my cheeks are pink
raw from
where i bit them
to hold the fire in my mouth
when you thought your feet stood on my chest
my lips are red
because i painted them that way
a mask
because i thought the natural ****
was too plain for you
my fingertips are purple
from pulling at your arms
willing you to turn around and finally face me.
to look at what you left behind.
to meet my gaze
then you’ll see my eyes
they are grey now
the golden green flecks that used to
catch the sunbeams
and the emerald that reflected
off the trees
has been diluted by
the storm that hit
with the same force you did
i used to be beautiful
filled with my own spectrum of vibrancy and life
now,
my colors are less significant
because of the shapes you left me.
the round bullseye curving
against the line of my jaw
the five-lined print of your grip
on my bicep
the oblong story
on the small of my back
from one bottle that you forgot you had in your hand.
Sep 27, 2021
Sep 27, 2021 at 2:34 AM UTC
she could be anyone
a neutron star--
a product of something as magnificent as
a supernova explosion
a diamond in the ruff--
polished clean with pearls for a smile
an angel in the flesh--
that fell gracefully into your lap
and washed your sins white
but as long as she
giggles at your mediocre jokes
(the ones only i used to understand)
tangles her legs with yours
(you always craved more of my skin)
and leaves bite marks on your neck
(do you remember that shade of purple?)
she will forever be my satan
the devil
who ripped down my blue sky
and painted
it
red.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 9:44 AM UTC
sometimes
i don’t want you to know me
i want to walk past you on the street
raise my eyebrow and look at you
while we pass under the streetlight
and swing my hips
so that you turn around
and turn back to your friends
to whisper about me
i want our shoulders to accidentally touch
and i want you to feel your skin tingle
beneath the shirt you wore
--the one that is tight on your muscles--
hoping you would see me
i want you to wait for me by door frames
to walk me to class
and live for the moments i giggle at you
i want you to find my fears
and ache to protect me from them
i want our lips to touch
and i want yours to part
and breathe in
because you couldn’t have imagined
a first kiss
like that
i want you to be unable to stop thinking about me
keep my name on your tongue all day
until you dial my number
and call to talk to me
i don’t want you to know me
because i want you to fall in love with me
all over again
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
leave me on the roadside
to walk on tumbleweeds
and sleep on dustclouds
away from the fingers that
pull open my jaw
to see what sin
last rolled off my dry tongue
away from lights
held against my skin to
confirm that my blood runs
red blue
like theirs
away from park benches
with my name
scratched in their wood
and my blood smeared
on the concrete sidewalk
leading to them
away from megaphone voices
that
even when your head is between
your sweaty palms
and bent knees
still find a way to scream their
discontent at the way
you buttered your toast that morning
leave me on the roadside
i will be lost and alone
but i will have only
my scars
my skin
and eyes following that ****** yellow line.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 7:37 PM UTC
there is a single scratch
on the waxy hardwood floor
from where she broke
one night in august.
a single, jagged line
where her feet tripped on the broken frames
that held fleeting moments
where her chin hit the ground
because her knees already had
where her hands couldn’t let go of her own lungs
to catch herself in time
its submerged now
in a puddle of crimson tears
and surrounded by
shreds of her white cotton sweater
with the ink stain on the cusp
you see
she was trying to fly
but her shoe laces had grown to vines
that crawled up the sides of houses
and into the drainpipes beneath the city
she wanted to dance on cloudy pillow tops
sing the lullabies her mother whispered into her dreams
pull sunbeams through her fingers and tie them into her braids
she hadn’t learned
skies rest on the ground
clouds need valleys to cry on
the earth must turn for the sun to rise
to fly you must have the floor to leave.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
place your hands on either side of my ribs
and feel my
pinky-stretched muscles
twist and grind with the earth’s orbits
tap your finger on my temple
and listen to the
bones hollowed-out
by termites that run on memories
hold my wrists above my head
and look at
the stretched skin of my stomach
so translucent
you can see the treasure map I etched all over me
these bodies are sponges
absorbing the wind
into our hips
and sprawling our fingers to try and
catch the air and stick it back into our lungs
muscling through the salty waves
that stain our cheeks a raw pink
and erode our invincible confidence
and chip our pearly smile
we grab for our surroundings
with a dying necessity
and sew them into ourselves
so that we are patched into an identity
so when we are tired of being ragdolls
pieced together by our triumphs and failures
we begin to choose any fabric
regardless of the color, shape, or size
just to cover the holes we have created
then we face the mirror to see our what is left
we are disappointed not by our own mouths
but the ones on the faces behind us
looking past their own holes and into our own
where you can see
the taught fibers of stretched muscles
the tunnels termites have created in ivory bones
and pale skin pulled tight around panting lungs.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC
for a moment consider
wiping away hardened edges
smearing the razor blade lines
of your rusted smile
of your painted rib cage
imagine the terror
no—the horrific beauty
of a new self.
who would be your ruler
to measure your growth;
or would you grow at all?
would you fall into the same
ash-colored patterns your mother sewed into your dresses
and polished into your patent leather shoes
only acceptable on Sunday mornings?
how would you redefine your name
that has grown to fill the teeth inside your mouth
and weigh down your jaw bone
with jagged cement?
and honey
even if you could do all of those things
where would you go?
who wants to know the carcass you washed clean,
void of those scars behind your left knee cap
and that freckle on your temple?
what of those sunshine laughs
that colored your bedroom walls
and crocodile tears
that littered the linoleum bathroom floor?
new beginnings are frivolous
because
with the same canvas
the same acrylic paints
the same brush strokes
you’re left with an original copy.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC
there is a reason
woman is shaped
with the curves of an hourglass
the shouldered top
in which rests the weight
of threadbare words
covered in the crimson paste on chapped lips
the ever-slimming waist
the hips that hold our hands
with fingers that slip between
our cracked ribs
and pull. tightly. inwards.
to make it harder for that ****** sand
to waterfall through
and the wide feet
with train-track paths behind them
that lead through middles of mountains
fly over valleys of sugarcane and wildflower
and beneath trenches woven deep in the ocean
there is a reason
woman is shaped
with the curves of an hourglass
that pale, fine time
that slips from
the tip of a rough tongue
and through gritted teeth
falls into the hollow bones
of the hips, legs and ankles
at the moment time leaves her
the sand is now full
of chipped mountain rock
sweetened with sugarcane
colored with specks of yellow wildflowers
and salted with kisses from the Atlantic.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 8:28 PM UTC
hairline fractures
sketched on arms
with microscopic graphite pencils
the kind artists use to draw
the wide eyes of a 2-dimensional fear
engrained constellations
containing those hidden greek myths
of the triumphs and tragedies
of those ancient heroes we get tattooed on the soles of our feet
wire-brush scratches
that create the canals
my icy hot blood runs through
the pathways that swell when you breathe on my neck
if you laid each person
under the scrutiny of a microscope
you would see their cracks
their beautiful impurities where
sadness seeps slowly in
where wordless emotions ooze
and where little sunbeams
reach their spindly fingers towards the freedom of a new day.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 9:23 PM UTC
It started in a hurry
In sounds like the sizzle of summer air
Between two chipped teeth
Two chapped lips.
There was never to be enough room
For the all encompassing mouth of heat
Colored like the sticky surface of a blow-pop
Orange until you lick down to the icy blue center.
Only then do you notice the icy blue center
Has left the felt tip a speckled white
Like looking at winter treetops on the horizon
Littered with broken branches
Weighed down by Christmas carols
And slowly the head tilts to the left
Like a child whose favorite question is “why?”
And whose waxy fingers are now covered
In the sweet slime of a blow-pop
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC