you cover up your fragile skin,
butterfly rashes that snake
their way down your ribs,
paper-thin and streaked with
veins, you call your blood ‘parasite.’

if you were to be believed, you thought that meant
that your pain was to be performed.
to not touch you was a punishment,
but still, you question her insistence
to gnaw at your skin.

bruises that are pretty,
insisted upon you like the ******* leeches
she promises will purge your blood,
your parasite.
“Oh, how lovely it is to be owned.”

there was nothing to be said for teeth,
except “please,” silent stop strangled under your tongue,
but there is something to be said
for this warmth, now,
the first ‘now’ that was never ‘then.’

you do not taste blood when they kiss you.
parasitic blooms on the fragile,
flaking skin of your throat heal, slowly,
when let to rest
under the quiet askance of trust.

maybe that’s what this is.
lately, you’ve learned that you do not enjoy being bitten,
what you loved was giving blood.
lately, you’ve learned that there really are people
who will not ask you to bleed.

what did I wish for
at 11:11?

A million things, maybe, but none of them real.
They were barely wishes at all, just half-baked
whispers on this dead tongue.

what wish came true
at 11:11?

None of them, I think, for all of them
were said out loud. My mouth can only hold them
for so long before it bursts.

who heard me speak
at 11:11?

No one, I think, or everyone.
I can’t be sure (if it matters) who
was still awake.

“I wish,” I said, but I never finished.

what voice wished their half-wishes
at 11:11,
and was quiet again at 11:12.

Summer friends share watermelon slices
while the water laps the shore,
while sea-salt air dries on their lips.

And both of them think that “Days
like these, with salt and sugar on our lips,
make for the best kinds of kisses.”

So summer friends share watermelon slices
while they dance in the sand, and
around each other just enough, and too much.

And both of them think that “this day is almost
perfect - and it would be if she were
holding me.”

When summer friends run out of watermelon slices,
they lay on the beach,
quietly wishing and wanting.

And both of them think that “I wish
she looked at me the way she’s looking at those clouds.”
With their fingertips inches apart.

Summer friends lay amongst watermelon rinds
while water laps the shore,
while sea-salt air dries on their lips

And both of them think that-

Both of them say that
“I love you.”

like sour-smelling spores
we throw ourselves to the breeze,
sea-spray wetting our faces with
hollow tears.

helpless to our leaden blood
we trudge forward,
and there’s no comfort in being
last in line.

and then,

like dominos we fall,
shaking hands pressed tightly
to the sallow skin of our chests,
lost for breath.

a quiet moment as the rocks meet us,
bone-shards and sea glass
painting the shoreline
with shimmer and red.

i can’t breathe, but though
blackness swallows the edges
of my vision,
i have a second left to see.

I see, a thousand feet up,

a thousand counting down.

I have never prayed to God.
I don’t trust something that
calls itself all-powerful,
omnipotence is a bottomless pit of
pride that i refuse to feed or fill

i guess it says something that
i’d pray for you now.

is it still praying when you’re angry?
i won’t ask God for help,
i mean to clock him upside the head
for his arrogance
for his selfishness

i want him on his knees,
begging for forgiveness
like he asks of his precious
little
disciples.

whatever god is watching,
be it him or her or them,
i hope you know that I
Hate you.

i Hate you.

I never thought I’d know the grief of
leaving
before I knew the grief of
gone

On nights like these, I feel
your head still in my lap,
or at least it where it
should be.

Your weight always warmed me,
and now I sleep
3 blankets heavy,
trying to replicate it.

Replace it, maybe,
against my better judgement.

My heart is part yours,
but so are my hands.
This new life I’m meant for
slips from my newly-atrophied fingers

I’ve started to grind my teeth
at night.

I wonder how long it’ll be
until I wear through the bone.

Twin flames burn bright,
then burn out.
If we were both one end of a candle,
now we’re clinging to the scraps of wax

I’m asking - Is it enough to say I miss you?
If there’s another word,
a stronger word,
I’d love to know it.

At 2am I text
“love u”

and hope you understand.

darling girl,

I wish you’d kiss me with your
honeysuckle lips, sun-sweetened and
chapped,

I’d let you **** me softly
in the quiet glow of the street lamps
that halo-frame your hair.

Heartbeats in the wind
on days like this, with you,
echo in the gap between us,

I watch you when I lose my words,
and your smile brings them back,
honeyed and harmonic.

If ever in this life I’m granted
wishes one, two, three,
they’d all belong to you,

darling girl.

It’s quite a task, isn’t it?
To push away the memory of her hands
weaving through your hair, tracing the
line that lead to the nape of your neck,
to suppress a shiver at the distant whisper of
such (undeserved) tenderness.

Why couldn’t you just watch your step,
you wonder,
let sleeping dogs lie.
Nevermind that when you laid down beside her
you woke up with
fleas.

Flee.
No, because you were never strong enough.
What is it that you wanted, you wonder,
and what was it that you got?
Her eyes still stun you, despite the distance.
Was that feeling butterflies, or nausea?

Or was it...love?

What a word, “love.”
And if you loved her,
(my, doubt is such a fickle thing),
is it true that the only return you’d ever see
was her brand of
suffocating intimacy?

Oh, but you craved it, didn’t you?
You spoke your wish out loud
and half-hoped it wouldn’t come true.
You miss the way she held you,
but God,
it hurt so dearly sometimes.

Such desperate selfishness, you realize,
to tell her that you loved her.
Her touch still lingers,
tucked away deep under your skin,
and you can never decide:
reach for it, or push it away?

I wasn’t an ending,
and it wasn’t a goodbye.
Maybe that’s why you still see her smile
in every sunrise,
see her scowl
in every star.

You wonder if you could have kept her.
You wonder, then, if you would have.
You feel her hands in your hair
and her breath on your face,
lay there half-alone and half-asleep,
murmuring your questions to an empty room.

You, long ago, sutured the holes in your heart
with twine you braided from you own hair, you
dried your eyes on the soft part of your wrist and promised
that saltwater and daydreams would be the only things
you’d touch it with.

Trying to iron the wrinkles out of your skin has never worked before
and it won’t work now,
you know that,
but you have a steamer in your hand and a breach in your stitches,
so maybe it won’t be that way this time.

Emptiness is the only way you know how to be.
Or, maybe,
you thought you’d finally closed the hole
only to find that it was a shoddy job at best
and an act of sabotage at worse.

You know who the saboteur is. Don’t you?

The lump in your throat goes supernova, stealing
your breath.
Why can’t it take everything else, too?
You used to say you never cried but now there’s an ocean in your eyes
and sea levels are rising,

You are a mish-mash of messed up, mixed up metaphors and
whipstitches that are losing their stick,
rip them off one by one and see what happens,
but don’t you dare act surprised
when you don’t find anything inside.

Can you even bleed anymore? Answer honestly.
“The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again
and expecting different results.”
Einstein said that.
Well, you say he was wrong.

You know that’s not true. But you don’t know anything anymore, do you?

in extremis
adverb
1. at the point of death

        Seashells sing of a battling beach.

Bloated bodies bobbing to the top
Floating in the foam,
Shriveled by the salt, seashells have seen it.

        They’ve seen it all.

Stranded in the sand are corpses washed ashore,
Some have faces, still have shell-shock in their eyes
But others, just too disfigured to recognize.

        They’ve seen it all.

A single living soul stands in the shards
Of a broken home,
The seashells sing for them because they know

        They saw it all.

A single soul screams on a battling beach
Breached by bloated bodies, shell shocked eyes and
Lifeless lies.

        They saw it all.

A single soul stalked a corpse across
A crag of fear and ended up here,
Watching while they washed away.

        They saw it all.

It’d be easier to live for the moment
If there were ever a moment worth living for.

When it started,
I felt the butterflies coming back.

But it was different this time.

No longer could I feel myself floating, instead
fear followed the fluttering.
My heart had grown thorns in defense to stop Last Time
from ever happening again, the butterflies
didn't even get a chance to fly
before their wings were clipped.

Corpses littered the floor. Decay followed.

That was the end, I thought.
I'll forever smell of rot,
It's what I deserve because I do not
want to have to romance an empty shell again.

Days went by, and the rot became compost.

I think it was when I heard You sing
that the first flower sprouted.
A drop of color in my mangled, gray meadow,
the sweet scent of pollen amidst the miasma.

More flowers grew, from the ashes of What Used To Be,
Away from the Last Time,
and towards the You and Me.

The old butterflies are gone, but it's fine,
because I found a new one.
Only one.
It flits around the First Flower.

I named it after You.

The girl with a dragon in her chest is always learning.
When she opens her mouth, snarls echo
Up her throat and rattle her teeth,
So she learns not to speak.

When she opens her heart the dragon burns the passerby, and you can only treat so much blistering flesh before your run out of gauze, so,
she learns not to share.

When she opens her mind the dragon laughs.
And she’s learned enough by now to know
how to fix it,
So she learns not to dream.

The girl with the dragon in her chest knows not her own strength,
Or maybe she does,
But she doesn’t want to remember it anymore.

I mean, breaking brittle bones is not pleasant for anyone, especially those who are constantly in casts, so,
She wraps her own wrists and waits, and
learns not to be strong.

Her breath comes in puffs of smoke, filling
The already dingy room with
A layer of dusky darkness,
So, she learns not to breathe.

The girl with the dragon in her chest has
no room for her lungs but
That’s fine, because she has a rib-cage
to hold the dragon and another cage to hold the flood.

The girl with the dragon in her chest is
boiling from the inside out, but,
She still takes hot showers and doesn’t
drink water because it’s hard to slay a dragon
When you’d have to cut yourself open to do it.

The other day I woke up with a breeze in my chest,
With my mind partly-cloudy
Sun peeking through the gray, and the forecast
Predicts sunnier weather to come.

The other day I stood up and blood rushed through my veins,
I drew a breath and expelled
The stale air, and then, I did it again.
I was breathing.

The other day I put one foot in front of the other, and
Instead of sending echoes up my spine, I felt
My footsteps thump on tile. In that moment,
I realized I was real.

The other day, the little storms in my cells dissipated, leaving
Dewdrops as goosebumps on my arms, a rainbow in my smile,
And head tilted towards the sky, I cried,
Because I’d forgotten how blissful it felt to be okay.

It’s so nice to see the sun again.

She teeters on the cliffside,
She scans the ground below.
She searches the wind like a chapter book,
For what, she doesn’t know.

With one foot off the edge, she stands,
She looks around and sighs.
She thumbs through pages, slits her fingers,
Bleeds through ink and lies.

Tipping off the edge, she knows
She doesn’t have the guts
To live a life where she’s never free
From the sting of papercuts.

I live life on the end of a yo-yo string.

One moment high in the sky,
My strings neatly wrapped away where they can’t get tangled, where they can’t get beaten and battered and torn by open air,

The next moment spinning so fast I can’t tell what’s real, toes brushing puddles I come closer to with every swing, strings on display for the world to see until I can find it in me to wrap it all up again.
And I know that one day my strings will wear thin, they will snap, and I will sink.

One day, when I go down, I will not come back up.

Have I succeeded?
As I sit in the kitchen,
Surrounded by sensation and temptation,
Bread and milk and cheese and
Everything I’ve tried to leave
Behind and I don’t eat,
Sipping on the mug of tea in front of me,
Ignoring pangs of hunger, telling me
I can’t go on much longer...
Have I succeeded?

if it hurts
you’re doing it right.

graceful arms, girls.

pointed feet.

plié, plié…
first position, long legs, extend your necks- yes, that’s right.





i just wanna look like a ballerina again.

I wanna hear my stomach collapse
Rumbling like screams echoing in an empty tavern
I want stalactite ribs
And stick-man fingers,
Thighs the size of a child’s wrist and
I don’t care what I have to do
To get it

I am obsessed.
Addicted to falling,
Falling numbers,
Falling deeper into disorder, disrepair,
Falling for a girl named Ana
Who tells me I can have everything that I want
For easy daily payments of pain and despair.

But, it feels oh so good to be hungry.
Aches and pains make me high,
And sure, it’s scary knowing I could die but
At this point…
Maybe I’d be okay with that if I get to live one day
At 100 pounds.

What is wrong with me?

Rivers, eyes, pools of blood, dense and hollow all at once,
Colors shifting like embers, burning like flame, the blue kind,
Deceptively cool in appearance but in truth,
Truth,
The most deadly of anything.

Can’t cry, can’t smile, can’t feel,
Can’t be real,
But can’t be dead because if I were
Maybe it wouldn’t be so ******* cold,
But to hell with the idea that I’m alive,
That’s *******
Just like everything else they said and don’t you *******
DARE
Ask me who “they” are

Because

They are the directors of the last movie that caused me to panic
They are the boy cracking his ******* knuckles in class and overloading my senses
They are the dark and the shadows that I’m scared of
They are the light that I want more than anything and then
They become the tall ******* in second grade who held your books over your head, just out of reach of your chubby little hands

Except the “books” just out of my reach aren’t stories now, they’re lightbulbs
Which is the most boring thing ever to a kid
But when you grow up and the lightbulbs go out and you reach for a replacement and it’s not there
You’re even more scared of the dark than you were when you were 5.
So you do the thing where you lay really still and wait for the sun to come up but hey, surprise surprise,
It never ******* does, and you forget there was ever a time when you weren’t laying still in the dark.
Hell, you forget there was even a sun in the first place.

And yeah, maybe it sounds like I’m making the whole world out to be against me but sometimes
It just feels like it is,
Maybe they didn’t mean to do it but the road to hell is paved with good intentions and
At this point my backpack is full of ******* cement so
I guess I’m to blame too,
Paving my own path to hell which would be poetic if the heat would stop burning
all
my
*******
nerves

away

You wake up beside her every morning,
She draws your curtains and blocks the sun, says,
“Sleep a moment more” and wraps herself
Around your waist, painted red fingernails
Dig into your sides and you suddenly find
You can’t see through the salt in your eyes.

Her tongue tangles with your lashes as she
Licks the salt away, saying,
“Shh, babe, they can’t know I’m here.”
She peppers your face with pecks,
Less like loving caress and more like bites but
To tell her “No,” has proved futile time and time again.

She stands behind you in the mirror, runs her hands
Over your body, leaving ice in the wake of her fingers,
Pinching your hips and thighs while she sighs,
“Oh, my light,
Why don’t you listen to me more?”

She catches your lips with every bite of breakfast,
Saying, “No, dearest, don’t give in,”
Kisses you senseless, but you just can’t tell if you’re euphoric
Or insane.

The taste of chocolate,
A knife in the gut,
It’s all the same to her.
So now you’re bleeding out on the floor,
And you wish that metallic taste really was a blade,
At least to swallow that would bring darkness instead of shame.
“The blood in your mouth has a calorie count,”
So you know it won’t be long until she takes that too.

there is no blood in my veins,
only air.
little cells, little storms,
little words that echo in the cavities that are my chest,
my heart,
my lungs.
my head is not in the clouds,
it is the clouds,
and it rains, it is cold,
it is full of dust and heavy, heavy atmosphere.

any other day I’d hide from the storm
but today I stand with arms outstretched
and head tilted towards the sky,
catching tears that I can’t make
wishing for lighting to strike
to fill my
empty
empty
veins.

When I have a daughter,
I feel I'll have to make some decisions.
For the sake of simplicity,
Let's equate them to poetry.

Limericks are one way to live,
With structure, but fun left to give
Though we'll love each other,
I'll still be her mother,
And that part, I hope she'll forgive

Or we could live like haikus,
Simple and structured,
With emphasis on order.

Why don't we live freeverse?
No rules, no rhymes, no reason.
We don't need those things to be happy.
We'll have each other, after all.

This is simply speculation,
I'm not especially certain
What I'll do when I have a daughter.

My face is caked
With pigment, baked
In glaring lights, and I,
Can't wait.

My stomach churns,
Adrenaline
Is coursing through my veins,
but then

"5 minutes!"
Someone shouts, my head
perks up immeditely
And when

They beckon fervently
For me
And I cannot contain
My glee

Step out onto polished wood
Look out into the aisles
See faces staring up at you,
You're here to make them smile

I have the power to make them laugh,
To make them shout or cry,
And my nervousness is gone now that
I know their hearts are mine.

its not fair for the sky to be mean to the clouds for crying so much

its especially unfair because the sky cries every night too

silver sparkly tears washing off blue eyeshadow

but its ok when the sky does it because the sky pretty-cries

the clouds ugly cry

and thats not okay with the sky


its not fair that no one likes it when the clouds cry

because the clouds only cry because they are heavy

and want some of the weight to go away

the sky cries and everyone loves the sky

maybe because the sky is older

and can smile again when it is done

because the sky cries to get what it wants


but the clouds dont know why they cry

they cant help it

they are so heavy and it hurts so much to carry all the raindrops

and the sky does not care

the sky says, “but you look so light and fluffy

so i think you are not heavy at all

i think you just cry because you want people to talk about you

and you know unless you cry

no one talks about the clouds”


the clouds try to hold their raindrops in now

even though it hurts

and they are very heavy

because they live in the sky and they must

do what the sky says

when the sky is watching


but of course they cant hold it all

and the sky gets mad when they let out all the raindrops they were holding

so the clouds try to explain “I’m sorry

the rain was heavy and i had to let it go”

and the sky does not listen

the sky says “you are so dramatic

you do not have to cry so much

over something so small”

but the clouds do not understand

because the clouds have never had a reason to cry

not a big one or a small one

they just do


so the clouds start holding more and more and more raindrops

they dont let themselves have thunderstorms anymore

it hurts so bad

so

so

so

bad

and the sky still does not seem to understand that

the clouds just want to not be heavy


the clouds wonder if the sky will miss them when they are gone


they suppose that the sky will be glad to be rid of the rain


and then the clouds go away forever.

They wring my neck like rubber, and it’s harmless,
They say, as I’m writhing on the ground,
Throat crushed,
Chest heaving,
Mouth a fountain dripping wine.

A testament to sins chosen by those
Never condemned
And though it isn’t fair,
There is a reason that they are not the ones
Dead on a cross

They would not die for our sins; no, they live for them.
And the wine we spill, from every artery, alcohol
Burning, turning
Our insides to rock,
They drink to have a good time.

To a God that isn’t there I pray while the others listen in,
And they whisper their pities,
But I have not asked them
and they cannot provide an answer to an question nonexistent
They can only wait, and watch

The day they find wine in pools on the dirt,
Perhaps they’ll find it in themselves to look up
And see that the face of that God,
The one to which I pray and to which they spit empty confessions,
Is not there,
Or perhaps just does not care

Perhaps they will fall to their knees as wine drips down their own chins,
Finally, finally they will understand what it means to bleed
Catching the wine in their hands as it run off my fingertips they cry,
Not because they wish for me to be whole again
But because they know I will linger.
A stain.
A testament to their unpardoned confessions,
Their plea for innocence where they deserve none.

Or perhaps,
They will take pleasure in knowing
That the nails they chose to drive into my hands finally cracked bone.

Falling down is scarier when you can see the floor
No floor, no bottom,
No bottom, no promise,
No promise, no risk,
No risk, no danger
          

                  No danger










No danger











                                                                    Bang.

When it started, I felt butterflies flapping frantically in my chest
Whenever you spoke, whatever you said
And those sweet words that rolled off of your tongue,
Your voice light and loving and lilting with charm and candy-coated promises
And so on it went, weeks and words,
months and words,
Always the same words.
The butterflies grew tired of all the same words.
The air they flew in has grown stale
They’re off to find fresher skies now
And they’ll stop in to say hello, but only on days
When clouds, memories, bittersweet longing rolls through the sky.
But they don’t stay anymore. This isn’t their home, anymore.
They want a place where they can land on your fingertips, leaving their feathers on your palm,
Watching your face light up like the sun that always seems to be overcast, nowadays.
It’s not a lie to imagine if you never believed it could happen.
And so the air stays still,
And the clouds linger,
And all we have now is
Words.

In the room across the hall,
You see me, I’m all alone
Behind deadbolts and locked doors,
I built them on my own

You knock and knock, my ears are closed
To everything outside,
I’m smothered under voices,
And all they let me do is hide

“No one’s knocking,” I’m convinced
The door is closed and locked.
And to all the affirmations
My head is being blocked

The walls keep getting smaller,
I’ve barred myself inside
Chained down by doubt, by every word,
“I love you” is a lie.

I can’t hear you over all the buzz,
Just tell it all to stop.
I want the truth, never said I could take it
I’m bracing for the drop

I’m locked inside this room,
And I’m just about ready to snap,
And you don’t know to let me out
Because you don’t know that I’m trapped!

I’m trying to believe it.
Someday I’ll ask you for the key.
Just know that I, I’m sorry.
For the nightmare that is me.

We spent so much time saying “I love you,”
That we forgot to fall in love.

Square stones surround a lake, bright blue
Flirting with the leaves, their hues
Vivaciously vibrant and ever refreshing
Dotted with robins and cardinals nesting

They sing for me, a lovely song,
My attention lingers far too long.
And the water doesn’t make much sound
But my shoes are tapping on the ground

Everything lush, so perfectly fragrant,
It's hard to believe that it ever was stagnant.
The pollen, the sap, the freshwater pond
Of this lively scene, I am growing quite fond.

A breeze blows by, and I am awed
By its gentle pushes, how it prods
“Let’s go!” It laughs, and I follow its lead,
The guidance it gives me is all that I need

For it to be bitter, I was braced,
But I’m surprised how sweet it tastes.
Like iced tea on a summer day,
Here forever, I could stay.

I would tell you that your smile shines
like sunrise in the east.
But alas, they just cannot compare
When you shine twice as bright, at least.

When you tell me that you love me,
I can see right through your lies
And while you comfort and assure me,
There are still tears in my eyes

I can tell when I’m not wanted
I don’t believe you mean it
When you tell me that you need me,
I don’t have the will to comprehend it

I don’t want to believe you hate me,
But it’s all that I can glean
And so I smile and let you hate me,
Hiding my eyes, their salty sheen.

And I’m trying to believe you,
Please believe that much is true,
And I need you, I need you to need me,
But hey, what can you do?

I always left the lights on,
When I thought my nightmares were true,
But I’m not afraid of the dark anymore,
And I’m NOT afraid of you.

You can try to haunt my dreams,
But it will be a grueling fight,
Because I know that you can’t hurt me,
Whether or not I keep on the lights

I’m not frightened of your claws,
They can’t rip me from my bed.
You’re an imaginary menace      
I know I made you in my head.

So you can try to come and haunt me,
But I’ll dismiss you with a yawn.
I’m not a child anymore,
And your power’s long been gone

Empty, empty, empty
Not good enough
I was proud for a second,
But I don't feel that way anymore

I was good until someone was better
And now nothing I do can match what they did
I know I'm not supposed to compare,
But at this point, I don't care

Telling myself that would only make me feel guilty now.
I want to tell you to stop being so good
So that I can stop being so bad.
Your words are lovely. Now mine seem empty.

I want to know what gave you this power,
And in a moment of weakness, I wish I could make you feel like this.
I want to be better than you.
I want to relish in your jealousy, and I don't even know your name.

And then that moment passes, and I'm left with nothing,
But poems without points and verses with awkward choruses in between,
And I only threw those in because it sounded like something you would do.
***** me. ***** my "creativity." It all just feels empty.

Hello, little one
Do you remember me?
I'm sure you wouldn't,
To you, I'm not even a memory.

While you run around
reckless and carefree,
I'm sure you never once
Let your mind stray to what would be.

You never thought it would turn out like this.
I know you didn't.
But they're not lying to you when they tell you
you'll change.

Please don't cry, little one.
Don't be afraid of me.
This change can be as blissful
As it is terrifying.

The world is scary.
You'll learn that soon.
But it's so easy for you to forget
How wonderful it can be, too.

Though you think you're Peter Pan,
You can't just fly away to Neverland.
This life is going to push you,
Until you've had enough.

But you'll keep pushing back, little one.
Don't be afraid to grow up.

I love her.

With her dark brunette hair,
always down over her shoulders in cascading waves,
Or ******* behind her head so that I can see her eyes.

Oh, her eyes.
Bright and alluring and sweet.
Alight with a smile that compares only to the one on her lips.

And her lips.
Always tilted up in a bashful smile.
And one side always goes higher than the other,
But I don't tell her because I think it's cute, and I don't want her to stop.

Someday she'll kiss me.
Because I'll never be brave enough to try myself.
And the lips I love so much will touch mine.

I love her

For her hair and her eyes and her lips and her mind,
Which is logical, but with a hint of romance and a vast imagination,
An artistic eye and a sweet, flustered girl just beside that.

She's perfect.

And I love her.

I love her so much.

Oh boy, time for another poem.
What should I write about?
The meaning of life?
Some deep metaphor?

Eh.
Scratch that.
I'm not deep.
Oh sure, I totally pretend to be,
But I'm not deep.

I like reading other people's deep thoughts
It's fun to think about stuff like that.
But I'm not deep.

I'm silly and bubbly and a little shallow.
Sometimes I'm sad, so I write about that,
Or sometimes I'm anxious, so I write about that,
But it's all skin-deep.
And I don't go deeper.

It almost feels like I've been leading everyone on.
Because a lot of the time,
I sound deep.
But I'm not deep.

I'm just a kid,
Barely starting high school,
Whose biggest concern in life is currently an overdue Chinese project.
Yeah... I'm not deep.

Sorry about that, everybody!
I know I try to sound deep,
But really.
I'm not deep.

:)

"What is your name?"

"What do you mean?

Once, I was given a name,
By someone very dear to me,
But is that the name
That belongs to me?

I have names that I've chosen
Many names, made for strangers to see
But are any of those the name
That belongs to me?

I have shorthand names too,
Gifted affectionately,
But are those the names
That belong to me?

I have names that I share
'Poet,' 'Daughter,' 'Artist,' 'She.'
Could these be the names
That belong to me?"

"...
I just asked for your name."

Sigh.
Smile.
"You tell me."

What is the difference between a pure man
and a sinner?
Who decides what is Holy and what is demonic?
Why are they right?
Why do we have to listen?

They’re wrong.
I don’t believe it anymore.
The only sin I could commit would be to let this end.
If that makes me a demon, a sinner...
Then I will fall.
If it means that I can be with you.

Though I am of Heaven and you are of Hell,
our love will not be defined by the split between
Sin
and Purity.

They say the kiss of an Angel is the one touch that can forgive all sins.
My love, I am your only sin,
and you are the keeper of my purity.

I love you.

My story isn’t done
Because I wrote the words “The End.”

My life is a neverending series of sequels
Each with varying quality.

My story isn’t sad
Because I cried in the middle of it.

Nor is it a funny one
Because I laughed two chapters ago.

My story isn’t published
Because those who know how it goes read it as it is written.

Others get excerpts
But I will never be for sale.

I’m a poet who doesn’t understand poetry.
I see all these words and phrases stacked up against each other
And they sound pretty
And they sound meaningful
But that doesn’t mean that I don’t wish there was a dictionary for poets
That tells you what things mean in plain English

Because let’s face it,
Poems aren’t written in English,
or any language that normal people can understand.
Poems are written in feelings,
Which is why I think that there’s no such thing as a bad poem.
Because no one speaks in someone else’s poetry.
We get a choppy translation
And sometimes that bad translation can make it seem like their language is gibberish.

Sometimes you can learn to speak another language,
But you’ll never be fluent.
Because as soon as you learn a word,
It’s going to change.
And every time you relearn it,
It’ll change again.
And even if you think you’ve got it down,
There are ten other people speaking ten other dialects,
And everyone thinks that theirs is the right one.

I’m a poet who doesn’t understand poetry.
Because I don’t write in English,
And I don’t know anyone who does.

For everyone I’ve left behind
And all the things I’ve left to find

For all the times I’ve laughed and cried
For all sweet and off-tune lullabys

For vocals lost and voices found
For plush green grass and frozen ground

For all the things that caused me fear
And all the things that keep me here

For every sight yet to be seen,
We welcome the year 2018.

She wore stilts to seem on top of the world
She wore long sleeves to hide her insecurities
She wore a mask to hide her face
And kept her hair long to hide the line
Where plastic met skin

When she takes it all off she sees someone she knows
And realizes how much she envies her stranger
So she tries to become them again,
But she can’t get escape from the way the mask makes it hard to see,
From the way the stilts stab the soles of her feet
From the way the skintight clothes won’t let her breathe.

She
Can’t
Breathe

So she suffocates to please the people she hates,
Saying things like,
“When I’m skinny enough,
When I’m popular enough,
When I’m good enough,
I’ll stop.”
But she is never good enough for the one person she hates the most.

She hides her paper as she confesses her loathing
So that no one can see her graphite tears.
She wants someone to ask “Are you okay?”
So that she can cry to someone other than the journals she’s been documenting her self-destruction on for months.
But of course,
When someone does ask,
She puts on her mask and says,
“I’m fine.”

I write my best poems when I’m PMSing
Because my emotions are on high
And I
Have an attitude
Like, “**** it!”
So I don’t overthink
The words
And also
Because when you’re lying in bed
With cramps
You have about two other options:
Watch videos
Draw
And both of those get old
After a while
So I write poems instead

Today I wrote a poem
It took me five minutes
It was short,
A little choppy,
And pretty irrational,
But people really seemed to like it.
It got so many comments
And an encouraging amount of favorites.

So I decided to write another one.

This one took me two days
I poured my heart and soul into it,
And then set it free to start it’s life of internet fame
Only this time,
The poem got two likes
And no comments.

I guess people don’t like looking at my soul
That’s okay.
I’ll keep putting it on display anyway
Because maybe someone will like it
And then maybe they’ll comment on it

I don’t like waiting, but I will
Because I know that souls are hard to look at
When I take five minutes
To jot down a thought,
It’s so simple
But my heart and soul are much more complicated.

So take your time
Like it or don’t
But I’ll be happy, because
The most genuine form of writing is when you write to yourself.

I’m scared
My fears swim around me like sharks
I’m bleeding
They can smell it.

I worry so much
That I start to worry about worrying
Why am I so afraid?

It comes and it goes,
But when it’s here,
I can’t seem to figure out,
Am I okay?

Do I need to tell someone?
Is there something wrong with me?
Will I be okay?

When I want it to go away,
Those times when I’m smiling
And pretending like everything is okay,
Is it?

Am I okay?

I think too much.
I care too deeply.
I text too often.
I laugh too hard,
For fear of them having to fret
As much I do.
Such is the nature of a worrier.

Sometimes it feels like the world is doing its best to crush me.
Like it’s trying to squeeze the tears out of my eyes,
Or take away all the air from around me and leave me alone to suffocate.

Sometimes it feels like everyone’s problems are suddenly mine.
Like it’s up to me to fix everything,
And placing one foot wrong could make everything fall apart.

Whenever I feel like the world’s gone out of it’s way to shove me over the edge of a cliff
Just to see how well I can swim, I go to you.
You bring me up for air, my life preserver.

Thank you.

Sometimes I want to scream
The days have sharpened their claws only to rip at my heart,
And when they’re done, they leave it alone to bleed

Some days I feel like I ruin everything I touch
And people laugh because they think it’s funny,
So I laugh along with them, because what else am I supposed to do?

Whenever I feel like I’m about to break,
You step in with a hug and a roll of tape,
To fix me where I’m cracking.

Thank you.

You are the cast that’s wrapped itself around my life,
Holding me tightly so that I can start to heal.

You are the message,
The joke,
The lilting laughter that lifts me up and up,
Into the clouds
And away from the Earth.

We left my lead shoes stuck in the mud.
Good.
They were only making me heavier.
But you let me float.


And so we fly away
Hand in hand
Our heads in the clouds
Because that’s where we belong.

Thank you.