she would pull her hair
mouthing silent screams
of anger
pain
frustration
guilt.
the tears would be coming too fast
and she would be choking
on her own saliva.

she was a frozen child
for all eternity.

her bones were strong
her skin still soft
her hair always silky

even though she was six feet underground.

writing a poem
is like
setting yourself
on fire.

the metal was cool
and numbed his fingertips
luckily he was still able to
pull the trigger.

I whipped out my flashlight
and opened the closet door
the monsters turned out
to really be fallen coats

question mar
ks???
written in pen with the brightest,
reddest
ink
dominate my thoughts
seeping in to
the curve of every comma,
filling the soft space
of every 'O'
clinging around the hard edges of every period
...e v e r y
                 w h e r e...
"where are my
exclamation poi
nts?"
I scream???

what if one day
the truth finally comes out?
for every lie uttered
from every
man's
woman's
boy's
girl's
lips,
there is one truth.
we see past all the facades on this day,
and see inside their souls.
we see
we feel
we know
the truth.
the lies
(the cheap disguise)
is finally gone.
some will laugh
some will cry
and the world will be destroyed.

they check the arms for angry crisscrossing trails

but they never look anywhere else.

you are so very inconsiderate
you do not taste the sweetness of their
s o u l s  like I do
you do not savor the ice from a man's veins,
cooling your white bone snappers
like I do
you do not study a blue green brown black red purple yellow orange
i r i s
like I do.
you do not live
with other people's hearts
deeply set
in your marred palms
like I do.

hearing useless chatter
feeling gusts of breath
seeing bleeding ink
tasting bitter loneliness
smelling puffs of stale air
being a                   g  h  o  s  t  .

the hollows under her eyes
got deeper
as invisible hands
scraped further.

sometimes he'd sit in his room
feet on opposite thighs
holding a kitchen k n i f e
tightly in both palms
ready to a t t a c k
the m o n s t e r s
if they got too close
to his q u a k i n g
shoulders.

their eyes carve letters in to my back, spelling out words that will break me.

my words fumble
and trip over one another
screaming on the way down.

half scribbled thoughts
written with darkness
cover sheets and sheets of paper
and litter the floor
of my already disorganized mind.

in the morning
ill be alright
but for now
I let the tears come freely.

there is no feeling equivalent to that of scribbling your thoughts down in a crowded public train.

life is an opportunity with skies filled with pink, showing us we can be whoever we need to be.

life is an inevitable sadness ready to cascade around our shoulders and swallow us whole.

the night sky looks sickeningly beautiful to an insomniac.

words
are the blood
in my thin
yet bulging
                              veins.

do they wonder about who I am
about who I was
about who I could be?
or am I just a face?
trapped in the cage that is society
with no known key to fit the lock.

my mind is a mess
of spilled ink and fluttering pages
of nameless faces and faceless names
of pink sunsets and choking waves
of dying grips with icy flesh
if spreading smiles with no conviction
of e v e r y t h i n g .
and it is too much to handle.

I wonder
                    if my name
                    is tattooed
                    on the inside
                    of your                    eyelids

like your name
                    is tattooed
                    on the inside
                    of mine.

she whispered to me
while bodies lay asleep
under the cool crumbly dirt

"I sharpened my knife
especially for your back.
I hope you appreciate it,
my dear."

our glass society is made of
broken girls
and
shattered boys.

she despised the word.
d e p r e s s i o n.
it was so heavy
like the disorder itself.
they both wetly clung to her
thin frame
wrapping around her
suffocating her
completely.

sometimes I wonder
about him
and if he really gave up on me
or if I pushed him away myself.

once is enough
to form an addiction
and that is why
the collection of scars
decorating her hip bones
grew and grew.

she was not in school for a week after that.
no one thought twice about it.
"maybe she's just sick..."
·
and she was sick
just not in the way they imagined.
not in the way they have all felt before;
not in the sneezing way
or the coughing way
or the sore throat way.
no, the delicate daisy had a
c o n t a m i n a t e d
mind.

she separated from her group of friends,
no,
she separated from
e v e r y o n e .
eventually, everyone stopped trying to talk with her,
they stopped yearning for her happiness.
except him.
the ache inside his bones was stronger than ever
and he wanted to caress her arms and whisper
"you are okay we are okay are you okay"
but his fear kept him back.
what could a girl like that, as alone as she now is,
want with a guy like him?

buckets of water fell from the sky,
some would call it an angel's tears.
great booms struck the sky
vibrating in her toes
as if she were at a bowling alley.
the sky sometimes lit up
with crooked purple flashes.
the story weather
matched her stormy mood

the knock was loud and booming
my bones vibrated under my skin
I twisted the **** under my palm
and let my monsters in.

her lips were as red as the blood dripping from a fresh wound.
they were as dark as anger and as passionate as love.
they ignited fires, if only under his skin.
they glistened in the light, as she swept her tongue across.
they were all he wanted, all he aspired for.
he watched her painted lips form the soft p's and round o's
of their everyday language.
he watched her lips pull back with sheer happiness
and he found himself grinning along with her.
she took something so common, like pouting with distaste,
and made it so astonishingly glorious.

her hair splayed down her back
like pieces of the night stitched together
and threaded delicately in to her scalp.
it appeared to be as soft as a goose's feather
and he just wanted to run his fingers through
her glorious locks.
the contrast was bright and worth a second look
...and a third and a fourth and a fifth and a...

her eyes held rain and cloudy weather.
they stored lightning and harvested thunder.
they churned waves and teemed with froth.
they were as bright as who she was,
and she was as bright as what they were.
as they flickered over the clumps of warm masses,
he hoped with shaky breaths
that those eyes would land on him,
if only for a second.

she was as pale as they come
smooth and silky skin
white as fresh dripping paint
all he wanted to do
was take a gliding pen
and draw his story on her body
in the darkest of ink.

My whole world is crumbling
like a cookie
dipped in milk
pieces left drowning
because who cares
about just one cookie?

My whole world is burning
like white, crisp paper
that was lit
on fire
by a neon green lighter
the smell of smoke fills the air
ashes litter the floor
because who cares
about just one piece of paper?

My whole world is collapsing
like a happy yellow house
after a sad grey storm
chipped paint
fallen beams
wooden splinters
broken dreams
because who cares
about just one house?

My whole world is nothing
a beige wall
a blank canvas
a dropped call
a dead battery
a fizzled out light bulb
a misheard whispered word
because who cares
about just one girl?

Use rusty scissors
to cut open your skin.
That skin bag is too hot,
too constricting.

But once you step out of your flesh
you feel coldness seep in to your bones.
You are a skeleton.
A dancing skeleton.

Twirl, dip, bow.
Dance your way across the stones
and in to hearts
that now miss you, strangely.

They call for you
but you ignore them.
The twirling skeleton keeps on twirling.
It twirls in to its own world.

Swallow your words.
they are sharp
and cut your throat
like glass shards.

Glass from a broken bottle
that once had a note
written by a shaky hand
that read, "help me."

my breath fogs up the glass,
wet vapor forming puffs
on the surface.
I raise my hand
and pound,
the sound is deafening
but the boom is only in my ears.
for they are separated
they hear only
the warm flickering candles
that smell like apple cinnamon.
the glass is chilled
against my closed fist
it freezes my fingers
and glues them together
but I know
that it is warm
loke their heavy breaths
on the other side.
I scream
but at the same time
they joyously laugh
and their happiness
drowns out my pain

I want to dig my nails in to my skin,
and drag,
peeling and bleeding the tears I must not shed.
I will leave little crescent moons
that will glow
as pale
as a child's milk.

I want to pound my thighs,
and bruise,
breaking and destroying all frustrations.
Great booms will shake this earth
and stories will be told
about these booms
for generations.

I want to rip the hair from my scalp,
and shred,
tearing and pulling all smoke clouds away from my mind.
The ***** smoke puffs will dissipate
and I will be able to
finally
think clearly.

Even through the wars,
When society kicked my feet out from under me,
Even when my knees were scraped and bloodied,
When hot fire tears burned my chapped lips,
Even when I snapped like a worn rubber band,
Whipping your skin and making you yelp,
Even when my words were dipped in poison with barb wired tips,
You were there.

You,
With your white silk feathers,
And permanent glow,
And undying flames in the hushed snow.
You,
Holding out your hands,
Palms facing the sky,
Pulling me off the dusty floor, covered with glass shards.

The words are too hard
To leave my soft lips,
So I write a quiet message
That should be screamed from rooftops:

Thank you.

Dried tears
stick permanently to pale faces
too old for her years
her eyes stay wide so she notices
everything.

But she's sleepy
she wants to slither underneath
away from all this weeping
her arms ache from holding up
everything.

She begs for release
jams words in to her ears
but the poisoned snaps don't cease
she is tired of dealing with
everything.

They think I am normal
if they even think of me at all.
But oh, if only they know
my mind is
black and frying
grey and booming
white and blinding
brown and dying
purple and bruising
blue and flashing
green and living
yellow and shining
orange and glowing
red and bleeding
pink and kissing
chaotic
amazing
too much
for me
to
handle

You pick up your needles
and knit together your lies
you make a scarf
of all different feelings
blue, red, green, yellow
beautiful
but that doesn't mean
i don't hate it.
You drape it around my neck
wounding it around and around
tight, tighter, too tight
i choke back my words
i now look beautiful
but that doesn't mean
i don't hate you.

They slither around cob webs
and hide in the crook of my elbow
attached to me
like a child clinging to his mother on the first day of Pre-K
hideous and scowling
but then beautiful and glowing
either way I keep it pressed to my chest
i breathe in the putrid smell
but I am now used to the scent
it purrs and snuggles closer
and I don't pull away

my lungs are whispering
softly, quietly
telling me secrets they heard
from my heart's beating
i cover my ears
trying to block out the murmurs
but the words slip past the gaps in my fingers
and slither in to my ears

my ankles are chafed
and stained with red
you look me in the eye
and rub dirt in to my wounds.

the reason why
some people hate poetry
is because we tell the  t
                                         r
                                             u
                                                  t
                                                      h

which is what they most fear.