she's a whisper in another room,
the violet embrace of the early morning sky
momentary and haunting
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 2:04 PM UTC
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 2:09 PM UTC
His fingers reach for the glass pipe and all you can think about
are his eyes
and how they’re the color of every city you’ve never lived in.
The smoke undulates from his lips
like the most honeyed death sentence
into the chasm that surrounds the two of you, and the words
“he’ll destroy me”
are ringing in your ears.
He’s a paradoxical boy,
with his shooting star hands and his nebulous mind,
that carelessly leaves his magnetism lying around
for you to trip over.
Perhaps that’s how he gets girls on their knees.
You have fallen for a boy whose words fall from his lips
like dark matter, but he is
trapped inside the black hole of his own mind.
He cannot fold himself around your galaxy
because he cannot escape his own.
He’s lost there.
The sadness in his eyes
is a mirror
and as you stare at yourself you realize
this is the first and last time you’ll love your own reflection.
Now, you will only meet up in the
liminal spaces between this life and the next.
He will come to you in daydreams,
this is the only place where you can learn to love each other.
When you are in the shadowy spot
between sleep and wake,
refrain from memorizing the outline of his lips when he smirks.
The sunlight will take it away
as quickly as it gave it.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
You came into this world screaming for your right to be loved,
please don’t think you have to leave the same way.
I know what it’s like to crush pills every night just so you can break something other than yourself, but darling, love doesn’t exist in powder.
Remember that inside of you are crashing galaxies; every fiber of your being resonates with tragedy and stardust,
and there is someone out there who will want to crawl into the folds of your universe.
However, there will be days that even ghosts can’t see you,
but just remember that you don’t have to search for approval in the arms of strangers.
It won’t be there.
The only thing you’ll find is trouble.
When you notice that lovers repeatedly treat you like a puddle, stepping
over you and carrying on with their life, know that that’s not what you are.
You are an ocean, ebbing and flowing with the moons magnetism.
Calm enough to carry the burdens of others,
but powerful enough to drown them.
It’s not easy realizing that everyone you have ever loved has never loved you, but neither is pretending to be a *********
So give away paper mâché versions of your heart, one after the other,
until you find the person who notices the difference
between something living and something dead.
Until you find the person who is willing to ask about your real heart.
There is no reason that you should not be loved.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC
swim
through the dim
abyss of the ocean's blue water
to become a daughter
of the violent and quiet sea.
dive
through cold knives
as your body submits to the waves,
you must let yourself cave
to the water's hypnotic sway.
trade,
for green jade
scales to cover your ivory legs.
no longer will your wade
in the shoreline's shallow waters.
dance
with the chance
of happiness running through your mind
and you will learn, in time,
in order to swim you must drown.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
They will only hurt you as much as you let them.
And when you want to tear your veins out from frustration,
You must remember to channel that anger into forgiveness.
But don't forget,
They will never love you as much as they love their fix.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
Convulsing,
Vibrating,
Spreading.
It’s tendrils reach across the floor
And up the walls,
Feeling.
Emitting a heavy buzz,
It becomes overbearing.
The only sound I can hear.
Dripping,
Clammy,
Suffocating.
I feel it wrap itself around my throat,
And makes it’s way into my ears,
Seeping.
Snaking through my cingulate cortex,
Putting it to sleep.
Putting me to sleep.
Morose,
Destructive,
Burdened.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
You carried the scent of a heavy summer rainfall with you
everywhere you went,
dropping hurricanes from your pockets for strangers
who have only known spring showers.
I didn’t know it was possible to fall in love with a storm.
Every time your cloudless eyes met mine
I felt a swell in the back of my throat,
as if I had drank too much seawater and you just kept staring
until I began to cough up the entire
Pacific Ocean.
You told me that this is what it meant to be with you,
to be with a nihilist.
You held other worlds on your fingertips
and slipped them under my tongue,
my blood becoming bellicose within it’s own veins.
The parabola of my pupils stretched until they became quasars,
I had never known energy like this before.
Your lips twitched into a most complacent grin at my lack
of self-possession as I writhed in the rapacious wake of the river.
Everything around me shimmered
with the light of 1,000 stars
and I heard centuries of music in your laughter.
I was a foreigner in a different world.
That night we made love with the intensity
of 50 lightning bolts striking an erupting volcano
and it was the first time you told me you loved me.
It was the only time you meant it.
We anesthetized each other so much
that you became insusceptible
while I became hypersensitive.
You carved kisses into my skin
and they were wonderful
but I was starting to bleed out.
But you couldn’t even feel my nails
as I tried to dig my way into your heart.
I had never wanted to live inside a person so badly,
but you can’t make homes out of people.
You can’t make homes out of addicts.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC
Out of all the words in the human languages, almost is the cruelest.
I almost loved you.
I almost won.
I was almost there.
I was almost *****
When he snuck into the room like a wolf stalking its prey, my stomach didn’t almost tie in knots.
It became a sailor’s masterpiece.
When he laid beside me as quiet as a stone, I wasn’t almost shaking.
I was a leaf on the San Andreas Fault.
When his long, spidery fingers began trailing down my back, it didn’t almost feel like razors.
He cut so deep the skin began to peel back and expose every
insecurity that I’ve hidden away between my vertebrae.
His fingers didn’t almost dig into my arm,
they became shovels that dug a hole big enough for a casket.
Bruises didn’t almost blossom across my skin,
I was a primrose bush in full bloom and he was the gardener.
When he coerced himself between my thighs, I didn’t almost scream.
Years of ancestral abuse surged through my lungs and out my lips
into a battle cry.
When he tried to force his hand inside of me I didn’t almost feel spoiled.
I was a fruit rotting from the inside out, something that no one
would ever want.
And when my screams finally drove him off of me, I wasn’t almost okay.
I was paralyzed with fear and disgust and shame.
Everything I’ve ever believed in slapped me in the face as I told myself:
This is what I get for liking ***
I shouldn’t be so easy.
I was asking for it.
It was my fault.
I felt like a butterfly, beautiful but ruined by a man’s touch.
Never to fly again.
But the truth is, a butterfly sheds scales throughout its lifetime,
regenerating its wings.
So when a man reaches for your wings in attempts to rip them off
remember that you are not what he thinks you are.
Remember that it is never your fault.
Not even almost.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 4:08 PM UTC
The first time I met you, I tasted blood in my mouth. You reeked of ***** and misogyny and bad intentions. You reeked of my mother’s rotting happiness.
Every time I saw you my skin turned to Braille, but that never gave you the right to try and read it. See, the small of my back was not your pocket, my chin was not your coffee cup and my shoulder was not a place for your crocodile tears. You don’t have to touch a person to know them.
When you realized I wasn’t a tween romance novel, you started to read my mom like she was self-help book. But I knew you were illiterate the day my mother’s makeup foundation couldn’t find the exact shade that went with black eye. The cut on her lip was just a new shade of lipstick and the bruises encircling her neck and wrists began to look like jewelry. She told me they cost more than any pearls she’s ever owned. And like Samson, my mother’s hair was cut short. But it was by her doing. What good was strength when you were the one pulling her around by it?
But the moment we found out that she was carrying life inside of her your hands had to find a new hobby. I suggested training your fingers on how to pack a bag but instead you chose how to learn to pick up bigger bottles. It was a relief to see my mothers stomach swell rather than her face but 9 months is nothing compared to 18 years.
The only solace I find in you being in my brother’s life is that I won’t have to teach him how to hate you, he’ll already know. And I’m counting down the days until the ocean in his veins form a category 5 hurricane. I’m counting down the days until he destroys you.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC