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.

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???

moonlight reflects
and your skin glitters
like the stars.
you are translucent,
I see the icy chill of your veins-
a striking blue
against the ghostly surface.

an apparition,
contrasted against the dark ink
of the 2 am sky.

I leak butterflies from the slits I'm my wrists
their wings flutter against my palms.

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

right now
in a distant place and time and feeling
someone is writing a poem

this poem could be a storm
raging on and breaking the hulls of ships
swallowing people and blowing the crossbones flags

or

it could be a pink poem
streaked with bright yellows and dazzling greens
making people laugh and giggle with delight

i could stretch out my fingertips
and hear the bones crackle-
i could connect to a poet and... magic

she missed the red hot trails
covering her thighs and bones.

they were her  a r t w o r k .

and I absolutely
hate
the way my voice
shook
as if an earthquake suddenly
struck.
and I absolutely
hate
how I had to
pause
and swallow the
words
that wanted to
escape.
and I absolutely
hate
the way I looked
away
so you would not see the
pain
hidden in my
eyes.
and I absolutely
hate
how much I absolutely
hated
myself in that
moment.

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

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)

beautiful words weaved with the ugly
to form a
p o e m .

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.

your throat closes up, making you
c h o k e
on your own words, your own shouts for help
nothing but tight lips and squinted eyes
portray any amount of emotions on your face
you want to screech, to tell someone to
h e l p   m e   I   n e e d   y o u
but no words
no squeaks
no whispers
escape past your hard teeth
finally
all alone
you begin to sOB

he said
I was as beautiful
as the scenery
behind me

I glanced
over my shoulder
only to find
a beige wall

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.

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.

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

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)

There was once a man made of beer bottles.
they clanked together as he walked
and the sound echoed for miles.
his mind was hazy and full of slush.
the bottles' weight made it difficult to walk.
and he could not hear his wife's screaming

                   his daughter's sobbing

his son's pleading

over those **** clanking bottles.

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

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.

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

they check the arms for angry crisscrossing trails

but they never look anywhere else.

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."

someone  c u t
off my crisp white wings
with a pair of
broken
rust covered
scissors

they ignored my desperate  p l e a s
and cries for help
and shouts of
"you are destined for hell!"

they left me  b l o o d y
with stinging tears dripping from swollen corneas
and scratch marks littering my and
and sunsets blooming on my thighs

I am
n o t h i n g
but the body
s t u m p s
on my back

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 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.

I'm going to rip my insides open
and bleed out drugs and cigarette ash.
watch my face contort in to pain
without my ink and guts.

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

like your name
                    is tattooed
                    on the inside
                    of mine.

they all tell me
that my dreams are
s t u p i d .
I can never be what makes my chest swell in pride
I can never be what makes my breath come easier
I can never be what makes my heart pulse faster under my skin
I can never be who I need to be
because of their
s t u p i d
comments
telling me that my dreams
are incredibly
s t u p i d .

my heart tap dances in my chest
almost skipping
out on my tongue
to escape the cavernous cage
that is my ribs.

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.

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.

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 day you died,
was also the day
that I died.
the only difference is
that you're six feet underground
and I'm a ghost
trapped in an ugly shell.

darling
you're too young to hate the world

too young
to be broken down
those rocks slung over your shoulder

look awfully heavy
mind if i
carry
them for you?

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?

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.

the empty static
on the old boxy television
show the sorrow
of a million lost souls.

1.
Hope was a girl with soft brown tresses
that swung around her shoulders as she laughed.
Hope was a girl with light hazel eyes
that shone like stars when she smiled.
Hope was a girl who always told me she was my bestest friend.

2.
but lately Hope's hair has been heavy with grease
her eyes have been dull with purple bruises underneath
and her voice is barely heard unless she says three little words.

3.
last night I shot Hope in the face
17 times, to be precise
she would not be mad
if her face was intact
i just could not take her
saying those three stupid words.

4.
"I've given up."

he pointed to my ribs
more importantly the space between them
and put his lips up to my ear
"you are n o t h i n g."

I wrote so many poems
for him
that impossibly
I was running out of metaphors.

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.

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.

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.”

I say I am okay
I am peaceful
blue waves slipping on to gritty blankets

but I know, deep down inside,
that Hysteria is bubbling on the edges of Her cauldron
she crackles and tells me to think of Her

she is lava
scalding and burning your tongue
lapping at the edges of my heart

I try to shove her away
but she eats my fingertips
exposing white bone

"lovely," my voice seeps out
under 3 blankets and 4 layers of darkness
"don't leave. I'd be empty without you."

and her carefully planned words leak in to my ear,
"darling," comforting in the chasm
"I'd never leave you."

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
.
.
.

I am nothing but a bag of unnecessary rocks slung over your shoulder. I am nothing but the wisps of smoke drifting from a cigarette, slowly fading as I travel in to the night. I am nothing but the cracks on a stranger's windshield after their hit and run- a flashback that will bring pain and guilt in to your shell. I am nothing but a hindrance, a fleeting thought, a horrid memory.

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."

i can feel the string threaded beneath
the thin skin on the inside of my wrist
it is my substitute veins
full of nothing but nothingness (so sim
ple) and I want to burst in to
a million trillion pieces of brightly colored
tissue paper that is not meant for noses
but the string becomes tighter
and tighter
and tighter still
until I feel the cotton ***** stuffed down my throat
and my lungs are constricted and set aflame
I can not find my sharpened scissors
let me check the other drawer