nobody likes pretty anymore,
they want the dirt and the grime,
they don’t want anything to rhyme,
they want bodies washed up on the shore.
all they ever want to see are bruises,
people put to death with stones,
cars running over orange highway cones,
the sadness of the long lost muses.
they want blood and gore and death,
they want crosses and flowers beside the road,
if you gave them pretty they’d implode,
because they exhale beauty with every breath.
that’s probably why they like me so much,
because I wear dead things as a cloak,
but it’s faux fur and it’s making me choke,
making my skin burn with every touch.
but they love that ****, they eat it for breakfast,
they use my battle wounds to decorate,
all they seem to do is hate,
my dying body is their aesthetic.
they’re the opposite of a welcoming committee,
they only want you if you’re broken,
they use you as “my friend is depressed!” token,
but all you wanted was to feel pretty

She’s got a heart of gold behind rotted lungs;
she has brass teeth and a silver plated tongue.
She’s the darkness before the sunrise that you always stay up to greet;
she’s the ****** nose you get when you trip over your feet.
She’s a fire-breathing dragon with a hoard of broken hearts,
and if you lined them up by time, her’s would be at the start.
She’s not afraid of anything, at least that’s what she says,
but her hand can’t help but shake when she puts it into his.
She’s a lion when she’s angry, a mourning dove when she’s sad,
she may drive you crazy, but she’s the best you've ever had.
She’s both the damsel and the knight, the beast and the slayer,
just when you think you've seen it all, you find another layer.
An Empress in her own right, you’ll think she’s got it made,
but she’d have lit herself on fire if it would've made him stay.
She’ll tell her she’s crazy during your first official fight,
you’ll immediately regret it when she won’t let you stay the night.
She’ll nurse you when you’re sick and kick you when you’re down,
but you’d break open your own rib-cage just to fashion her a crown.
She’s your worst nightmare and still your best recurring dream,
her gentle touch will make anything better than it seems.
When you lose her it feels like you've lost a war,
you’d give anything just to dance with her like before.
It’ll feel like you've lost your other half,
which you very well just could have.

My life has turned into a series of numbers:
days, dollars, pounds;
like an equation in math class
my life has become too complex
to complete without technological assistance.
Even forming words,
it feels like I’m counting:
letters, syllables, lines,
like maybe if I just keep calculating,
I’ll find the remedy for it all,
find the answer to my heavy head,
because if the answer to the ultimate question
of life, the universe, and everything
is 42
then maybe I can plug it in
behind the “equals” sign
and solve for “x,”
solve for the achey bones and weary eyes,
solve for the rusted parts of our souls,
but I’m tired of trying to find an answer,
because maybe there is no answer,
maybe we’re all just a bunch of monkeys
on a spinning rock,
all of us just trying to survive
before our sun collapses.
And maybe that’s okay.

Depression is like wearing a fur coat
in the middle of summer,
with nothing underneath.
It is heavy, and *****,
and probably smells bad,
and you are sweating under its weight,
but you can’t take it off
because you don’t want
people to see you naked.
And they always ask,
“Why don’t you just take it off?”
And they don’t understand that you are too bare,
too raw,
to go outside without it;
that underneath the pelts
of dead things on your back,
you are frail,
and they would ravage you without it.
And you want nothing more
than to take it off,
throw it out,
but it’s scary
to let the world see you
without its coverage.

There is a kingdom,
out past the conscious bounds,
where the wild ones live.
Those who are more free
than our own bodies
would ever let us be.
But if one’s soul
is in touch enough
with the truth
of the universe,
they will be welcome.

Planted during a rainless spring,
we tried so hard to grow;
the soil was so rough,
and we couldn't take root.
The summer storms were ******* us,
but we held our ground,
shaking in shallow earth.
And when fall came,
you turned a different color than me,
but we lost our leaves just the same.
Winter came far too soon,
freezing us in place.
Our branches barely touching,
we knew we wouldn’t make it.
And when spring came again,
we woke up with deadened twigs,
and I was half uprooted,
but oh god, how I tried,
I tried to grow with you, I swear,
and I begged you to help me grow, too,
but you were too close to the sky
to even hear me

you are a house
made of flesh and bone.
throw rugs of blonde
on a hard wood floor.
only two windows,
that are usually closed.
your door
never fails to open
when I need it to.
your nerve endings
and veins
are the tangled bedsheets
on the floor
with our clothes.
you are a house,
made of bruises,
and cat scratches,
a house
with a fireplace in your chest,
coaxing people in
when it's cold.
You are a house,
but you are not a home.