i wear the scars on my wrist
like a painter glorifies
the acrylic under his nails.
both are quiet masterpieces
that gain
more
appreciation through
time

poetry is my ******* therapy
coffee is my god
cheap ***** numbs the pain
but hey at least i still made
the choice
to go on
living

thanks for calling me a ****.
i feel empowered
by my feminism.
i hope the girls
you bring to bed
can
really appreciate
your way with words
because nothing
makes the
******* drop
quicker

i got really drunk
and
peed
in a bathtub,
and it was
the happiest i've
been
in

a
while

i've decided to floss more
take long walks in the crisp air
do laundry
and stop wearing mismatched
socks.
i think i'll walk away
from my old heart
that liked to hold razors
when i cried
or walk under the moonlight
in bare feet letting the cold
color me blue.

the old heart that felt so many things,
too many things.

i've decided to organize my paint supplies in drawers,
and use a ruler when i draw.
through the motions,
i think,
i'll stop,
hurting.

But I tried, I tried so hard, and for nothing
Cheap, wasted, no returns
Not even a pretty little compensation
What did I expect
Your head was full of air when mine was abuzz with dictionaries

-cj

sunday bled down my legs
my petals bloomed
your bitten lips
and the smirks between my thighs
a burning kiss
the bathtub water turned murky
a  basin of sin
cutting up ******* lines
perfect symmetry
****** apartments with molded
carpets
kids with their hair bleached
love disillusions the mind  
   to me that's scarier
than a needle
puncturing veins
and
the long twist of train tracks
on lonely purple nights,
winter bitten cheeks

living inside a prism
that reflects the light
and breaks it into fragmented colors
that stain the white hallways,
your breath a sandstorm
my hands crave skin
any skin
my hands crave hands
and pumping bodies
to fill a void larger than the empty matter
that surrounds
our drooping heads.
my stomach is a green house
of sticky moisture
sickly green
the roots between my lungs
were ripped out with calloused fingers
and i don't think i've ever been held
with the intent to instill comfort.
no lips to kiss my bones and cloak
them in the idea
of having an existence that
isn't so
completely    alone

so it was like this...
so it was like when you convince yourself
you're in love
you tell yourself you're inlove
he tells you he's in-love
so anything that happens is out-of-love;
his body was a weight on mine
his body was a sunken ship on mine
my body wanted release
but it's okay, because he was in love with me?
his body slipped into mine,
it pushed
and it shoved
but it's okay because we were in love.
my body felt shut off
from the nerves that make up my
senses,
my mind escaped up into the ceiling,
i can picture those ceilings so well,
blank and textured
and the ***** light
leaving brown shadows
on the walls.
i watched the dust motes clumsily waltz
to a silent tune.
i wished i could hear that tune.
his body was a weight on mine
my body was empty
but it was okay
because we were in love.
it was okay because he loved me.
but i didn't feel anything