You'll use the excuse
That tastes like apple
And burns like poison
To justify your lust
And your desire to hurt
But drunk actions
Are honest thoughts
And you have never been more
Truthful

i. i have convinced myself i look the most beautiful with bruises and
hair that has not been brushed.
ii. sensitivity is my virtue. i wear it on my eyelashes and cry it all
off so i look like a raccoon waiting to be abandoned.
iii. i think if you opened me up inside you would find
books with dog-eared pages and
dandelions.
iv. if i fall in love with you, hold me down with cords
and fabrications.
v. i’m wearing lipstick too much, because all i can think of
lately is your fingers in my mouth and the
cliffs i need to jump off
of.

broken bones
torn down sympathy
i weep not for you
but those around you
who are covered in your darkness
spewed across their white clothing, are you
mocking their purity with your sullied words
they stand there still
too sunken to move again
their will has been removed
and now they stay with compliance
your ability for worship ties them to the ground
never allowing them to drift
peacefully away from the pain you provide
with every
waking
moment
wide awake and torn
i kneel
praying for your forgiveness
if that is what you intended
forcibly, i rip
the threads of your manipulation from my back
and struggle to my feet
you impress your power over me
but i refuse to linger
with my new found freedom
i spit at your feet and turn from you
walking into the oncoming slaughter
of distant storming clouds

the dead re-materialise by the side of the roadside
they are visible as though seen through a spotlight
it is a brutally interrogative light
that magnifies these corpses
makes them resemble the fragments
of suicidal terracotta pots
it magnifies them as symbolic equivalents
of their real image
its beam dazzles broken glass on the pavement
the breakage an impersonation of their cataclysm
causing the edges of seeing to hurt
and hearing to submerge itself
in a turquoise blue aquarium in fear
as speech sounds a primitive retreat
in its atavistic echoes of inveterate distraction
there is a disorder of blood stains on the road
where all emotional impulse is volatilised
causing a wild distillation of programmed anxiety
which in a different vocabulary becomes
a figment of somebody else's imagination
causing a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy of sound
in palpitations, dropped heartbeats, nausea, headaches
and a foul change in bowel function

I wrote you a poem
Titled it gravity
For your lack of it
And how that made me want you more
Called the scars in your eyes stability
Those were the only things that remained
I am looking for sand to set my anchor on
This is how i just keep sinking
But you
You were fluidity in motion you were the
Once a week reminder that
Typhoons hit and people change
When my moods were changing tides
On the days my speech was so rapid and my eyes so clear it made everyone want me
Atleast thats how it appeared to me
But for the days when my arms drag me out to sea and you have a hand over these fists begging me to let go of these ******* bricks as you kick
Afraid ill drown us both
And i would
If it werent for the flight in your smle keeping us up
Afloat
I pray you dont drop me for the wight of us both can be too much for you to carry

"The problem is..."
he drawls
"that it is'nt us who see people differently from you,
but you see things different from us. We are not the problem you are.
You see the basest humans when we paint majestic creatures,
we tell stories of superheroes with no faults,
we expect our boyfriends to mirror night skies in their comfort,
and speak like Kerouac. Kiss our scars like white girl tumblr pictures."
"People like you," he says;
"...Dont ever **** yourselves. You're used to the disappointment. Your used to kissing your boyfriends sweaty upper lips and smelling...just that. You clean up the puke on bathroom floors without complaining because you know what people look like from the inside. That's why your art will never be good. Thats why today in class when I asked you to paint a human body cut open, you drew a colorless man with his organs splaying out of him, and *******" he laughs..
"I have to fold petals into my boyfriends armpits just to stand the sight of him
our ******* is'nt *******,
its *******. Supposedly.
When I tell this story later,
I'll leave out the spit and saliva and how the human body
aint that pretty, especially *******. Even 6 ft 3 chiseled muscle of it, ill write metaphors about his eyes and similes to his fists,
you will tell us about the humaness of his breath and how
it annoyingly kept you up at night,
you will speak of storms but not of the ones in his eyes.
The ones in your belly
when he farts during *** and you will
describe every putrid detail, like the fact that waking up in the morning aint so pretty,
morning breath is something we dreamers leave out in movies. And, it must be exhausting
living here seeing things how they really are, but atleast when you expect disappointment, theres room for surprise.
People like me expect the good and are disappointed when its ****** on."

You want someone
to write sad poems
about you as they
wait all alone.

But she is not here.
She doesn't have time
to write about you.
She's too busy fighting fear.

So wait at my door
or wait at my grave.
I wait for no one.
Not even a word more.