i.
to river-
what to pack.
first
line your heart with apathy so that your hands don’t get as ******
then twenty lullabies your mama sang,
or twelve you found along the way, waiting in the gutter and half inside the oily iris pools
(the songs that see you when it’s dark, and know the curves of your hands.
those. bring those.)
bring your pen. bring a leash, and watch that it doesn’t become a noose. it’s a leash. remember this.
bring a tree. bring a windowsill to sit on and
bring your pile of unsent letters.
bring water.
bring a time piece more accurate than your skippy heartbeat.
the team captain will tell you what to do. how to handle the footprints
and where to go.
ii.
i found receipts on the floor this morning.
receipts for the cost of my ease and peace
in closed eyes and closed palms holding hands.
i still can’t find my chapstick.
i asked you where my chap stick went
please blink back
to at least let me know that you heard.
i am full of everything possible and the bathroom smells like vinegar and fresh paint
brushed along my skin
when will i hear your voice again?
there’s a square of light on my ceiling, a puddle of light on the floor.
is this the lights shining through the windows
or is the sunset reflected in the glass?
i am unsure.
i am waiting.
iii.
from the collection of empty envelopes,
and stamped post cards unwritten,
i can hear your silence roar.
i’m ready.
you sat in the calm eye of my hurricane mind.
she says she doesn’t want me to be tied down to that
but you were my anchor, holding me steady.
iv.
if i could,
i would.
i would speed up the days to skip past the moments that make me who i will be.
i would speed up the days so that the sun streaks across the sky, so that the sun becomes a shooting star, so that i could read all the wishes i don’t bother to make,
but then they can’t break so
it’s okay.
maybe it’d look like the lines on the highway, the yellow ones that have to be broken to let us pass.
v.
sometimes i go out into the night lit artificially from below the surface of a ***** swimming pool.
leaves would float on its surface.
i’d sit on the metal railing, my feet dangling into empty space and i would lick at the smoke curling from my fingertips.
if i held my left hand out just right, i could see the light reflecting and swimming across my skin.
(when will i see your face again?)
there’s a man down on the ground, sitting
on the brick wall holding me in. there’s a shovel in his hand. and a rake. i can see his silhouette by the lantern at his side, like a bright eyed guide. i could hear a radio from somewhere over his shoulder.
i listened to the radio shows with him. the graveled voices talked about death.
i always had the urge to leap down to the ground and walk across the lawn to sit beside him. to tell him stories.
but then i always questioned whether or not he was real.
i sat on my sill.
vi.
do you remember how you drew constellations across my hands?
was it worth the lamp light?
across the fate line and the life line, you would dot
three stars across my palm.
orion’s head at the logic line,
the bases of my fingers became a bow, the tip of my middle finger, the star.
you liked it when i stuck it up at you. you said you saw stars when i felt something.
orion was a hunter, and my heart is my weapon.
vii.
the team captain looked you hard in the eye and rolled his neck.
our eyes met on the moon.
his teeth was made of bullets.
“my little thing,” you’d speak.
captain, o captain, he’d watch the bus driver drive home alone again.
viii.
i am a UFO.
an unaccompanied floating overture you’ll soon forget about.
an unhappy finished omen swooping in with the Crushing Weight of Reality to smother your dreams.
an unbalanced fumbling orbit, unsure and unsteady.
it’s me.
an unmelted frozen ocean falling.
the trouble with you calling me your snowflake is that i will melt under your gaze and become the water you drown in.
maybe it’s better if you pack
your things and find the captain.
he’ll tell you what to do and
where to go.
mouse
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
perhaps it's because i can't draw that i write.
if i can persuade someone to create the image in their own head,
am i still the artist?
(e.f.)
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 6:24 PM UTC
but
i read the texts from a boy who was supposed to care about me
and i knew it was over
'parentally he was sober
yet i couldn't tell.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
ICARE ICA RE I CARE IC ARE ICAR E ICARE I C A RE I CARE I CARE I CARE I CARE I CARE I CARE ICARE IC ARE I CARE I CARE ICARE ICA RE I CARE IC ARE ICAR E ICARE I C A RE I CARE I CARE I CARE I CARE I CARE I CARE ICARE IC ARE I CARE I CARE ICARE ICA RE I CARE IC ARE ICAR E ICARE I C A RE I CARE I CARE I CARE I CARE I CARE I CARE ICARE IC ARE I CARE I CARE ICARE ICA RE I CARE IC ARE ICAR E ICARE I C A RE I CARE I CARE I CARE I CARE I CARE I CARE ICARE IC ARE I CARE I CARE please.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
M_O_R_N_I_N_G_W_I_L_L_S_O_O_N_F_A_L_L
W_H_A_T_W_I_L_L_Y_O_U_D_O_W_H_E_N_Y_O_U_S_E_E_M_E_W_H_A_T_W_I_L_L_Y_O_U_S_A_Y
W_E_S_E_E_O_N_L_Y_L_I_E_S_O_F_T_H_E_P_A_S_T
W_H_Y_D_I_D_Y_O_U_B_L_O_C_K_T_H_E_T_R_U_T_H
W_E_F_I_G_H_T_S_O_O_N
E_S_C_A_P_E_T_H_E_W_A_L_L_S_T_H_A_T_B_I_N_D_M_E
P_R_O_T_E_C_T_M_E
M_O_R_N_I_N_G_W_I_L_L_S_O_O_N_F_A_L_L
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
i know i’m not supposed to admit that i’m nervous
but those nerves
they’re eating and burning
but i’m gonna harness
those nerves and spread
that energy into wings and
i’m gonna tell you this
but it’s so rarely true.
those wings are in my stomach and they’re beating out
a song sticking in my head until i can’t hear
anything else.
like creatures
hunched into the shelves of my ribs
they fly
and carry me higher with them.
i’m fine.
just a little airborne.
never yet on drugs,
though plants are my dear friends, since i might be one
too a wallflower a girl said they are
boring
dull
full of fault for playing their own portrayal
and here i stared, my mind staging its own betrayal
because i do have petals. petals in the shape of wings
and those wings deep inside of me
beating
gently and softly into a storm.
i’ve only sat in the bathroom stalls once or twice,
just to relearn how to breathe.
i’ve almost risen more,
this week my mom asked if i’ve been feeling anxious lately
and finally
i could say no.
i’ve never cut lines to let the butterflies out.
but i’ve written them down.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 9:55 PM UTC
i've never understood the way
my ****** body knows exactly
what a kiss feels like.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 9:35 PM UTC
and at this point...
standing in a college library in the middle of an unknown (to you)
city i knew
it was easier to drink alcohol than to say no.
no one actually cares about the years you have survived here.
it's easier to drink here
to **** -fill, i meant fill- my skeleton
with buzzing poison
'cause why not?
and i haven't seen her since december
thank God
less pressure on my ears replaced
by sinus pressures.
but
i read the texts from a boy who was supposed to care about me
and i knew it was over
'parentally he was sober
yet i couldn't tell.
i could be drinking right now,
nineteen in a week,
no worries except i'd be in a corner
my hands shaking, skin breaking, his hands snaking-
and i won't let myself fall
into my own traps.
i am standing up
and leaning against my bedroom wall
head spinning but
i said no,
so many months ago.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
my lips are chapped, my skin is pealing, my thoughts are ripping
into pieces
i asked you where my chap stick went
please blink back
to at least let me know that you heard.
i am full of everything possible and the bathroom smells like vinegar and fresh paint
brushed along my skin
when will i hear your voice again?
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 5:46 PM UTC