I don’t know your favourite colour
Or what you sing in the shower.
But I want to.

You’re a stranger,
Yet you held my hand and told me everything you thought of
And all I forgot to think of.

You kissed me,
With your scary hazel eyes
Following my every emotion.
I still don’t know how to feel.

You’re a stranger,
Yet you have a name,
Eight siblings,
A love for Harry Potter.

You have a smile that really does make me feel ugly.
How can you be so calm?
How can you feel so sure of who you are and what you want?

You’re a stranger,
But not for long.
Even if there are no more kisses,
I want to know what you think about alone at night;
how you like your tea.

I want to know every inch of your soul,
Because if you can see even an ounce of good in me,
You must be a sort of dreamer

Eating my beyond burger with a fork and knife,
drag race in the background,
my Samantha doll by my side.
This isn't loneliness anymore.
This is just life now.

I'm not very good with words anymore,
maybe I never was.
So little has changed and yet everything has.
I still long for love.
I still want to be wanted.
That might never change.

Yet now this lonely world is one I've come to accept,
come to love.
I may be my only friend here,
but that's one more than last year.

Nothing I create is good,
but I'm learning to create anyway.
I'm learning to share my bad art,
at least it's art.
Right?

I dream of slitting the throat of the dog next door.
Someone outta shut him up.
I used to think that was an evil thought,
now I know there's no such thing.

I turn 21 in 2 days.
Math. Yuck.
I'm old,
getting older every second.
Whatever.
I will grow into this skin,
I'm sure of it.
Maybe.

I'm grateful.
More than anything I am grateful for it all.
The pain,
the pleasure,
the guilt,
the anger.

Pills,
family,
friends,
dolls.

No one reads these except me.
So this one is for her.
For you.
Anne,
my love,
my villain,
my biggest fear.

May this year be kind to you,
may you be kind to it.
May you listen to your spirit guides,
may you accept what you never could.

Growth is sticky and wet,
Knowledge is thick and grey.
May you be the light and the darkness,
the cut and the band aid.

More than anything,
be okay.
You're gross,
in a sort of beautiful way.
May you be okay with that.
Truly.




Bad art is still art.
Right?
I think so.
For now.

they don't look like me.
those girls
with their *******
and baby teeth.

pink daisy chains,
sweet blubbering.
joyful hearts swollen,
i can feel them.

i smell a childhood memory,
she loves mornings.
the one in red
kisses her puppy,
sleeps in braided hair.

under your gaze,
they'll be paper forever.
and me?
am i tree bark to you?
do i still exist
while i'm gone?

peekaboo.

baby i've called you,
thus baby you've become.
my ******* are sore,
i've run dry of milk.

photographs don't bleed.
**** on something else for dinner.
but i insist,
keep tripping over
that tail of yours.
i find it rather funny.

I miss the beautiful sadness.
The tears tasted like cream,
Fears turned me pale.
A quiet sadness.

I was so pretty,
Smaller every second,
Floating away in tenderness.
A whisper,
Then silence.
What more could I ask for?

And now I’m more.
Taking up more space,
Filling more holes.
I’m too much.

Now this..
ugly sadness.
One where I grow
instead of shrink.
My face is pinker,
My stomach splits at the seems,
tears taste like *****.

If I go,
It will not be a whimper,
But a scream.
Rawly honest,
and rancid.

Still,
I think I’d rather be
a beautiful lie.

My summer haze.
You exist
as salted scrunchies,
Freckled thighs,
Whiskey tongue.
You exist,
Right?

By Fall,
I know it to be true.
My autumn girl.
I look into her
tasting wet leaves,
pine and cinnamon.
Her body still
hot as August sun.

Fireplace feet,
wobbly knees under fleece.
Suddenly,
you are Christmas wine,
Snowflake tears.
Teeth never clattered,
Hands never cold.

I can’t see spring.
Perhaps that’s where it ends.
Maybe it never was.
Still,
I dream of you
And still,
I wonder
if you dream too.

I want to feel loved.

I crave the melting of flesh into mine.
Boiling pores and sweating fingertips
tracing my face.
I lace myself into your hair and make myself a nest.
I am safe,
but not for long.

For I will never feel safe again,
not in your arms,
not in the arms of any.
I am *****,
soiled,
used,
empty.

I am not a body of love,
No longer a *** of milk tea
on a cold day.
Watercolour stains wash away with water.

I am viper,
I am splinters,
hangnails,
and paper cuts.

I will never be soft again,
and it’s your fault.
I will never forgive you for that.

There’s a moving portrait above my sink,
her cheeks are pudgy,
her skin is pink.

Her eyes are melting,
teeth fallen out,
her noose is bleeding
a river of doubt.

The portrait screams,
she cries for aid,
she tells a dead god,
that he could have stayed.

No oil,
no paint,
no canvas,
not a brush;
Instead this portrait feels and aches,
her rawness still to gush.

Yet dusk is dusk,
and by dawn it is dawn.
You may look for such a portrait,
to find that it is gone.

Not a finger nail in sight,
not a single clogged hair.
It begs but one question:
Was she ever really there?

Fumbling down into a rough forgiveness,
I trust you again.
We dance in a circle of pink hugs and hope.
This time it will last.

I've finally won you back;
After years of chipping away at your scull and jabbing your heart,
I've learned to caress your fears and soak your joy.

Yet this only lasts for a breath or two.
I am once again blue and hollow.
It's time to break my own heart.
Not the first time, won't be the last.

I am addicted to the bruises I give myself.
It's not a matter of choosing sadness, but rather choosing anything.

Anything is better than this rusty cage I call my home.
Hot anger, sharp dejection, grey terror.
I let it all fill me.

I let it fill me to the brim,
because destroying myself is the best way to know that I'm still alive.

Small girl, my young girl;
Picturing an older copy.
A makeup wearing, boy crazed machine of intellect and grace.
A rare thought but a strong one.

Older but not old enough.
Missing bolts and screws;
Somehow still working.
I see something in a mirror that makes my organs plummet through the floor.
I'm not her.
Never have been;
Never will be.

Big girl, but not large enough.
Hair fallen out and swollen gums.
Bruised skin and flushed face.
Ripped soul but a full heart.

The mirror tells the same story,
But in a different font.
My once hollow skeleton is now filled with music and chipped paint.
I am the same damaged goods.
I am ripped skin and muffled coughs,
Cookie dough ice cream and kisses on the cheek.

I'd gotten so lost from my former-self that I didn't realize something now obvious:
I never stopped being her.
I will never stop being her.

I will never be young enough, old enough, happy enough, brave enough.
But I am me;
and I am more than enough.

Oh flightless seabird,
I think you are lovely.
Mouth unfed,
feathers untethered.
Sitting pretty on the creek,
friends and families tasting the blue.
No wind under your feet,
not yet.

They think fondly of you,
seabird.
That’s a choice they’re allowed to make.
The higher they fly, the further away you become.
The weakest love you,
pity turns to self love.
At least they can fly,
at least they’re not alone.

You know better,
my seabird.
I saw you,
and so I knew you.
Easy.
It is you and you alone who grins at lilac kisses,
melts the silver sparks.
Sour grass midnight and
rusted dawns alike agree that you see,
therefore you are.

Flightless seabird,
We’re looking back with glass eyes.
You are here,
and you are loved.

You are not alone.

I thought I was smart enough to know that five m&m’s isn’t a meal

Black hair between my fingers,
Pink vapour in my lungs,
Cryptic wishes and longing for something I’ll never find.
These are the nights that I never forgive but always forget

Peel off your skin.
Look at you.
Your mind is gushing from every vein, every slit.
Your fears are being milked from the exposed flesh.

This is you, my friend.
You have been disfigured and morphed into something you don't recognize.
Scabs are cracked open to reveal secrets only you could be selfish enough to cover.

Your blood drips off the tip of your nose at a steady pace;
As you, my friend, watch your face melt into a sink.
You are disgusting but this is you, and
You
Are
Alive.

Friend, you are perfectly honest;
No carbon copies made.
You let yourself bleed and flood this house,
Because that's all you've ever wanted.
You've finally escaped the cage of bones and skin that silenced you.

You alive and you are free.

blinking sunsets creases,
dewy in concepts of me.
to you,
i was perfect.

sweet creation,
swaddled in salmon silk.
your one,
your only.

nestled in your armpit,
hushly hummed stories.
beautiful worlds,
golden mornings.

when did it all go wrong?

i've broken your heart.
i'm sorry that
i'm bad at apologies.
i get that from you.

wet face,
*****,
red throats
empty stares.

hospital lighting,
missing liquor,
endless consumption.
sadness you've never known,
until me.

our silver clouds
still glow at night.
for you,
i will win this war
against myself.

i will become someone
you're proud to know.
your baby still loves you,
and always will.

There's a boy I know.
He is sweet and kind,
passive yet assertive.
He is beautiful.

This boy and I are friends.
We speak from time to time.
His smile melts my insides &
his eyes make my bones turn inside out.

This isn't a perfect boy.
He is chubby and short.
He loves video games and movies with a passion.
A real nerd.

He's a sun.
Not the sun,
A sun.
He keeps me warm and safe.
He scares me but I know he's helping.

This boy is so beautiful.

I am not beautiful.

I am twisted and selfish and ugly and rotten.
I am too cold to be around the sun.
I will dim his glow & cast shadows on his light.

My solution:
Let the boy be the sun,
Let me the moon,
And maybe one day,
We will cross paths again.

i'll get you.
see how your eyelashes look
under autumn sunsets.
keep your hand warm
inside my pocket,
always a welcomed guest
within my jacket.

orange painted seeds.
my love we'll grow
into something beautiful.
pretty pretty pretty.
how you make me grin,
giddy like a little girl.

pumpkin flavoured bliss.
i can taste the spice already.
but first,
sour daisies graze my calves.
your eyes blink beyond seasons,
beyond time and leaf colours.

i recall those valentine sniffles,
wet boots on your dorm room floor.
red gloves i lent you
on our first date.

i love you more everyday.
yes,
even on the bad days.
you now exist past judgment,
'good' and 'bad' are just words.

still,
you are good.

The world turns a dusty shade of indigo.
Peach lipstick smiles and damp car windows pull us miles closer.

"The sky was painted just for us,"
I want to tell him.

But truth be told, I don't even know the artist's name.

Maybe the inky landscape has always been here; viewed countess times by many such as ourselves.
The infinite dreamers who feel entitled to its beauty.

But I know the truth,
and I have a feeling he does too.
The world is not mine and mine alone.
It belongs to you and I and everyone between.

So as we gaze into the galaxy around us,
It somewhat comforts me to know that we are not alone.

The poems you don't read
Are the poems I don't write.
The wandering thoughts and puzzle
Pieces that are never found or placed.
The urge to scream,
Or blend into a puddle of melted candy.

I know what you like.
You enjoy the colour pink and sound of pianos and feeling sad.
But the good kind of sad.

I know what you need.
You need to love yourself.
Or at least like yourself.
You need to breathe and create.
You need to dance and breathe.
Please.
Just.
Breathe.

The poems I don't type aren't raw
Or artsy or beautiful or ugly.
They are scared and lonely and everything that I can't put into words.

The poems I don't write are simultaneously the best and the worst.
I don't understand them and it terrifies me.
That's why I don't write them.

I am free
and joyous
and grateful
and kind
but I am not creating.
I cannot.

My eyes glued shut.
My lips sewed together.
My hands chopped off.
My body closed by the same monsters that slit my wrists and changed my name.

The storm has passed but the damage has not.
The demons won't release their claws around my throat nor the teeth that sink into my chest.

Ideas and images run at uncharted speeds,
racing and buzzing past every corner of my mind.
Where do I put them?
Where do they go?

I'm trying to find her again:
the girl who painted fairies & danced without socks & wrote stories about ghosts and mermaids.

Those pixies, bare feet and adventures are still floating.
Waiting to be spilled out onto a page, a canvas, a body; any surface worth noticing.  

The thoughts have been patient and kind for too long.
I fear they won't wait any longer.
They urge and itch to be set free, but without any luck, they melt.

They boil and drip into what can only be described as gone.  
I fear that once gone; they will forever be lost.

I am not inventing, I am not expressing.
I am simply wasting, hoping someone else might construct things for me.
I am not creating.

I have these memories of joy and love.  

They’re tattooed on my knees,

Dyed in my hair.



Whispers in crowds,

Laughter in quiet moments.

They seep into my flesh

And stick to my bones.



I couldn’t shake them off if I tried,

How lucky is that ?

A broken bicycle left without repair,
a lonely ghost weeping in despair.
This is me, and I am this.
And as long as I'm living,
I will never be kissed.

A fantasy,
pushed far into the corner,
for he is a newborn,
while I am a mourner.

But suddenly I'm in his glow;
his golden heart upon my skin.
Now it's harder than ever,
to try and let him in.

I like him,
that's barely a fact.
I am a daisy and
only bees shall I attract.

He likes me,
this is flimsily known,
but if he is a sun,
he melts my bones.

Butterflies
who once danced
inside my stomach,
crawl their way back out.

How am I supposed to say
I don’t love you anymore
with a throat full of bugs?

Frozen feet,
Hot oatmeal,
White noise,
Blurry letters.

Days melt into each other,
The passage of time now a soupy broth of numbness.
Distractions,
Sleep.
It’s not enough.

Dried up watercolours call my name,
Where’d you go?
I’m sorry, I’ve been awfully busy.
I’ve been carving faces into walls.
I’ve been eating my nails just to feel something.
No taste yet, but I’ll keep you updated.

I am filled with blood and guts.
Nothing more,
maybe less.

"Keep that up and you'll end up like your mother."

I couldn't understand this message.
This strange jumble invented by my relative.
Keep what up?
What was I doing?

Eating.
I was chomping on a dessert that my aunt had prepared tenderly.
I was at peace with the world
but my uncle's comment left me distraught.

End up like my mother?
That's all I've ever wanted.
My beautiful, kind, selfless, assertive mother.
She was clever as a fox and delicate and a pink pedal.
End up generous and strong?
Yes please!

Still,
This man watching me eat,
Says it as if it is something to avoid.
There wasn't a correlation that could be made in my mind.

Years later,
I revisited the scene,
Only to have my heart weep for that small girl.
That tiny, confused child quietly nibbling on her cake.

Her mother also eating the treat,
But a larger helping for a larger woman.
She had always been large,
But in my mind that meant more room
For love and passion and aspiration.

"Keep that up and you'll end up like your mother."

I did grow over time,
As most children do.
My pounds piled on
And my skin stretched to make room for the garden growing inside of me.
My body grew larger.
But so did my honesty, my beauty and love for the world.

Maybe I did keep up eating cake,
And maybe I did grow in size,
But to say that 'I'm just like my mother',
Is the best complement I could receive.

Scrape the sides of my stomach for emotion.
I know it's in there somewhere;
somewhere past the flesh-eating butterflies and yesterday's *****.

You say you'll help me swim,
But only when I'm drowning.
Those words **** my butterflies and fill their space with warmth.

Treading water in the murky pool of blood in my brain has never been easy;
a lifeguard may be just what I need.

You're not a physic,
You're not a doctor,
But you're helping,
And I can't thank you enough.

Seventeen girls are lined up on a sidewalk;
Each one a year older than the one beside her.

Hello, One.
All things pure and graceful.
A perfect accident that would put a nebula to shame.
You aren't anything, yet you are so loved.

How do you do, five?
A cluster of merriment and wonder.
I'm sure you're well.
Tell the fairies I still love them.

Hi, Fourteen.
You're nailed in a blizzard,
And I'm sorry.
Lighting yourself on fire will not prevent you from dying.
You will make it.

Good evening, sixteen.
You are kind and harsh; everything you should be.
You're the girl every child is scared to become.

Hello, seventeen.
You're here, you're alive;
And that's all you need to be.
You've been cut, killed, milked and fed to dogs.
Yet you're still here.

But on the opposite side of the pavement, I see more.
Eighteen, nineteen, twenty.
I can see for miles.

I've only been able to read about the past.
I can mail old friends,
re-watch films.

But for the first time in my existence,
I can see a future.

I see girls learning, loving and growing in ways that I can't yet understand.

That's why I thank you;
All of you.
One through seventeen.
You have nearly killed me,
But I owe everything to you.

Close your eyes.
What do you see?
Darkness, maybe.
Or do you see colours?

Fluorescent , vibrant hues of wonders;
Dancing under your eyelids.
The sun, sending warm tangerine waves into you.
The moon, kissing you goodnight with rich inky indigos and blues.

Cover your ears.
What do you hear?
Silence, maybe.
Or do you hear voices?

Expired conversations that replay differently each time.
****** retro punk tunes you can't remember the names of.
You send yourself letters when no other sound can be heard.
Your address is never forgotten and nothing is left unsaid.
  
You don't need light to see.
You don't need noise to hear.
Just look and listen ,
and you will feel.

Things feel different when you’re drunk,
Things feel rubber when you’re drunk

Belly aches painted with doubt,
You are my everything,
This I’m sure of.

Yet I feel your butterfly hands dance around me,
Your ladybug eyes telling me that
To you, this is more than play.

Blowing a wax candle will just cause a spill.
I let you fly, flap and crawl into my carcass.
Until I find my wings I’m your meal for the taking.

My skin is splitting at the seams like a poorly made children’s sweater,
being worn by a planet so big
that it becomes its own universe

My blood still flutters
at the thought of you being
all I thought you were.

My face gains a freckle
every time
I remember that you and I watch
the same sunset every night.

Is it ever gonna be enough?
Treading water is getting old.
Can’t live with you,
can’t live without you.

He fills my freckles with blue,
My hair with yellow.
Oh to see the world as you do,
I would give every future breath
for a moment of clarity.

You say art is alive,
and yet here we are.

Perfectly sculpted,
sure.
Precisely detailed,
of course.
Objects all the same.

Don't you see us looking back?
Gazing into me,
What do you see?

Concepts,
ideas,
philosophies,
reflections.

Reflections.
That's it.
Isn't it?

Wanting me to want you;
needing me to need you.
Holding your hand,
no matter how heavy it gets.

It's tiring,
reminding you what you already know.
Existing for more than your pleasure,
being more than a mirror,
just.. being.

I think it's enough.
No.
I know that it is.
Doubt only creeps in
when you look at me.

I am human.
I am a universe of my own.
When I feel your stare,
why can't you feel mine?
Have you already forgotten?

Your pupils are no blacker than mine,
no less of a lens to see myself in.
Don't you see us looking back!

Every time your eyes meet mine,
I see you.
I simply see you.
It isn't difficult,
nor should it be.

You were right.
Art is alive,
and I am no exception.

Your thumb is a searing fear,
Dipped in lava and filled with ice.
Your smile makes me feel wanted.
Why can’t I say your name?

The sparks that fly from your ember hair,
The sun who sits in your golden eyes.
Do you know how beautiful you are?

Your redness melts into pink cheeks,
Flushed with an unknown secret.
I see a whole landscape in your face.
I wonder if you see anything in mine.

There's familiarity within this young feeling.
Your hope is freedom I flourish on.

First hand held,
kiss stolen,
neck marked,
thigh bruised.

All is foreign to us both,
Yet I feel ancient in your arms.
You paint me in certain a light that can only be seen in the blackest of nights.

Yellow glow swatches your eyes with pure affection,
I feel you everywhere.
You drink me and suddenly my body is nowhere to be found.
The puzzle pieces are fitting quite nicely.
Through loving you,
I feel beyond loved.

Sickly sweet boys fill honey combs like goblin hands in tiny gloves.
They taste like gummy vows and glass letters.
These boys will rot you from the inside out,
painting organs with grainy sugar,
which dissolves to sour acid.
Beware!

Sickly sweet boys know the right flavours,
yet their labels are flawed.
Always lick before biting.
Toothaches are common,
but sugar rushes won’t last forever.

Sickly sweet boys don’t stay sweet for long.
Candy loses tang over time,
coating is just coating.
Inside is a viperous liquid that oozes like oil.
Ebony, boiling, sticky.
Your tongue will never be pink again.

last night you touched me
and it made me cry.

my damp cheeks baffled you.
your stare was one of terror,
one of guilt.

my love,
it is only me.
my corpse is the evil one.

you unraveled your hand,
mine for the taking .
I wanted it,
a safe place.
I refused.

you kept it there,
open invitation,
just in case.

you sang me songs til'
my lips could curve again.
you stroked my hair,
crumbling to dust
between your fingertips.

i wish i could be better,
for you,
for us both.

in my dreams,
i can be her.
i am your soft place to land,
somewhere to call home.

in your arms,
i am only human.
tiny and decaying,
a crybaby through and through.

last night you touched me,
and i found myself trapped
within that frigid august.
underneath those mint sheets,
underneath him.

i need to you to believe
that your crybaby,
is more than just
a sad song to sing.
i need you.

dimmer every second,
the light behind my eyes
still smoulders everyday.
for your sake,
i will fan its fire for evermore.

tears may freeze this winter,
but i vow to be your blanket someday.

She plucked dandelions from the earth,
as if they were ingrown hairs
living under her skin.
For the earth feels no pain,
and weeds only grow back.

Snowflakes melt,
flowers die.
Some things only last a summer,
but she had already seen a snowfall this May.

The life of a yellow plant can’t be fair,
nor can that of a woman without joy.
We breathe,
we pick,
we...

The solid green field is now a reminder of all she wanted,
and all she feared.

Where do they go,
the dead dandelions?
Rot back into the soil that birthed them?
Press into an immortal being?
One thing is for certain;
those dandelions will never feel at home again.

-and maybe that’s for the best

His flesh is made of tulips and glitter,
He takes like spice.
I run my fingers through his honeycomb strains,
And I admire my beautiful boy.

His tongue preys into my words,
Taking me as his own.
Skin hot, and blood boiling.
I am his tonight.

But then my eyes dry,
My tongue finding itself again.
But he is nowhere to be found.
How could such a lovely building have no furniture?

I want to delve inside him,
Sink into his chest,
Become him for a day.
My greatest fear is that there’s no one to become.

My beautiful boy is that and nothing more.
Is it enough?
Will his hot skin keep me warm through the winter?

All I know is his morning eyes
And mountain teeth give me something I’ve never felt before
And maybe that’s all I need;
For now

berry stained grins,
gentle beings.
dialogue so fluffy
we float right through.

through the walls,
past our flesh.
comfortably distant from
picking at sticky bones.
we make the rules here.

milky whites,
and god those muddy doorways.
whiskey bottles softly napping
upon the river's clay.
summer music cracks through,
glowing like starlight.
were you always this beautiful?

our halloween house,
bigger than enough for two.
even the heaviest of winters
swallowed like salt and cream.

who knew it'd be this easy?
i don't miss eating fingernails.
you are all i have,
and you are all i need.

at the end of my life,
I don’t think
they’ll be any poetry
left to write.

Why do spring and autumn look the same here?
Tears always taste saltier in April.
May flowers never come.
Why,
on the day I felt most afraid,
did the water in the creek stand still?
Doesn’t the water care about me?
Does this creek not weep for the dying trees around it?
For the fish whose corpses quietly float down on it’s floor?

This crow seems to know.
Alone, he squawks,
mauking my pain.

Maybe I’m the stranger,
The irrelevant dot in a map more complex than my cogged brain can understand.
Or maybe the world does dance all around me  each day,
Choosing to ignore my thoughts and actions.
But it’s selfish to think like that, right?
Or perhaps that’s just me falling in love with myself.

A mouthful of sorry before I'm even at fault.
Careful tiptoes across an icy layer of conversation.
I will burst through the thin floor.
I always do.

I'm so sorry.
I don't know why I'm like this.

I am a house without a single window.
No air allowed inside of my swollen lungs.
No vacancy in the clogged doors to my words.
Please keep out.

I really do apologize.
I'm such a ******* mess.
I'm not poetic
Or artistic
Or anything but terrible.
I'm sorry that I'm terrible.
You see, I really can't help it.
Except I know that I can.

I'm drowning,
I'm drowning so fast and I need someone to tell me I'm going to breathe again.
There's no air allowed in my flooded pipes and
I am now humbly dead.

Now that my body is an abandoned house,
There is something I must confess:
I'm scared.
I am really ******* scared.

Getting out of bed today
was a labour of love