I am used to
the folds of the fire
burning hot on my skin,
the light it gives
a mockery of the darkness
I surround myself in.

I am used to
covering myself up
in the tidal waves of my sadness-
these tsunamis are my solace,
the way I drown is my comfort.

I am used to
how it feels like
being alone and sad and alone and sad;
these two words so simple,
so relatable
but not by you.

You are not used to
the black holes that form your sanctuary,
as much four walls as any room is
stars are not distant pinpricks
you restrain yourself from reaching for.

You are not used to.

do you know
of the bones that grow cold in
the spring?

kelly didn’t eat because everyone at her school called her fat.

have you seen
the cardigan sleeves
that cover patricia’s skin?

she cuts because she couldn’t feel anything anymore.

and do you know
bruised knuckles
that shoved food up my throat
as I retched over in the toiletbowl?

No.

You do not.

i feel you weave fear in me:
a sharp pinprick, an unsettling feeling,
then the thread enters.
sow it such that the two fabrics
become indiscernible from each other;
they are part of the whole now.
they are whole now.
only snip when this occurs.
you wouldn't want a messy piece left dangling on your lap.
that would be awfully clumsy of you.

copper tang in my mouth when you walk by
knee acting up just before you call
you're a regular thunderstorm
and my body, as always,
is attuned to yours

if i ******* on these sheets
will you just melt away?
will I be left with just your bones
to cradle and cry into-
tears hitting the husk
of what you used to occupy?

blitzkrieg,
that's what you are
an army couldn't fight you off
so how am I supposed
to save myself

I've forgotten


that I can't


won't



your ghost is a phantom menace.
your memories haunt my thoughts and the wisp that follows it around, trails after it-
the scent of death;
the touch of a broken promise.

And when I say I love you
I love you
I love you,
I wonder if you can hear the echoes behind my words:
I’ll wreck you,
I’ll wreck you,
*I’ll wreck you

Perhaps when the moon
Wanes
And waxes again
I will be myself
Starved out and skinny at first;
Then whole again.

i'd never seen anger like that. it was a living, breathing thing. it was tangible,
a separate entity from the tiny woman that towered before me.
it lashed out.
i fell.
its claws and screams left its mark on me;
my skin stings, my ears are ringing.
i would hunch into myself if i could, if it would mean everything would stop.
but my mother is determined to beat the gay out of me.
if i cry enough tears perhaps it will dilute my being into a single heterosexual figure,
another easily labeled and conforming thing,
a printed, approved statistic on sterile paper.

Kiss her eyelids,

My son: Learn to cherish her

Like she much deserves.

there are fire drills in my school
we practice evacuation routes
to prepare for the threat
of a burning, raging fire
but what about
the similar, all-consuming, scorching
blaze in my mind
is there a way out for me?

i could drown myself
- find solace in the underworld
of sirens and the ironic clarity the sea
has been known to provide, for all that
it has murky waters-
but my demons know how to swim.
they'd hoist me up
to ensure precious lungfuls of air
would be rammed down my throat.
survival is subtle ******.
i am immortalized in the moment
before the surface tension breaks.

they tell me I can have the world
if I would have their beliefs
they tell me I will not hurt
if I follow them mindlessly
they tell me such lies
I listen

you are not in love with me,  i want to yell,
you are in love with a fictional caricature.
the one i present, the one i script perfectly so you see no flaws
i hide my bad habits in the quirk of my brow,
falsely innocent when i shrug and say uncle,
so that you'll laugh and back down.
you'll forget about this, partially distracted and looking away,
and in that time you gaze off into the distance i will hide:
the lies i tell my mother about our relationship
the gumdrops i used to take from the sweet shop down the road
the breath that is stolen from my lungs when i cry silently at night.
i rush to bury these things in the knapsack i carry (stuffed full as it always is),
a literal weight on my shoulders.
you look back at me too soon.
i raise my brow.

i'm not angry anymore:
not fully.
the exhaustion has seeped through my bones,
and it's stuck in my marrow
and i'm sad and tired now.
this is just something to say
i love you
and i'm sorry
and i'm sorry i don't actually feel any of these things
because i can't
these statements are one of logic.

Your hand under mine-
your palm carefully laid out on my knee,
so gingerly, so fragile-
the heat that blossoms from it is wonderful.
I don't love you, not yet.
But I love the way your bones feel under my palm,
knitted white
under stretched skin.
And I love your hand, larger than mine,
over my knee, not quite sure whether you want it to stay yet;
not quite sure whether you want to stay yet.

I may love you just yet.

i wish
there were ways
you could let yourself out;
slip little bits of your soul
back into the wold
free it from your vessel,
your prison,
let it no longer anchor you.
the cracks in my skin:
be the gateway to
my end.

you will be buffeted by the winds
you will sail far over the seas,
skimming its surfaces;
the hot winds in the desert might parch you.
and you will have lived
as long as you think you did.

Ring-a-ring o' roses
A pocket full of problems
A scar here! A meal there!
We all fall


Down.

i colour in the white spaces of my drawings
the pen nib goes deeper and deeper
and on the other side of the paper, there's a mark.

the colour- originally an indigo blue-
becomes dark as the night
the colour is rich and singular;
it feels like the sea.
i wish it were.
my wishes don't come true.

maybe if i continue colouring over the same lines
again and again
the space will finally be filled.

there is a time in the night
when your breath catches
and it doesn't actually let go.
your marrow retreats a little further into your bones, it seems,
and there is a feeling of age
one can never express.
you are seventeen years,
but when each year is compounded
by all things horrific
the stars glow a little dimmer,
the clock's ticking a little louder.

I write words and words and words
all about you
I pretend that you will read them
Though I know you won't.
If you do- I am sorry.
If you don't- I am sorry that I am.
Please, don't give me another chance.
(Lies, all of them.)

She took her eyes out
Because she had seen too much.
But that didn't stop either,
So she took her brain out
Because even when everything was dark
It wasn't.

They called her crazy and put her in an asylum.

i love you*,
she wrote
in the secret of her palm
to remind herself.