dear girl who kissed the boy i love: i hope you found the spot that makes him laugh, i hope you found god in his ******* hands

love will start out by igniting fireworks in your ribcage and leave you feeling like a gunshot aftermath

whether you think adam and eve were human bodies
created by the hands of an insurmountable man or
collections of stardust created by the most
beautiful explosion there's ever
been, i know that when they were first being taught to taste
language they were shown a picture of me in place of the words
'natural disaster.' it's not my
fault i burn down every
building i touch. girls try to
save me and boys try to
change me but it's all just dust in the
end, i'll always go to bed smelling like
smoke. sometimes
i imagine myself as the lost rings of
neptune, floating
aimlessly in space, being as bright as the corona of a cracked open
sun, but everything always ends in
damage. meteorites are bound to
shoot from my trembling hands like
lasers. i once had a
boy who was the most exquisite
galaxy i'd ever
met and the minute he
kissed me he erupted like a
volcano, like
everything i'd ever said never
meant a thing. at his
funeral i cast apologies his family's
way by means of making
magnolias spring up from beneath
their feet. when people
die, the universe grows a
garden up to them, their souls floating in outer
space, using the tears of their
loved ones as
nourishment. cry for me. please
believe me, i didn't mean for katrina to
happen, and i'm
sorry sandy was a result of my
stomach flu. the
earthquake in los angeles this morning was my
fault, i'm sorry i can't keep my hands in
control anymore.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k39eiQnym2I

watch my poem i won my local poetry slam with

being a poet is not
sentimental. it’s not
pretty. there’s nothing romantic about diving off a
bridge just to hear the water reverberate the sound of your ex lover’s
name. rain sounds like nothing but
falling blood and you’re always angry that it ruins your
shoes but is never enough to really
**** you. being a poet is a degenerative
brain disease, i heard
once. there’s some things doctors can’t
fix. there’s other things doctors can’t
name. all medicine starts to sound like it’s named after
a god. words never say what you actually
mean. you’re bleeding stanzas at the
mouth and everyone files past
you like you’re a waste of
time. when people tell you you say pretty
words you erupt like the earthquake in los
angeles this morning because the words might sound
pretty but what you’re saying
isn’t. everything weighs so *******
heavy on your shoulders and you hold the names of your ex
lovers names on your
tongue until they melt into
blood. i don’t know where your
hands are, nobody
does. the wolves are the only things that even have a
hint of what your thriving heart is shouting. you’re bound to feel too
much and at the funeral service of a man you’ve never
met you’re going to be crying in the
corner while everyone wonders who you
are and why you even
care. your words save so many lives but they’re bound to miss a
few, especially
yours.

today, my best friend’s
boyfriend pulled a bag of
coke out of his jacket
pocket at the restaurant
table. i asked him if he wanted to
****
himself. he said drugs have never been a
dial tone, the only people they
do any damage to are the ones who don’t know what they’re
doing. i was born holding these names in my
mouth: river, jimi, darby, amy, jim… and
i’ll die knowing how much they
weigh. drugs aren’t a
privilege. i knew this long before my best
friend found her boyfriend on his bathroom
floor, blood dripping out of his
mouth like a lost
lifeline, like a wounded
animal she could never have
saved. i know i’d rather kiss junkies than
angels but i don’t want to taste that
pain, i don’t want my
mouth to mean something more than it
does. drugs bring you to the
top of the tallest thing you know
of, then strike you like a lightning
bolt until you crash into the
ground like the grey sisters in nyc
did once. i asked if he wanted to ****
himself, and he never even
heard me.

if you listen closely you
can still hear the titanic’s jazz
band lulling its mourners to
sleep, saying
they’re sorry it had to end this
way, the
iceberg was born with
revenge in her bloodstream and
as sweet as 1500
deaths tasted, she
is still bitter, because
everybody cries for the
passengers, but
god, dear god, what about
the **** ship?