that she says something. She asks me if I’m okay. I feel dead and cold, and underaged corpse in the passengers’ seat. I say nothing. I hear her get out of the car to check on the woman who is screaming in the driver’s seat of her smashed vehicle. I feel warmth down my face that I assume are unwelcome tears, and open my frightened eyes to red. Red. And all I can think is ‘why have I not cried blood before?’ I open my mouth to say something, but end up tasting death. I blink my eyes more times than I need to. The windshield is cracked. She comes back to the car and keeps saying my name; a question. “Miranda? Miranda? Miranda?” the words I’m sorry cannot escape my mouth fast enough. The panic in her voice is undeniable. “Miranda? I’m calling the police sweetie, okay?” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be sorry, it’s going to be okay.” “I’m so sorry Allison.” I can hear blood rushing from my head like Niagra Falls and I cup my hands to catch it. There is so much of it and it is burning my fingertips and all I can say is “I’m sorry.” I’m trying not to think of god right now, but I can’t help it. I will never capitalize that word again. I can hear her ask me questions that I forget as soon as they reach the beating drums of my ears, but I am guessing I answer them. She talked to 9-1-1 for days, months. I kept crying. I kept saying “I’m sorry.” When I closed my eyes everything happened backwards. Eve put the apple back on the branch. The tree shrank back into the ground. god said let there be light… and there was darkness. The pool of blood in my teacup hands grew more and more full when my door opened. I remember trying to get out on my own; I remember trying to run away. The officer told me to settle down and to not move and that everything would be just fine and that they were going to put me on a gurney and asked if my neck or back hurt or if I was seeing spots and what my address was and when my birthday was and other things and other things and other things. I dropped the blood and it flowed over my pants and my insides were on the outside and I couldn’t breathe. They placed my shaking skeleton into their ambulance. I had never felt so dead in my life. I went into shock. I only breathed when they reminded me to. I felt sick to my stomach; I felt drunk. The old man sitting in the back of the ambulance kept telling me to breathe. Kept telling me that everything would be fine. “I’m sorry.” “Sweetheart just try to steady your breathing. We’ll be at the hospital soon.” “I’m sorry.” “What’s your name sweetie?” “I’m sorry.” My head is feeling lighter and lighter and I can hear my heart slow in my ears. I see him writing on a clipboard and I hope he is writing Sorry, I’m. I want to be defined by my mistakes. Every speed bump we hit feels like Hurricane Katrina. He tells me to let him know if anything hurts. I want to tell him my heart hurts; that when we arrive at the hospital my mother will most likely be 10 minutes late, and my father will not be there at all. I want to tell him to not let them pray for me. I want to tell him that I’ve bled before, but not this much, and that the day before when I whispered to the heavens that I would give anything to take my last breath, that I didn’t mean it. That the intersection of Western Row and Kings Island Drive would become my gravestone.
The rest is blurred from 3 shots of morphine and the effects of shock. I still shake when my mom doesn’t stop far away enough from the cars in front of us. I still feel trapped when my car door won’t open. I am still sorry.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
https://play.google.com/music/m/Tyxfxgv67h2wk46xo7f72kke2se
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
i have a problem with jealousy.
for example, when lucifer was ****** and body-slammed to hell
i was ****** it wasn't me.
i was made to be a demon groupie instead of the lord of the underworld.
so i'm sorry i get ****** off when you hang out with your friends
instead of talking to me on the phone.
it's just that it gets so ******* hot down here and there's no AC.
i just miss the air from my wings sometimes.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC