I move through time like a ghost.
You move through me like a house.
You want me to make you my home.
I wasn't made to own anyone.
Can you see past what I have made this skin into?
I'm not any prettier on the inside.
I am smoke.
I am coal.
I am what settles after a natural disaster.
And still, I grow.
I grow.
I grow.
Into nothing at all.
What will I become?
There is a garden in your lungs.
You breathe violets onto me.
You make me dream the way a blind man might-
no colors,
only sounds;
just words shaking apart in my chest.
I could be so lovely for you,
if only I was made another way.
I could follow you into the void.
I could follow you into oblivion.
Can you take me to the place angels go?
Can you make me feel the way the sky does when the moon is fresh and small?
Please,
paint me pretty,
and strong,
and whole.
I am not a graveyard.
Will you make a monument of me?
You make me feel bright blue,
like irises moving in the wind;
fragile;
beautiful;
so ready to fall apart.
I have put down roots in this shining countryside,
and I am clutching at dirt,
and grass,
and moving things,
and I am trying not to drift away.
I think this summer wants to take me.
Do you still weep for me?
The rain seems to stay away.
I have counted twenty-six clouds in the sky.
They have taken the shape of your hands on my skin.
I am shaking-
away,
apart.
My bones fall into one another.
I never ate my greens.
You used to ask me questions about the skin above my ankles.
Do you still think of me?
This summer wants to take me.
When we were sixteen I burned you with the brightly glowing cherry of a cigarette.
You kissed me like water,
like glass,
like breathing.
Can you take me to the place behind the sky?
I want to be a mountain.
I want to grow and grow.
The river used to speak to me.
It said, "Collapse."
It said, "It will only hurt a little."
But I am just a stone.
I still feel like I'm falling.
I was born in July.
Somewhere, people wept.
I came out of my mother kicking and screaming.
I took pieces of her with me.
I think she should have named me
Calamity,
or Chaos,
or Cancer.
Would you have loved me then?
I was not made a good thing.
My eyes are windows,
my mouth a door,
and my heart?
It is but dust.
But ash.
But embers hot on skin.
I burn. I burn. I burn.
I cannot belong to you,
or anyone.
The smell that follows lightening?
That is what I am.
I fade into black.
I fade into nothing.
This is the thing I want to be:
LIGHT.
I want to speak to God.
I want to give him back this anguish-
eighteen years worth.
Would he take this ****** beating thing?
I will ask him this:
Why are we so permanent?
The stuff we are made of-
its sticks to things;
to fingers and minds and memories.
You build me again in your head.
Let me be forgotten.
Let me be-
Let me be-
Let me be light.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 11:00 PM UTC
i pulled off layers of myself
skin, muscle, fat
until white luminescence shone through, poking out of whatever pale covering I had left
i was so sick, i was dying
i loved it
now everything's been injected back in,
and i'm filled like a sasauge casing that's too small for it's contents, about to burst at the seams.
stretch marks like lightning strike all over
only emphasizing how much i've been stretched and filled.
my thighs chafe and my legs jiggle and my stomach has too many rolls to even count at this point.
my jaw has lost it's point, smudging the space between my neck and my face.
everything is blurred and slurred now, no longer sharp and extravagant,
no longer enviable and eye catching
but hey, at least i'm not dying
and I hate it
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC
Maybe I am a star that is constantly engaged in dances
with others, always to swirl around the cosmos
and use each others' gravity to fling further
maybe, because we are stars, we have to wait til the night
to know where we are- and maybe, because we are stars
it was never our destiny to stay.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
"As the old catechisms used to say, knowledge is a prerequisite for love."
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 9:02 AM UTC
she’s the girl who will remember everything. from your birthday, to the story behind that scar on your left arm, to the number of freckles on your body.
she will love every inch of your body and your soul and even the heart you didn’t know you had.
she will take in everything you have to offer and give you back so much more. so much, that you won’t even know what to do with it.
she will open up the world for you. from books and music and film to things like culture and race and language.
she’s smarter and far more beautiful than she dares herself to show.
and you will love her.
you will love her like you’ve never loved anybody before.
she will level every winter your body has suffered with all the springs her bones have weathered.
and when you go, because you can no longer handle her, she will drown herself in alcohol and drugs and sorrow. and wonder why she wasn’t good enough.
she will refuse to be saved by any other hand because nobody can touch her quite like you.
she will **** herself with loneliness and then resurrect with her own scent.
and then she will do it again.
and again.
and again.
and again.
she will be weak and strong and bold and shy and mean and nice and everything in between.
she will grow. she will grow strong and tall.
and so will you.
and in ten years from now, when you run into her at the supermarket, she will ask about your marriage.
and while you’re there telling her about your wife, who is home with the kids, and your job, she will feel genuinely happy for you.
because she forgave you. she forgave you for walking away and she forgave herself for ever thinking she wasn’t good enough.
she will have realized by then that sometimes life will give you somebody just to watch you break when it takes them away from you.
and she will be okay with it.
and so will you.
but, she will walk away without telling you about her life because she doesn’t want you to hear it in her voice that she still remembers your birthday, and that birthmark on your right shoulder.
and that ten years ago, she had hoped you would run into somebody else and told them all about her being at home with the kids.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
it's almost been a year
almost a year since I left my friends, my family, everything
almost a year since the first time I saw my dad cry
(it was when he dropped me off and said goodbye. I stood there cold like marble and didn't say a word)
almost a year since i stopped going to the gym, drinking gross things and supplements to try and rid myself of guilt, hiding everything, and so many other things to try and make myself less and less and less until I disappeared
almost a year since my life became an open book and i was no longer the main author
it's been almost a year since everything and from it I've barely gained anything except almost twice my age in pounds and some friendships that didn't last
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
All I ever got
out of loving you
was a snog and a
fuckload
of poetry.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
Mindless.
Everything we've had, to you,
It was mindless.
It meant nothing.
But you didn't bother to even mention how you felt,
I guess because you didn't feel anything at all.
Effortless.
Everything I felt and said, to you,
It was effortless.
I gave you everything until I was left with nothing.
I was too scared to mention how I felt, because I was afraid,
Afraid you wouldn't feel the same way at all.
Flawless.
Everything I saw in you,
It was flawless.
I fell in love with the way the corners of your eyes crinkled up when you smiled.
In love with the way you saw life, your humor,
The way you drove me wild.
Obvious.
All the warnings and red flags,
They were obvious.
But I was too stubborn to let you go until we were left with nothing.
Now, I find myself here, telling you how I feel, always a moment too late.
Happiness.
I am thankful for every moment spent with you,
It was pure happiness.
You taught me to be free and to find positivity in everything I could see.
I could never regret all that you gave to me.
Images.
All that's left now of us,
They are images.
But these memories, call me crazy, I wouldn't trade them for anything.
If they are all that I have left of you, at least I am left with something.
Even though truly what you left behind, in the end, amounted to nothing.
But oh well, I guess it was probably for the best.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
12:48 am
**** god and religon **** presidents and their ******** **** school **** laws **** normality **** clothes **** ***** **** drugs **** love **** sexism **** rascism **** blood **** words **** suicide **** murderers **** rapists **** knives **** guns **** you **** this poem **** this aint even a poem **** this
11:58 am
its like everything in the world is so beautiful and i am in love with everyone and everything and theres so much beauty and so much love that i cant function because theres no way for me to experience it all and theres no way for me to love all of it back
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 5:28 AM UTC
Sexuality is not a ***** word.
It is the essence of our being
It tantalizes our skin
Seeps out of our pores
And sets a flame to our existence.
The way we express it
(Or the way some of us do)
Is what separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom.
Majority of people are able to display it
In a vivid and imaginative way
So that they can connect with another person.
And I am not simply talking about ***
Although that plays an integral role
But romanticism as well.
Love is a human experience
It spreads from person to person
Radiating from each like their own individualized ball of light
It is theirs, and only theirs
Until they decide to share it with another
So they can spread this tiny orb of sunshine
And illuminate someone else's world with it
As it has brightened the beholder's.
So why do so many people
Think it is fit to rob the ones
Who, in terms of romantic preferences,
Are in the minority
Of this beautiful luminosity
That blots out all of the hate, violence and anger in this world
Even if for only a split second?
Yes, I'm talking to you, Conservatives and bigots alike.
Who are we to tell other human beings
That they do not have the right to love
The way we do?
Dear So-Called Religious Christians
Who believe that gays, lesbians, bisexuals, pansexuals
You name it
Are abominations:
Stop playing the very God
That you claim to be following.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 5:27 AM UTC