I wanted to do something positive for the world,
so I decided to stay in it. Because what is greater
than a girl who wishes to flirt with something as
unfaithful as tomorrow?

"I'll take a bullet for you, just not from you."

haunting frights slur,
convincing a tired,
throbbing spine to
stumble away from
memories lost in
the unforgiving happy
hours of continuous,
cheap brown lager.

young, blonde pigtails
tap weary broad shoulders
and mumble under
bubble-gum breath:
“strong bones won’t
do a corpse
any **** good.”

congestion of a lung-
the left one that he can live
without;  
sans the pareidolia, what is
this organic machine?
maybe a
fool weakened by
failure of finding the
force in front of him.
having waited this millenium
after Archimedes,
subtraction has
become the reaper
of the living man: one who
doesn’t need his eyes to
find his feet wet from Styx.

One day
I'll write poetry that
does not echo in his honor,
or shatter hearts like his hands
so unforgivably did.

But unfortunately,
and as misfortune may have it,
these words still breathe for him.

remnants of old
conversations
mimic forgotten
fossils, and I
spend my sacred time
sifting through the remains,
trying to find what
exactly we left behind.

it doesn't make any sense.

look at her anatomy, for example-
he still can't understand it.

after you left,
anxiety attacks threw my body
into a fitful quake- a tremble
my bed couldn't suppress.

and to ease my aching mind
about your absence from
within familiar walls,  
I splattered blood, red crimson
chemicals on bitten nails.

they shimmer, yet
there's still nothing
beautiful about this
painted lady.

Do you still perform autopsies on our old conversations?

Or do you let their existence decay,

just like you did with your love for me?

Death sat upon her chapped lips
while midnight crept up, still
with intentions to capture the sun.

I imagine- in the darkest shadows of midnight-
a garden enchanted by the magic of pixie dust.

Here, love is a blossoming rose eager to open
it’s petals; underneath, we are the soil, allowing it grow.

with this pen in
my hand
and your warm fingers
filling the
spaces between mine,
I swear
upon the stars
that we
will never die.

silver spoons
singe privilege
hungry, wolves

steal copper
for the thief's
wife and their sons

24k gold in her
eyes, attracting
common men--

all fools.

Luminous starshine drips
from the sky and
cascades freely toward
the mundane world
and
,with no hesitation,
ceaselessly pours enchanting
inspiration into the
empty wasteland that
is
my ink pen.

He* paints the setting sky with his bare hands;
Shades of orange bursting with the same
vibrancy as the life in his smile.
Crimson of a passion bleeding out of open wounds so
deep I believe his soul is fathomless.
Pinks like soft lips planting kisses along the curve
of a body he has yet to till.
Cerulean matching irises of eyes lighting up in
the sunshine he bestows through an
inescapable darkness.
A spectrum into existence by his design-
I tell him everything created is art.

when your cold
fingers get the
chance, let their
haunting abilities
of ink dance
across the fine
white of paper
and choreograph
what it's like
to dance in
the vast nothingness
of an inevitability
you were too
curious to prolong.

poetry,
she had known,
was love no one could ever
take away from her
and she fancied that,
in her new solitude,
she had piece of mind
among the few words
which kept her feeling human.

My thoughts are contaminated with an unknown radiation
and the blood in my veins feels as if it has have been replaced
by toxic sludge.

There are ink stains on the bedding where my body rested
from the times were my quarantined mind was deprived of slumber, for further testing.

I started writing to give recollection to my name.
I mastered the pages so I could hopefully forget yours.
But that failed,
so remember me as disappointment.
For the words on this page emanate the
same failure as the organic,
breathing matter holding them-
living them-
believing in them that I was as gifted as
the others before me who wrote sonnets
dedicated to forest green eyes.

Probably your green eyes.

****, forget forgetting your name.
It was carved into the tree that
conceived my paper heart.
And, by chance, did you use the same
knife to engrave it that
you did to tear me to shreds?

Classic of you to expect a rhyme.
The admiration bleeding from my poetry
cannot be captured in "love" and "dove,"
so to hell with you.
Yet, thanks to you,
came the spark of a nameless girl
with words that incinerate.

I have advice; although, I'm not sure how
it will taste:
remember me as a legacy.

Every cut on my paper heart
bled crimson love for the boy
with scissor hands.

a mother,
a father,
dearest friends,
myself,
and every passing
minute,
crowded the burial sight
of my shattered
hearts’ numbered years
as
time moved a steady hand
to my shuddering shoulders,
repeating in a rhythmic tone,
“Don't fear, for I can fix this.”

i don't sleep well anymore
i am lying to my friends
because there’s nothing
better to do
i make music with my teeth as
my therapist listens with
enthusiasm (she must have
pre-ordered from itunes)
the mirror told me a joke
and i was the punch line
i don’t laugh at ****** knuckles,
only stitches and their optimism
did you know an octopus
has 3 hearts and its probably
because we last lovely few keep
throwing cardiac glances
to cerulean eyes
i make mistakes
im going to get a phD
in loving myself outrageously
so i can stop writing ****** poetry
i'll probably fail out
instead i’ll count sheep and the
hours im never getting back
i don’t sleep well anymore

It started as a gnawing
in my stomach- not
butterflies of love
but the anticipation
of flirting with death.

There after, I'd race cars
down empty streets and
sing louder than the speakers
overpowering blue and red
sirens behind me.

Liquor rolled down my throat
like dice on the gambling table
the first time I bet my luck and
held your hand.

Midnight's like those were the
times when the barrels of loaded
guns seemed as tempting
as the sweet kiss of your lips.

You're written in God's perfect image
and the mundane words
I pen down
will never capture the allure
of you.
God didn't require editing.

Our history is buried 6 feet deep,
and the worms are excellent archeologists.

poetry is a business with
finger-snap appraisals
that thrives on how
much I hate myself

call me Pluto--
for I am tucked
Away into the
darkest corner of
the universe where
forgotten stardust collects,
hidden behind gaping
shadows--
never with the  
the privilege of
being sun-kissed
and obliterated by
the warmest star.

I feel strongly for a
boy with eyes the color of
bullets
and with biceps built strong
like bolts in the armor
of a tank.

He wears stains of dirt
on calloused hands from
years
of digging plots 6 feet down.
(He thought his name
would be on the tombstones.)

Behind a small smile
and a boisterous laugh,
the affliction rages on. He is the army
of one, battling against an enemy
he’ll see only in the reflection of
his dog tag.

My name was a
morning coffee secret you
keep between cupped hands.

There I lingered,
up until I went lukewarm
and then you poured me out

onto the ground upon discovering  
the bubbling champagne of her.

she's addicted to his "I'm sorry's."

i don't sleep well anymore
i am lying to my friends
because there’s nothing
better to do
i make music with my teeth-
my therapist listens with
enthusiasm- she must have
pre-ordered from itunes
the mirror told me a joke
and i was the punch line
i don’t laugh at ****** knuckles,
only stitches and their optimism
did you know an octopus
has 3 hearts and its probably
Because we lovely few keep
throwing cardiac glances
to cerulean eyes
i make mistakes
im going to get a phD
in loving myself outrageously
so i can stop writing ****** poetry
Instead i’ll count sheep and the
hours im never getting back
i don’t sleep well anymore

the k nine & its teeth agree
that tender meat is better raw.
a land under one primal god-
his face slipped into ***** hands;
folded in grocery lines.

at a 24/7 gas station buying a
carton of a mother's hard work
cheaper by the dozen but i can't
sell mine; **** this ****** biology
it makes for another product taxed

and builds another landfill. I'm
stocked with candies i didn't want
to buy myself. It happened two
nights ago by myself in bare sunlight;
an ugly mess a day can make.

unaware of myself
the gawking
something about a man and those
repetitive hungry eyes.
where have i seen those hungry eyes?

the family dinner of twenty seventeen
and the serialization of a girl and her
father and then every day after. straw
berry kool aid will never be the same:
nostalgia is not who she used to be.


my ex boyfriend says he can't feel
sympathy for the opposite ***
because he isn't a woman & that's
why he's a ****** and life
***** me over

brought bones to
a gun fight,
cartilage and
cartridges.
/
Does the rope
around my ankles
make me look fat?

and if i die naked
from exposure,
left only with my claws,

may my stomach
be filled with her flesh;
heart sour.
Both of us now equals

If you crave
discovering the pit
of fire,
shower the floor
with your coverings
and summon lust
under white linen
while my hungry
eyes make a
meal of you.

Or, if you
fantasize of glowing
gates drenched in
golden glory,
keep silent
prayers tucked under
your tongue,
and don’t let
God hear you
say my name.

Like a blazing fire to a city of 10 million,
there will be no end to the destruction.

Up in flames it will all go and down will ashes,
cascading to the ground like a snowfall of innocence no longer.

My hands are warm and I know it’s that same restless fire burning in me; a fire I know no monsoon could ever contain.

There’s power that surges inside- I am aware of it’s presence
because I feel the indescribable desire to wreak havoc tingling in my veins.

I don’t want to char the world for I know those scars won’t heal, but without something that lasts how will they remember me when

even the brightest flames die out?

You could illuminate as bright as the North Star
but you're settling for a shine as insignificant as
a street light in a crowded city.

Your dress was plum;
although, my fantasies remember Maroon.
Dancing in God’s house, you moved like scripta,
and I burned like the sinner’s hands.
Had you blushed near me again, I was going
to hold it against myself.

Thrice removed
(grief-stricken) and held against him,
I am empty of you.

But not yet extinguished from your singe of interest,
of your reading me like The Price of Salt.
Wondering, suppose I call, if your
arrival would be the difference of a few vowels.
Divine intervention, master of my curiosity,
I spend my evenings drunk on forbidden fruits.

Pardon my chaos talking in triangles–
of lust’s longing in color–
our tortured poet already said it best.

He turned away from you while you were on the ground
with bruises on your face lying with a puddle of blood next
to your cheek on the floor. With plead in your eyes, you glanced
his way because you thought this was love and you wanted more.