the reason why
I still open my eyes
is for the shock of the
               c o l o r s .

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.

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

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

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.

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  .

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?

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...

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.

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.

only in the thick heat of summer
do I start to miss
winter's frosty bite.

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.

"welcome to Hell, darling."

he mumbled


and I nodded
taking the poison
from his lips


and sticking it between mine

I was a chimney

the smoke billowed up

clogging the room




"isn't it a lovely view?"

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.

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."

one day my teacher asked me
why I always wrote in lowercase letters
her glasses perched on the top of her beak
she squawked,
"you were not taught that in school, young lady.
it is not proper, young lady."

and I gripped my pen tighter
or maybe a little looser
it's hard to tell lately.

but I looked in to her black beady eyes
and disapproving frowny face
and whispered "see how I am whispering
do you see how you are leaning closer
like I have a secret
more intimate, correct?
that is my writing:
an intimate secret.
for you"

anxiety is a rope
made of the strongest fibers
that takes joy in slithering down your throat
and wrapping around your intestines.
it coils so very tightly
twisting and turning and tying
until you are on your knees
gasping for breath
and wishing for invisibility

                                                (or­ death,
                                                          ­      whichever is easier)

he said
I was as beautiful
as the scenery
behind me

I glanced
over my shoulder
only to find
a beige wall

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

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

blue
green
brown
eyes
skittering
up and down
my back
tiny mice
without their
cheese

I drag my nails down my thighs
creating furious jagged lines
surrounded by cloudy milk white.

it stings less than the sadness I feel.

boy, do I miss
you
everything about
you
when you kissed
me
I felt supernovas
exploding and
you
left bruises staining
my
neck that
I
never want
to heal.

so many thoughts
ricocheting off the sides of
my hard white skill

I let them out
not by speaking
(words stumble awkwardly and
all at once)

but by
w r i t i n g
(words finally flow and make sense)

my feet are not touching the floor
I am not gripping this pen
I am not me
I am not here

I float above my-body and everybody
I am loosely tethered to the girl
with the terribly dead eyes

do you have a scissor?
s
n
i
p
.
.
.

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.

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

while I was unconscious
on the operating table
dressed in white
stained in red
I had a vision
of a little girl
crying darkened tears
with an expression so pained
that I wanted to hold her hand
between my blue ones
and cry with her
mingling our tears
until we were one.

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

drowns everyone out
but I start breathing.

he liked to count his ribs
( 1 2 3 4 ...)
and brush his nails against his collarbones
(so prominent...)
his palms cupped his knobby elbows
(years to perfect...)
and the sun shone between his thighs
(lighting up his world...)

his body was so very
     a l i v e
his heart beat in
   o v e r t i m e
meanwhile, his eyes were
     d e a d .

i am nothing
but a poet.

like so many others,
i use words
as a disguise
for pain.

we are an army
of word-weilders

feel our pain

I wore you like a bruise
                                                                                            proudly
                                                                            on my left cheek
                                                                  displayed for all to see
                                                                              you marked me
                                                                                 but I survived
                                                                                   on my cheek
                                                                            but you will fade
                                                                    and i will still be here

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.

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."

And you are the fire in my veins
sizzling
and traveling up my neck
licking my collarbones
skimming the underside of my ribs
finally you reach my ears
tickle them
and slip in to my head
burning it in to
a s h e s.

ice water clogs up my veins,
chilling me,
as most rises from my skin at dawn.
cerulean lips that match my eyes
spread over bared diamond teeth,
as I convulse and writhe on the steel table.
ribs crackle and split so suddenly
that not even a sharp gasp
can knive itself
past my throat.
organs fails and shrivel together,
abandoning me,
as gloved hands rip them out
from the incision along my belly.
my once silky tresses
fray and dry
before eventually falling out,
outlining my spasming figure.
grey brain matter numbs and
electrical impulses cease to a halt.
no more thoughts...
no more movements...
just a dead body with a beating heart.

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

like your name
                    is tattooed
                    on the inside
                    of mine.

but I will miss
writing
in the afterlife.

it was the only way
I could slice open my veins
and bleed out my words
without making a mess.

crisp pages
indented fom my pen's point,
whisper beneath the dry skin
of my cracked palm.
they flutter together,
butterfly wings,
and weave together a time
so melodious.

she is disgusted by me.
each and every day
her eyes scrutinize me
and my distinct flaws
her bitter words sting me
so very d e e p l y
"*****" "ugly" "what is wrong with you?"
sometimes tears roll down her gaunt cheeks
and I wonder
if I make everyone as sad
as I make her
she is a broken glass figurine
and to make herself feel whole again
she cut her skin
and created me.

he is the reason for the blood in my veins
and he is the reason for my finger on the trigger.

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

when our metal collided,
forming a beautiful mess of flames and exchanged paint,
they dragged my unrecognizable hunk of meat,
fire still dancing on my skin,
to a blinding, sterilized building smelling of alcohol and copper
usually reserved for bullets in the chest and praying mothers.

they pricked my arms and legs and chest and everywhere in between.
never was there a moment
where cool palms were not smoothing down
the few strands of hair still attached to my scalp.

howls never failed to fill the night-
every night-
and my father joined the wolf pack
once they whispered
"we have some bad news."

their methods had failed to see my body perfect again.
but what they didn't know
is that instead of dripping recycled blood
down the tubes jammed in the holes decorating my skin,
they should have poured words
in to my running river 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.

he approached me as the sky streaked pink
limping with tears streaming down his gaunt cheeks
he whispered to me under heavy breaths and groans
"someone cracked my ribs while I was asleep.
I woke up this morning only to find them broken
and marked with a delicate design of pain.
I shriveled and gasped and could not breathe
and I finally understand what you mean
when you speak of your depression."

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.

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.

color me the hue of your cigarette ash;

slam broken beer bottles in to my palm

and wipe the blood on an old t-shirt. 

paint me pretty with ***** red lipstick
(stolen from my mother)

and stuff me in to china doll shells. 

you say “this change will be good for you”

i say “this is too fun to stop”

my father says “oh good god, what have you done?”

but darling, let’s not listen to anyone else,

and continue tattooing memories on our skin.”

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