You told me-
I could be honest,
With my emotions
And here I am,
Being blunt
Without shaming me,
Would you have accepted it
As easily as it was to
Flick a knife out of its sheath
But lately,
I learned something from you
That it was okay to cry
It was more than okay to talk
About the beasts that held me down
In simplest terms,
I miss you,
The way a duckling misses it's mother
And that was petty
I wasn't sorry,
For getting attached-
I was sorry,
For letting you know the way I did
When a flower gets its petals ripped
Does it get back up?
Is it useless then after?
Or-
Does it-
What happens then?
I'm sorry,
But I'm not
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
"Go home" they say
Where is home supposed to be,
When the place you were raised
Was torn down by the devil's hands themselves
The walls dripped with crimson memories,
Stronger than any IV provided in dingy hospitals
Home is fantasized as a comfort
A place to shield yourself from the daily onslaughts
I've become well acquainted with the back of cars
And random beds
"Home is where the heart is"
Well, my heart is set on state-hopping
And on the morphine provided by your luxury
If there's any place I want to stay,
It would be far from you
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
They told me to watch out for
Boys with owl eyes
And downy hair
They told me to watch out for
Boys who refused no
Who ripped girls
And boys
To shreds and discard them
Like rag dolls
They didn't warn me
What to do
When the one I loved-
The one I created a solar system for-
What to do
When they walked away
What to do
When the black hole
Pranced back into their life
They didn't warn me
About boys with soft hands
And words like venom
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
Rain was a symbol
Of prosperity in ancient times
And that's what you were-
A storm that came in
And blew me back off my feet
Once having solid footing,
But you created a mudslide within
You came in
Like a flurry of ice and anger
Of fire and sadness
And I didn't know what to do
There was nothing to say
I worried if I touched you
I would slip and fall
That happened anyway
It was a gradual decrease
Of the rooms temperature
Rain was a sign of prosperity
But now it's seen as an omen
Winter was never my favorite season
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
You are nicotine
Embedded under my nails
A coat of filth
Superglued under my tongue
A dance of fire
Coated in gasoline
Foam cannot distinguish you
A mystery to behold
Knowledge spanning centuries
Hitting rock bottom
Until you dug below the stone
You were my rock bottom
I never know how to say
Just what it is
Tongue-twisted
And poetry spewing
You were someone
I wasn't looking for
But found in the dead of night
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
The first time I took notice of a magazine, I was in elementary school. I could barely distinguish my S's and my R's. I was only a little girl when my mom gave me my first magazine and told me it was her Bible.
They all started the same way- a supermodel here, a ****** washed out athlete there, and a divorce that made the headlines. I thought to myself that this was normal. That hurt was something that happened nonchalantly, that every beautiful person starved themselves for one reason: to fit in. For publicity. For the money and so-called beauty. For love.
I was in middle school when I realized that all those magazines I picked up over the years were nothing but full of skinny, beautiful woman. Page after page of flawless skin, of perfect hair, and hourglass figures. It was the same year that I realized those women didn't eat. That they hurt themselves on the outside, so they could feel beautiful on the inside.
And I thought to myself, "I want to be exactly like them."
It wasn't until high school that I realized I would never be like them. No matter how much I followed the magazine celebrities like a dog, I couldn't do what they did, follow their actions, or say their words.
Women who aren't women are told they don't matter. That if we don't listen to the men in our lives, then we have no purpose. And if we deviate a fraction of an inch from the chosen path, then we get ostracized.
We get makeup thrown into our faces, and pills to make us thin shoved down our throats, and are forced to wear clothes that show skin- but when those clothes get ripped off, it's suddenly our fault for being skimpy.
The year I turned fifteen, I realized I didn’t need to be a certain way to be okay. I didn’t need to pop pills, or shove a finger down the back of my throat, or skip meals and deny it when asked. I could dress how I wanted, whether that be a dress or trousers, was up to me.
I was barely sixteen when I realized that the magazines lied, that they airbrushed real women into dolls, and that the media didn’t care about real people dying as long as that famous child celebrity lost 10 pounds. That they preferred a 10 day marriage over a civil war or a crackdown. That a man dying of a sudden heart attack was more important than a young girl getting run down.
I was a kid when I realized that the people I looked up to were nothing more than plastic and Photoshop.
That I was nothing more than a scratched up record player waiting to be glued together with a bit of cover up and a bottle of mascara.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:21 PM UTC
I inhaled you like
the fumes from a Chevy
saturated my lungs
soiled my insides
and I told you anyway
that you were the oil
that kept me running
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
you were my muse
and
more alluring than
a water nymph
you were my inchoation
teaching me how to rove
and becoming my termination
dead poets
would have cried at your feet
just as I once did
but
I stopped.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
i often think of death
at the hands of Galileo
a cluster of galaxies
pouring through his fingernails
and weaving his way
like a silk ribbon in the midst of a cotton dress
camouflage designed to keep you hidden
from the enemy across the cliff
but you can't hide from the other side
because the other side is inside of you
and they have their weapons
pointed directly at your weak chains
a galaxy formed inside of you
a white dwarf star that
collects energy over decades
pressed together into mere seconds
and it spills over the edges
like spilt wine on linen sheets
i've thought of death
at countless midnights
in the middle of hallways
in your arms
swaddled in the equivalent of a human burrito
at the mere peek of your face
out of the corner of my eye in
a place where there is no forgiveness
they always directed me
to one place
it was a safe haven of sorts
they took a mirage of an ocean far away
and on bad days,
implanted in the comfort of your solitude
on most days,
i fought silently and alone
on bad days,
i fought against something vicious
but alone
i've thought of killing myself
countless times
but the fools hope
always brought me back
and i learned to bury my anxieties
so only my most trusted comrades knew
the different between a shaky 'I'm fine'
and a shakier 'just tired'
it was like a ticket stub,
for a movie that wasn't even all that great
but you went anyway
because you wanted a distraction
and i would rather be dead-alive
than alive-dead
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
I never could quite convince myself
That I would one day be an artist
In my eight year old brain,
I knew artists were ones who
Decorated my school halls
With these portraits of blues and greens
But one day it clicked,
And I realized artists
Weren't just painters
There were some stains
That were left from ink rubbing on fingers
Instead of paint left on foreheads
And my form of portraits
Were conveyed through my mouth
When I mixed words together
They formed crimson,
The color of dry blood after
A long night of bar fights
And they formed cerulean,
The color of oceans and skies
Torn apart by an industrialized era
They mixed to form fuchsia,
The pink that any man or woman should love
A color that was deemed girly
But was bold enough to attract attention
My art came from my mouth
Instead of from a brush
Dipped into a palette
And my body whispered love songs
For the price of 1.99
You could get two poems and
A harsh rebuke of reality
And I knew I was different
For I could make people
Shut the hell up and listen
And see where they were at fault
And it wasn't with a quickly drawn portrait
Of two men fighting side by side
One with a sword
And another with a rock
But it was with a pen
Where both men had nothing
And they were nothing
But just words
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC