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You know you're only that chipped black nail polish, right?
  Jul 2015 Dylan Lane
Arlo Disarray
gelatinous blobs
of my intestines
pile onto the floor
as they pour out
of my esophagus

everything is displayed
neatly and perfectly
waiting to be judged
and accepted
or to be thrown away

millions of blood cells
swim vigorously
looking for an exit

and as I deflate, I wonder
"who's gonna clean up this mess?"
If the aliens landed tomorrow and offered to take me
Context : sitting on the train, headphones on, water bottle in hand, looking at the graffiti and countryside, thinking if i could escape from this planet (just me on my own) would i leave?
  Jul 2015 Dylan Lane
People who fight
their battles alone
either lose the battle
or lose themselves.
Dylan Lane Jun 2015
i've always been good
i thought
about cleaning out my wounds
and bandaging them
if not with proper bandages,
with clean salvaged items.
but i thought i was done, thought i wasnt going to pull so hard anymore and that i would be satisfied with thin red bubbles of blood that scabbed over in an hour,
i wasnt
so when the skin on my thigh split like an ocean, like a mouth,
i wasnt ready to disinfect properly.
bad relapse.
Dylan Lane Jun 2015
i just got back from a trip to japan and i know i should be grateful to my parents for taking me but i'm getting dizzy from blood loss, i never really had enough self control.
i've cut badly because i didnt have enough coping skills in japan and i bottled everything up
Dylan Lane Jun 2015
the body of this poem is about two bodies, sometimes poetic things are ***** and sometimes ***** things are poetic things under the dirt of what i'd been taught my whole life about my virginity. i was told that if i lost it i wouldnt be able to find it again. i was not told about a boy, tall and skinny and blonde, blue-gray eyes, i was not told that i would kiss him, i was not told that my kiss would be his first. i didnt know at the time that summer would collapse into one moment, i could never have guessed that two crazy transgender boys could coincide with virginity as strongly as we pressed our bodies together. i was fourteen years old and my body was a choppy pencil sketch of anorexia and rib damage, of breast tissue and scar tissue, of anxiety and hipbones. he was fifteen years old and to me he was beautiful, everything strange and weird in our brains was erased and forgotten, fogged up with our heavy breathing. i am wrapped up in firsts and lasts and the first time was not entirely the world-shattering that it was built up to be, we were built up, and then i forget why we stopped. but we stopped. but we stopped being far apart and afraid to tell each other how close we wished we were. we learned how to commit heavy sins, the kind that make you feel good. we learned that our relationship is textbook unhealthy, but unhealthy people means unhealthy partners means unhealthy- means *******, we are trying our best and *******, this is what love means. this tangle of fingers. we learned that we have to not only have secrets but become them. we didnt have to be taught what it feels like to need someone. we didnt need to learn how it tastes to be absolutely sure of something.
my entire life i was taught that i should save myself for a man, but instead i let go of myself and loved a boy.
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