you were ready for a conflict that never ended–
teeth bared, fists clenched, furious and broken,
spitting blood
on the image of a one-day corpse of yourself that
always threatened to become reality.
you learned to love with your claws out,
battling self hatred the way most people
have to deal with traffic on their way to work—
you hid your vulnerabilities like a lost lover, smiled so wide that it could tuck pain into your back pocket without anyone ever noticing,
but even so,
your heart rate never slowed down
because it set its pace with how fast you struggled to
outrun yourself, an agony you never asked for,
and no matter how much time you spent in the shower,
your heart will always have the stench of someone else’s misplaced guilt.

there is this though:
the sting of an open palm will fade
the slamming doors will only be the wind
the abuse will no longer rule your mind
the dust will settle
one day, i promise, you will be able to lay down your armor
but for now i understand why distrust is braided into every fiber of your being
because
kids like us
we speak a language they can never learn.

– *(i know the wars you fought, i fought them too)

I don't know
why
I keep writing about you when
all the words from your mouth
forsake my existence
with an empty
"hi" or a shallow "how are you?".

I want more cute skirts
to go with my thigh highs and psychotic tendencies.

is the title of my self-published poetry book-- it will have stuff not seen by anyone or hello poetry, so tune in, if you wanna.

and i'm not original--
but art is art,
and i guess i'm andy warhol.

America the Brave,
did you ever look beyond the porch, and see the smoke?
I have felt each gunshot wound and bookmarked each media news story
and even catalogued some photographs
for you to look over again.
because it seems you have a strange habit of forgetting
all the times
where places that children should be learning and laughing
began to look like cemeteries, the doors closing like a cruel purgatory,
when another **** maniac rages in with a legal firearm –
“mommy, I’m okay, but all my friends are dead.”
red crayons will never look the same—
I’ve found that bleach does not clean out
the stains on the carpet and words alone do not console the masses.

America the Free,
have you heard the terrifying orchestra of screeching tires on pavement?
didn’t you learn that running away is the same as running to meet a date with the reaper?
America, please tell me why
I cannot look for safety in a blue uniform, tell me why
the word “police” inspires more fear and pain
than it stands for justice?
there, in the empty streets, are the echoes of the voices in the night that you failed to hear when the sound of
sirens drowned the world in shades of wrong--
“I can’t breathe.”
“I don’t have a gun, stop shooting.”
“please don’t let me die.”
I stand at the gates between crossroads but nobody looks each other
even if there’s the unspoken truth
that some of us are more likely to be studying obituaries than studying to
be finishing our high school and college degrees.

America the Bold,
  please listen when I tell you that there is a pain you cannot hide
beneath IPhones and reality television,
when all I see is hallowed eyes,
empty hands, and
more parents that shouldn’t have to know
what it’s like to buy caskets in mass production, before they even knew how to read, before they could sing praises of your liberty, before they even had a chance to pray for a different fate, one they actually deserved.

America the Beautiful,
for all your Spacious skies, and amber waves…
have you looked at the ugliness of your ****** palms?

she's afraid of reoccurring nightmares
afraid of choosing a single instrument to play, she can't stay with one
beautiful sound-producing musical wonderwall,
of committing herself to one,
and I was wondering if she was really talking about instruments
or talking about people,
talking about me--
am I a violin or a piano?
it doesn't matter because she says she wouldn't stay with any of them
anyway.
she's afraid of going downstairs to brush her teeth at night in the dark
and instead of picking up a tooth brush
she's afraid of picking up a razor in its place,
and god i tell her
all about my nightmares
how I run and outrun myself
or try to,
I reveal that I fear and love being
alive, I expose myself and my personal
horrors,
and I tell her, tell her it all, and for the first time
she looks at me with eyes that aren't empty,
eyes that are sorrowful as they are
compassionate and she tells me
"it's okay".

i might come off of being anonymous on this site.... with that being said however, i will probably unlink my tumblr on that bio because that's for my own private pleasure, my blog is more secret i suppose. as well as the private and anonymous twitter i have.

in any case, i guess i'll link my youtube where i release spoken word poetry videos and such if you're that curious (i'm not looking for views, i think i'm looking for a sense of openness and less secrecy here, alot of reasons really. but go ahead and check it out if you wanna, if not, that's fine too) and i'll delete some of the darker stuff off of here and make it more PG-13, in the event that i link my youtube back to this site.

also, if this happens, i am going to change my username again to match my other pages so it all links together (sorry i know every time somebody does this, or last time i did this -- i was previously known as "brooklyn baby" -- it's just very confusing)...

i am working on self publishing a book of poetic stuff also and have been busy putting together my Society 6 shop which has other art, but i'm thinking i'll scan some handwritten poems too.

so yes, i realize this is not a poem and it's crap posting, and nobody wants to read an announcement on a website specifically built for poetry, but i guess i needed to make clarifications for those of you that follow along or care about this strange little mind of mine.

sincerely yours,
a girl of little habits **

----
update: i have since updated.. link in bio is my latest spoken word poetry video.

My thoughts are
scattered ashes to the wind--
non-collectable burnt and charred,
wood that I would've carved into the likeness
of hearts, love letters
that I failed to make my point in,
and
newspapers that should be a cohesive story
but ended up a collision of black and white print
and jumbled media confusion.

I paint on canvas but
baby can you paint me
with your tongue?

(i miss you so much, i wonder where you are.)

i miss you the way someone misses a step on the stairway, a sharp jolt of realization, followed by a falling and crash.
i miss you the way birds miss winter, when they migrate to a perpetual spring.
i miss you like hot fudge sundaes in summer, sugar and sweet and all gone.

(i miss you so much, i wonder if you're happy)

i miss you like a favorite library book that has to be returned.
i miss you like a forgotten holiday.
i miss you like a lost love letter that never got sent.

(i miss you so much, i wonder what you're doing)

i miss the way your strong callused hands would wrap around mine, giving me strength. i miss your forest eyes. i miss the smell of aftershave clinging to my clothes. I miss the smell of us clinging to my sheets. i miss the way i once  kissed you gently, but you grabbed my face, hey, and made me kiss you more thoroughly, that's more like it, with a smug look on your face. i miss the feeling of your hands on my waist while you held me as if i was a tiny doll to your large frame. i miss the intimacy of our faces pressed close together and you tasting my smile as you touched my lips to yours. i miss your **** smirk. i miss your tattoos and tracing the indent of your spine as you let me explore you closer. i miss taking pictures with my old ipod and you'd kiss me with your eyes open and i would open mine and all the sensations that came with being around you.

and all of this is a stupid run on sentence and i am a stupid pining fool and you're somewhere, but i've been nowhere
ever since i started
missing
you.

he’s interested in disasters,
the kind of catastrophes that the media has a field day with,
the kind of accidental atrocities that are awe-inspiring in their horrid glory,
the kind of things that have self destructed spectacularly – so much so that the remaining debris becomes a masterpiece on the ocean floor, a memorial for beautified trauma.

and I guess that’s why he’s interested in me.

he's the saddest story i ever read,
a walking tragedy written with spilled blood of innocence
on pages of stolen youth.

he holds forgotten chapters of words
that he never got to speak, a novel that holds his painful secrets like a requiem.
he knows death intimately as his first love
and has bruised knuckles and empty hands to show for hardships.

but still, he smiles.
even when the aroma of
perfume lingers and
the ring she never got to wear still shines.

I thought
We could be
Something--
When I say something
I mean instead of a "hello" or "hallo"
Maybe a good morning kiss.
Or twine your bilingual tongue
To mine and make sense of all the hidden
Messages and vowels in our
Passion.
Maybe we could
Link hands on long walks
Or swim in each other's eyes
With knowing, glowing
Gazes.
I just thought we could be
Everything happy for a little while
And everything that makes smiles
As easy as learning how to say
"I love you" in our two languages--
I know you already know, but I don't know how to say it yet
I just wanted to know an "I love you"
Which isn't foreign in any language.
I just thought we could be
Together.

But I guess not.

it won't be too hard
to find another
you,
but I could do better--
i just need an upgrade,
a phone that will take pictures
of my new lover,
a popped button off his collar, easily fixed
and the temporary kindness
i could find in a more genuine soul.

so yes, you're replaceable.

I.
you know i've always been drawn to the darker parts of
people,
the shades of grey that dapple a soul in impurity--
i adore the artistry of flaws and the orchestration of violent passion.
maybe it's because i've been in the light too long. or maybe it's simply a second nature to want what you're not supposed to want.
I crave the weakness of a sinner in his unfathomable delights.

II.
tempting is my favorite game to play:
i've been told that i taste like a bad habit, walk like an addiction, and have a tendency to leave them wanting more--
but still manage to look like an angel.
that's fine as long as you acknowledge the fact you look like a bad decision that i am more than willing to be hypnotized by.

III.
it almost is painful this reckless longing but it seems
you make me hurt in the places that don't mind hurting.

A body like running pavement
and filled with
skidmarks --
broken pictures of sunset sky between trees
power lines--
they fall and rise like waves,
quickly flashing.

A mind like an endless set of highways
there's no map to tell
where anything could end up--
ideas that are
headlights, move with uncontrolled velocity,
bobbing in the darkness, wheels
humming from the engine, throaty engine--
voice that's a radio, projects songs
and thoughts
to the passengers--

it's not a roller coaster, we don't choose to be behind a wheel
but we're all in our vehicles
with horns
and shouting matches and road rage,
swearing, arguing our luck,
gambling the speed limit
to try to get to all our destinations
"on time"
but God only wants you to feel the wind rushing
through your rolled-down windows,
or contemplate on silent journeys, a
seemingly never ending stretch of road,
breathe through the starry summer nights,
sunlight flickering on rooftops,
dirt paths in forests,
trees, lights,
pedestrians,
a hitch hiker,
clouds,
parks,
mountains,
cities,
stoplights,
billboards,
­but all you see is the
pictures fading into a blur--
blurring,
all
blurring,
and sudden--*

                          collision.

sorry I reek of loneliness.

that man has a fever (for flesh),
one would think
that one would
need to be cooled
in order to leave her undressed.

always hanging 'round the ladies
strong and handsome
hollywood smile,
the good adonis, a fair tease.

but his nonage was not dominated
by girlish squeals or hearts,
boys like him were quiet-like
and kept under the dark.

(for what if they found out?)

The thing is
falling seems to imply
something accidental,
something unexpected--
I didn't fall in love,
I ran head first, with the
intention that this would hurt less
than a brick wall.

It hurt a little more than that.

sheep at night, (1 a.m.)
(but i always thought that sheep were not the best farm animal to represent insomnia.). eventually sheep turns to old memories, choke down like hard candies. hurts to swallow. or maybe that's just the tears.

(2 a.m.)or bottles of beer on a wall, except i'm
numbering the ones on your floor, shattered. drinking never made you better but it never stopped you from opening another. and another.

(3 a.m.) numbers of leaves on clovers. i picked so many and i found one four-leaf one. i lost it and never found another. is it possible to lose luck as it is to gain it? if that's the case, it explains where you went.

i counted. i have.

i count but i've lost track.

Frost
creeping along the window
pane
that trails along with spidery crystal
hands
and blooms on the glass the
same
way she captured my fascination
until
I realized that I was the glass and
she
aimed to smother, to obscure, all other
views.

2 a.m.
I'm blurry
and lusting for bodies and love.

There's something beautiful
about the way people drink
their coffee in the morning,
with rumpled clothes
and bed head, and
even tired eyes.

In their gaze is slow long
sips of determination,
routine,
hope,
and
caffeine,
and
I can't help but wonder–
what battles
they're
preparing for.

Easily infatuated
With beautiful bodies,
And sharp curious minds.

Longing to peer closer
at those startling star-lit eyes--
brief moments and motions captured on a page...

Je veux comprendre.

baby, i've been trying hard not to get in trouble.

but you don't understand when you don't have wanderlust that sews itself into your very bones. you don't love like i do, wild and free. you don't want to ride the edge. you want your 9-5 office job, the picket fence, a perfect wife and children. i'm not saying i don't love you but i can't love restrained and i can't love you perfect. i know i promised forever-- but haven't i told you my middle name was "i make promises i can't keep?". i guess that never came up.

i can't keep living vicariously through lonely jazz singers and voracious cult leaders. call me stupid, but i want to have that drink, i wanna smoke. i'm sorry i had you under the pretense that i was a good little girl. i'm not. i wanna dance until the soles in my shoes are bare and worn. i wanna go running in thunderstorms and play russian roulette with my untamable heart and go wherever i yearn. i look at birds with envy because i am a flightless soul. darling, you're a seed and sooner or later you're gonna want the roots that i can't give you. i need to breathe. that's all i want. my obsession with freedom might destroy me, but god, is there ever a better way to die?

i tell all the lovers i've ever had to let me lay me down on the open road, leave more than skid marks on highways and more than a twist in my bed sheets. i love minds just as much as i love bodies. my past affairs were like wind rushing past but i don't know if i've ever really slowed down because i am ******* reckless. i have no regrets.

i wanna let loose on city streets, shout in the rain, sin on parkway benches and get lost in a tangle of whatever the hell I want to drown in. so please, even though you don't understand half of this feral wild creature i am-- let me live like i'm crazy.

when my mother told me to watch out for things that go bump in the night i thought she was talking about monsters and priests, but lately, i've been thinking it's me.

with love,
a little wild thing

all she wants to do
is make beautiful things,
but she doesn't even know what beauty is.

this looks nice, so simple, minimalism.
but is it a masterpiece?

question everything. the head is full.

what is art?
what is purpose?
what is pleasing?
what is ugly?
what is permanence?
what is thieving?

and of course there is the, "why?"

it continues.
it continues.

she thinks.
there is no answer.
simply a carousel of questions.

Don't send me pictures of tattoos you want unless you have the intention of letting me watch the ink dry, the intention of permanence.

Don't love me with a half-hearted candle when clearly we could be a forest fire.

Don't smile like that at me unless you plan to catch me when I swoon.

Darling, I hope I'm the cause of your
existential crisis,
opening your mind
in horrifying,
vulnerable
ways.

I hope I make you question
and I hope I make you learn.
Maybe I'll rewire your brain--
praise me
let me incarcerate my
writings in your
bones,
let my thoughts linger,
let the pads of my finger tips
dwell along
the contours of the railways
in your head,


let me in.