occasionally i think about ways i want to die. it’s a buffet spread, really. i used to want to die in a high speed collision but i’d rather not paint the metal canvas with my carcass; drowning is also out of the question, i’ve had enough salty liquid on my cheeks and i want none in my lungs. when i was younger i’d sit by the window staring at my estate, coming up with routes to escape if a murderer ever came after us. now i’m not so sure. i might even leave a glass of warm milk by the gate. they say when you’re baptised you die and come back to life. in that manner i have died twice already, perhaps i should’ve stayed dead the second time. i’m not necessarily suicidal, i’m just saying that i can’t seem to visualise myself past 25 years old
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
there is nothing romantic in thinking you’ve got everything under control then rapidly entering a downward spiral into destruction. my mother used to apply baby lotion on my hands and i thought maybe he’d want to hold them then. there is not a hint of warmth in realising that everything you ever thought was worth holding on to never seemed to want to stay. you have become a motel in a deserted town where nothing is constant except you and emptiness. or even a gas station– people come and take, take, and take but not once do they give. i am essentially a haunted house. you like the idea of me and the beginning mystery but ten minutes into the experience you want out. you know what? just put me in the blender, stop removing bit by bit, piece by piece. you can have me, bones and all.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 10:07 AM UTC
i’ve been thinking a lot lately, mainly about why i seem to lose grip of the people around me so rapidly. people i’ve grown up around, people i’ve known since i was buck toothed and wearing crocs with socks. it feels like over the years something in the air shifted and so did the balance in my brain, no longer do we roll our eyes nor do we playfully nudge each other. this has evolved into an inside joke that i am no part of; a box only with square holes but I am a circle. is it my fault though, that i’ve never met the person? in my mind i have sculpted a figure and fit us into scenarios– laughing, closed eyes, arched backs, silent acknowledgements, understanding palms, wordless hugs. yet i promise myself never to open up. the key is to be mysterious, to not divulge information like a water dispenser. this key will be the death of me and my sanity.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 5:28 AM UTC
don't tell me how i'm supposed to feel. stop dictating how fast my heart is supposed to beat, how clammy my hands should or shouldn't be. on good days i am able to rein in my mind, other days the tremors leak into my throat, taking over my vocal cords like venomous tendrils. don't tell me how i'm supposed to feel. your banal and repeated words are reflective of your foolishness and the windows to your soul are crumbling. do you tell a crippled man to rise and walk as if it is his weak will that bounds him to the wheelchair? in the same manner you are not the creator of my cerebrum and in no way are you entitled to categorize my twitching fingers, pale lips and darting eyes under Attention Seeking. is this a joke to you? is pacing around my room, battling myself, weighing the pros and cons of stepping out of the house merely for your entertainment? fit me in a metaphor- wring my skin, my bones, my muscles and you are left with a dehydrated skeleton and a pool of highly strung particles.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 10:07 AM UTC
letting go
it’s so ******* annoying how i still can remember exactly how many freckles you have, and how many grains of sugar in your coffee you always add. every place i go has your shadow following me, and it is only after five minutes on the bus that i realize i’m sitting where you used to sit. you are stuck on me like lint on fabric and i have no money to buy a lint roller. parts of you are still fidgeting under my skin and we are still in physical contact even though you are five thousand miles away. we are touching even when we are not touching. welcome to the world of irony. you know, this is like stepping onto thin ice with iron weights attached to your ankles. this is holding up a lit match and going down a tunnel asking for Death. this is walking up to you and presenting my white, creamy neck and waiting for you to snap it. i just want to bleed, you know? stop twisting the **** knife in my heart. everyday i walk on crushed eggshells when all i want to do is bruise my knuckles and bleed out in front of your house, in front of Her. you keep asking me to let go, let go let go let go let go and i want to laugh. you are sewn onto my skin, you are on my teeth, you are in my lips. you are here, you are there, you are EVERYWHERE. how about i tattoo the exact words you used when you told me that my thighs needed to sign the divorce papers, or when you told me i needed a face transplant, on your skin, then told you to rub it off only with sandpaper? how long would it take, then? most of the time i feel like i am the gas station, standing in the middle of nowhere, saying ‘take me. here, take this part. take me, take me, take me.’ to everyone who stops by. and so they do. and so i fall apart. i self identify as the finger that keeps touching a naked flame and burning myself each time. i also self identify as a being stuck in a skin that does not fit me. you are like the glass shards that are impaled in my mind, so clingy, yet refuse to acknowledge my existence. i want to splash buckets of paint on white walls without seeing your face inside, and i want to be static once again without hearing your voice. i want to be able to rub you off my skin with sandpaper, burn you off with fire, peel you off my scalp, but i can’t. i can’t. i can’t i can’t, because in the famous words of Kate Moss, 'you're in my veins, you fuck'.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
i’m looking at myself in the cracked mirror of the gas station’s toilet, smiling at the light rippling from the cavities of my body. some days i feel as fragile as porcelain and others as unfeeling as concrete, and age has become but a number on the candles i blow out every year. some days i crave a breathing object to surround my words with and others, i weep for more letters from the milky way. i settle back into my skin and wonder how to overcome the hurdles― airplane phobia; academic failure; life vision blurring. my days are filled with wandering through empty halls of dead museums pondering over the meaning of HER expressionless features, as i fill my brain with aimless trains that wreck my sanity. these make me want to lie in the pond and allow the moss to seep into my lungs; i want to play tag in a cramped store selling China and glass and even more, i want to feel what it’s like to feel the dandelions under my toes as we dance to music only we can hear. we will smear the blood on our lips to our cheeks and laugh at the prim and proper girls. we will occasionally come apart and put each other back together, leaving a few pieces out. we will trespass into abandoned carparks and lie there waiting for a car to run over us, until our vision turns blueish grey. this is how we will slowly acquire the lost fragments and this is how i will write myself a new body.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 1:28 PM UTC
i. parts of my life are slowly blurring out of focus and i’m only left with the vision of an impaled heart on a fishhook. i want to quickly grow up, and yet i don’t. i dream of long train rides accompanied by good music and books, and dream of meeting the person who will morph to be the other half of my body. i store a jar of empty promises in my room and they are getting fuller as i meet more people. the irony is present.
ii. i’m sick of seeing art forms caressing glittery pretty words that hide the harsh world. i want to see more paintings of crying women, more baring of the inner souls, more bared ankles and twisted bones. i know the secrets you think you hide behind your tight jaws and everything boils down to nothing when atoms collapse upon each other and eyelashes are trimmed. there is something romantic behind skin on skin contact and fluttering eyelashes and i will stop at nothing to capture them in black & white.
iii. lessons on how to escape your body are filled with applications and i wonder where they want to escape to. bruised knees are tangled to the rhythm of church music as the professor reads page after page of rotting letters to a room full of skeletons. clear your throat and cobwebs in your heart, for spring is headed here and warm bread will soon take the place of cold carcasses & wilted flowers.
i shift in my grave.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC
i am slowly drowning in my own skin as the days tick by. /// (sun. rise. set. rise. set. rise. set.)
i have forgotten the feeling of being burnt by a candle and i am getting sick of being left behind on motel walls and left under tongues. haunting breathing and missed airplane flights remind me that i’m alive, but all i want is to be left in a puddle to fester. inhale. exhale. i wish human bodies were transparent so we could see exactly how important each ***** is. maybe we wouldn’t hurt ourselves anymore. children laughing echoes in the rusting playground and we sit around the candle to watch it burn out. the birds make me wonder what its like to be free. every cell aches for that mysterious feeling and i am a sixty page poem on Dead People. is there a word for feeling every vein clog up and body shut down? across the street lies a chained boy writing about smoky eyed girls and heavy pockets, and right down the road there is a curled up girl thinking of flower stems and smudged paintings. we gargle the ocean and continue listening to the violent waves.
“I just want to be free” whisper the spinning planets
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC
ast night i looked into your eyes and felt the ***** of your blue orbs. your finger on my lips smells like peaches and strawberries, and the knife you plunged in my back bled in hues of orange, purple and red. about a month ago i sat by the beach reciting my written poem while gargling the ocean foam in my mouth and feeling the horizon twitch behind my eyelids. July was pale with throbbing angry blue veins while November was a green tree brimming with life and pink petals. when mom and dad fought i could feel every stinging crack on my skin, slowly wrapping around my neck and jamming my oxygen supply. the flowers you gave me are rotting on the bedside table― some nights it moans and groans and other nights it whispers unsaid words from your cemetery of a heart. i want to turn into a pile of ashes and be swept away by the wind. i want to slide down the curve of your spine and watch your goosebumps form. i want to stuff you into a glass vase then fling you down a skyscraper. i want to entwine all your senses together, then maybe you’ll stop calling me insane because that isn’t my name.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
churches―
where cracks on the ceilings are more than construction accidents,
whose floor has seen more discarded invitation letters than dustbins.
the out-of-tune ***** is where the nameless ghost resides
(the one who roams the halls whispering quiet conversations) /
the carpets are imprinted with bruised knees indentations,
the mirrors, with sobbing hunched figures reflections,
and the cement that echo wailed prayers muffled by layers of epidermis and cartilage.
hospitals―
where red stains on the walls are more than careless spillages,
whose rooms have seen more regret than those in Court.
the morgue holds motionless bodies ice cold to the touch
(those who are in line to enter Heaven’s gates) /
the waiting rooms are filled with wilting flowers,
the beds, with saturated salty tears,
and the emergency rooms that cradle desperate On The Knees begging and gasping heartbeats.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC