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Jul 2021 · 104
stuff
em Jul 2021
some guy on the corner, living like his third world relative, wearing a shirt that says “the only cure is kindness”

a woman on the subway, fattened up on consumerism, flipping through the pages of her first read in three years-

“you are enough: and other ways to avoid overeating”

the shocks come in the form of niceties

bloodied, invisible war faces dishing out the l-word

drying up the n-word with their own iodized vocabulary.

places to go never served much for me save for the literal change of scenery

something else for my eyes to melt onto.

Columbine High School right off Pierce

If you squint hard enough,

I bet you could still see the linoleum sticky with blood and

feel, not hear, the primal screams bashing themselves against the walls

Fear smells potent enough that most of us can recognize it, and some of us crave it,

like a shark.

miles of ocean is nothing when your life wavers in the heat-

survival becomes nutrient-rich

don’t let me catch you salivating over it

I might just destroy you too.

Hope Cemetery

eat the rich

**** the dead

pass by the living in all their

sun-******* glory.

Dithers attempt to wrestle the silence cast out by a thousand stones

inscriptions lost all purpose, dates scuffed away by wind.

at night, each night past the full, bleeding moon,

he gets on his two bad knees and prays to God that his unloved family might become lovable,

that his mind may be forever closed to the idea of sin,

and that his throat may never feel the hot rush of alcohol again.

because who could judge the people who were victims of life’s potential?

who was to blame?

not the kind-men

not the prayers not the seekers

not the midnight drinkers

it was only the ones whose anger arrested them

and then the law

and then their own guilt.

summer was a severance

some time to grow too warm in the sun

disregard the ******* who leaned on faith with all their weight and pointed their skinny fingers at every disobedient child.

**** the cookie jar.

if it wasn’t me, it was the Noah’s ark worth of people that shuffled up and down that spiraled staircase each summer.

last full memory i was there

i saw some blue birds with balding spots, tethered in their concrete cage

which i opened silently as silent as my own breathing

as my rage.

and as i was scolded

the scorch of hot breath against my gooseflesh neck

i smiled, a fluttering one


because that freed one was kissing my eleventh winter.
Jul 2021 · 85
fear and grief
em Jul 2021
i whimper and struggle underneath the weight
of a full-scale massacre
won’t my world ever be the same?
won’t my consciousness refuse to wake in the face of such…
tragedy?
cross-hatch the heavens
seal shut the gate as he looks out upon me, out past the closing door
his eyelid like a tiny boat.
it is with a ballad in its might
that i both see and feel this
goodbye,
to my others, it bolsters itself to the light of the sun
and the grief that tears through me
is another entity.
it has outweighed the sound of nails against board
it has outweighed illness, and the tiresome conversation of hope
it has outweighed many days lost at sea
outweighed the great loss of a person
outweighed the equal and greater gain of another
outweighed the potential of life
it has outweighed its shortcomings
every-thing,
as it is,
has been diminished as an ember.
yet the fire rages on,
embellished and doted and needed
labored upon.
and i, i do not dream of labor.
Jun 2021 · 90
penny
em Jun 2021
thirteen claw-marks from that cat on the shaky marble floor

who knows, as it etches itself into a rich mans immaculate masculinity

wiping away my helplessness before it too makes its mark.

i wish they would put their shoes together

left toe touches right toe

thats the only way it can be,

just right in the invisible space in the carbon dioxide collection.

twenty-seven pennies

bitter smelling in the jar which has just reached its peak in age and dust

they are the majority within their glass prison

dignified despite their rust

meaningless in their respite,

soon to be obsolete, as he points out constantly.

oh, how the world changes.

and i have only been conscious for a tiny tick on the clock.

now, this old man, with his inflexible spectacles

lacks the view in his birds eye and peripheral

but probably considers my shadow a bad omen.

he shivers in the wake of such an evil.

my teeth click against each other, electrified with the being of that evil.

the setting is white,

or rather, a version of it, decrepit with the plaque of a pattern all too familiar.

this is my dream room.

where i find myself often

and where often i am a stranger

my letters of wonder which i design on the walls, on the solar filled floor to ceiling glass

backwards of course, in hopes that someone might read them,

have turned tired and cold,

no longer illustrate their longing

nor their greed for adrenaline

nor their want for the world.

black and chicken scratch

stationed among the randomized pauses and the seemingly infinite crack in the wallpaper

might it widen its mouth for me

as it did so slowly

so lustfully

for her?

how possible is the other side,

when the world that you breathe in suffocates you only long enough until you remind yourself in silence

to breathe again.

imprisonment feels kinder when you can see out,

even though they can see in.

shuttered away, i build upon my layers until my mind can multiply itself

sneak out its smoky tendrils and climb along the terrace,

and wail

and scream

and scream until you could hear it down the street

until each person ceased their hearts

in between beats they meet the sound of a consciousness so distinctively torn they can’t help but reconcile with their own.

but i will never reach them that way

as i did not reach her

as i did not reach you.

i wear the glass, a translucent suit of sea green and nursery blue

each time they touch me, allow their fingers to feel my life

to feel my death

to feel the imperfect atoms which make up my aloneness, the invisible filth-

they are pricked and sliced open

the way grass does on bare skin only to be noticed hours later

in me, they see themselves

and the hatred only

grows.
Jun 2021 · 98
rules of life
em Jun 2021
there was a fire between you
a passion, some kind of lust
and you called it a miracle.
a split ashtray and broken seatbelts and
a flat tire and a screaming baby
you called it a miracle.
dead romance, techno music,
afro picks and spilled beer.
you called it a miracle.
boxes lined with insulation,
IV drip and nurses pressed for life.
you called it a miracle.
happiness, hopelessness,
hurried love, first homes, small toes.
miracle.
then and there and back again,
hospital bed, open head, runny eggs and
silence
is it still a miracle?
im just me,
and theres no cure for that.
and you *******
you twisted sick-suckled *******
crash with the street kids
ruffle up the birdies
who grow seedlings out
their ribcage
only they need to be dead
for that kind of beauty.
and shes shithoused drunk by 3pm
forgot the toothpaste but
not the alprazolam
whats better than a swig out
the ol’ medicine cabinet
and half a cigarette?
thought she might’ve stomped it out
had she not had that metaphor
sharp as glass in her left hand.
men with mottled skin and
charred faces mar and del mar
locks up them up with only
a nose through the bars
i meant to stay hid beneath
that misconception
hear that monster coming?
with his rusted bayonette,
alcohol on his breath?
whats it to you
but the game of life?
of life
which player am i?
the wound or the knife?
and i spent my days treading
barefoot on the beaten earth
radiator burning holes through
the socks she gave me one Christmas eve
which player am i now?
or am i a pawn, relinquished in black
in the lack of light accompanied by foolery
of favoritism?
the heat never did them any good.
so i like to think of it
like a terrorist sympathizer
the constantish reminder of
nothing good
between those blue walls
lives still a desecrated ghost
with a shut off brain
and no reason to
let go.
and all the things which once were simple
***** themselves in the draining effort
of simply being.
there should be places to hide
instead of wide open skies
shall i surrender now
afloat on this hill,
or wait until i am surrendered?
i do it for this agony
a nightly presence
a friend if it weren’t for her
gnashing and talons and rust metal teeth
leaves and grass screaming
in the wind
another part of me
they cannot see
and do not want to.
why is pain so welcome?
why is infliction so
delicious?
the slow fade of a hesitant smile
to eyes which cry and a face that
contorts in the sweltering sun of rage -
is it sinful, shameful greed of hurt or is Godless,
as they say?
somewhere there is something
left to say
you go to shake my hand
and realize i dont have any
cut off and bled
like they do to the cows
and the pigs who are ******* smart
enough to know
because stone cold
said so
so you hug me instead.
its easier to cut butter
with that small fancy knife.
what more do i need,
when i’ve got me,
a body to break and a mind to feed
so when i feel that harsh note
of morality gone and an ego in tow
that nihilism crawling its way back up my throat
all i can think of is God
the Leviathan
to better my chance of living
but not really
just dying,

alive.
Apr 2021 · 68
south
em Apr 2021
my mother used to dress me up

with pink and baby blue

she used to sit and scowl at me

for using too much glue.

on all the projects i failed in school

cuz i never saw my daddy’s face

he was always off to work somewhere

in a cold and lonely place.

and as he cuddled with his cash

the four of us would sing

the songs of gospel and a dying man

who rose again and was called king.

and when my daddy was away

i would come across the paper men

who knew they’d float higher than me

and said i looked a certain way and then,

they smacked their lips and tongued their teeth

and smoked their cigarettes

and without fail they always gunned me down

with a stare and beads of sweat.

thats a fine looking high-horse you got there

in the hollow of this hot and southern drum

theres not a lot of girls like you

that would kneel for a pack of gum.

i used to think i owned the world

because i made my dolls queens and kings

but soon enough i realized

that those were nothing more than things.

and i was one as well to them

a thing to hate like daddy’s bills

they liked to break my arms and legs

and hunt me for the ****.

but after all the fun and games

and smoke that burned your eyes

i came to know that i was sin

with a kept secret between my thighs.

and plastic jesus only sat

on his high and mighty shelf

and despite my prayers or

shut-eyes confessions

he never moved himself.

and what could help me more than that man?

certainly not mother in her cool dark room

and not my daddy raking cash

in some business ridden flume.

here i reside in this truman show life

smoking cigarettes of my own

suffocating memories and

ignoring the phone.

one day there might be someone new

whose teeth are white and straight.

whose hair is neat and eyes are kind

whose clothes don’t spill their

hate.

but till that day i sit and feel and

keep my head down on the floor

because theres nothing more that i can do

but drown in metaphors
em Mar 2021
has it been kind? i should be a fool to think it has. and i'm not sure i want it to. at least not to me. perhaps others, other souls which serve true purpose and meet needs of each other, bouncing around and need-meeting and hard-loving, instead of crossing every line that is thinkable and failing, undeniably, at each little obstacle and challenge. its true that we meet many people over the course of our lives, hollowed-out and thin, hearty and honey-like, thick and sweet. sometimes these people candy-coat our existence. sometimes they **** it over. sometimes they simply sit, limp and lifeless, like a dead ballerina. serving no purpose other than for us to spit upon them, curse them out, regard and disregard. often they come and go, allowing us to live on, just living it out like a Greenland shark. but despite these people, despite these purpose-driven minds, i still stand around with this empty head of mine. and yes, i have no doubt i can create beautiful things. but i am certainly not one of them.
to me, it is interesting how being alive is so unacceptable, seemingly only it becomes so in the wee hours of the morning, like four am, right before the coffee and right after you've awoken from your most recent nightmarish fever dream. when the disintegration of your soul has yet to become entirely apparent. when you've yet to look in that ****** mirror and see yourself looking like death warmed over; ready to take on a new day, yeah right. and often, things, people, places, smells and sights and sounds and textures and tastes and simply cogs of our lives take it all back to those moments. telling myself to forget them, push them away like i always do when things get too close, too much. remembering anyways. that first touch, the blankness that follows. the feeling of being split open. being broken. thinking i would die. living anyways.
looking at people. remembering. like the way things tasted so good before. and the way they taste now. the lions at the zoo. pacing, hungry, fantasizing about ripping the fat white man's head off, feeling the bones crumble between their teeth, licking up the blood and ruling the world. how bad i felt for them. the time i turned too fast, too tight on my old bicycle. more blood. laughing. shaking. bandaids and a dark bathroom. the smell of chocolate cake and the scent of wine on my mothers lips as she came close. go to bed. the deadpan thump of the kitten against the wall. an empty kitchen table. summer nights that drifted through the windows, ate you up and calmed you down. black shoes that clacked against white linoleum. ******'s army. discovery channel and broken televisions. racism. mud fights in the river behind the small brick house, grass for miles and nowhere to go. thick honey people whose touch felt lighter than feathers. belly laughs, beer drinkers and thin paper-weight women. hospitals and IV drips, sunburns and stars you could actually see. tranquilizers and sickdays and scalding showers. obliviousness. neutrality.
happy childhood, sad childhood.
crazy talking teeth.what more could you ask from a primordial life?
i should be a fool to think it's been kind. whether i feel sorry for myself, that's another question. sometimes i am like the three-legged dog, dragging a leftover stump behind itself, buzzing with flies, whining and cowering and sitting in its own ****. ugly and dejected, victim to helplessness. a street-walker, a tired-talker.
then, i get filled up. with some insanity, a mix of molten rage, and that dangerous thing called hope. break the glass ceiling and you'll make it in life. or drown in it, and you become identical to every other human being that every lived and didn't end up in a book. a nuisance. an addict to all the small things life has to offer, never willing, never ballsy enough to allow themselves to get hooked in the cheek by some life-changing ****.

yeah, cuz that's it. that's the thing.

everyone is just absolutely
terrified.
Mar 2021 · 79
S.O.S
em Mar 2021
stuck in the wheel between
living and dying
rage between teeth
and words beneath tongue,
that fear will get ya.
lying under the vaulting
of the technicolor sky
smiling among the white-bellied
rotting creatures
smiling because there's not another
thing to do which lets you show
your teeth
besides a scream.
and scream you must if you hope to ever
make it out of this beast.
the fear will get ya and
all you can do is bare those pearly whites
and hope your head and heart coexist
and oh please tell me again
why i cannot hear the sound
no matter how hard i try and remember
shut up i said, or did i?
here they are inside of me,
these evils, these souls who so willingly
ecstatically employ their wrath,
upload their anger
******* on the hard-drive with a golden
molar
and here i am
drowning in the noise when i'd rather be
basking
extending the possibilities of a working realism
mathematizing my existence
because it was nothing to you
and you hurt ME
and you don't know it but you've colored it all
red
blood-red beet-red battle-scar-red
and you don't know it but that's all i can say
and that's all i have said
because if i say more then i'd have to be dead
no way i'd let those suckers see me
finished by a simple three-letter
thread.
i love you
oh really? you do?
**** me again then.
and the worst part about it is the hands.
that sickly warm skin,
i can feel your sweat and your
sin, all mixed in with that under-the-breath
promise as long as i give
in.
time is reckless in this fever-dream
live all day and die all night
become talented at suffering
so when someone asks you if you are okay,
without looking away
you can say
its just another day.
you, so talented at suffering
so skillful in your right to yearn for death
like that wire-tailed cat
in the gossamer green,
so fit to claw your way up and lose a bit
live a bit
love a bit
and see with your shuttered soul
the entire ******* thing come
crashing down before you.
so when my eyes meet yours
i do not know you, i know
the hands that took
it all away.
so **** me over again and again
even though you’re dead
again and again,
in my head you’re dead in that bed,
where you left me the last time
turned inside out and rotting-white belly up in the air
dead fish cant breathe on land
and a child cant breathe on need.
the fear will get ya
worse when the control is blood-letting itself to the exit
they’re hunting now, im trapped, all sides cave in
hot breath and cigarettes
its too much to take in when
we surround ourselves with birds of a feather and act like we don’t want to pluck them.
take away the things that make us human, things we can glue on ourselves, decorate our faces like the places we’ve had our first firsts.
the heart is 5/8ths of a pound so why did it take me so long to
tear it to pieces?
each tick of the tock reminds me of how birds count a lot for not knowing how
and van gogh cut off his ear and gave it to some *****,
appreciate that *******.
at least he chose a sacrifice instead of suicide, twice.
so im stuck in that wheel, going crazy
waving that S.O.S, shredding that white
flag to ****** pieces because i know now
that not a single person cares unless
they're on that wheel too
turning blue
turning to
the only thing they know and that
is this.
life isn't what you make it,
life makes you.
Jan 2021 · 66
top surgery 2
em Jan 2021
18 years, its been
since i first felt the scalpel make its way into
my eager skin,
yet, it should be called a KNIFE
because that sounds harsher,
less kind.
and this is not a kind story.
18 years its been since they
re-orchestrated my existence
for a third ******* time,
and hey nobody asked me.
nobody did.
if that was an emergency,
whose to say this one isn't?
but hey, doesn't a cheap motel sound
nice when you get to have the continental breakfast
with a freshly sewn up chest?
doesn't oatmeal sound nicer with oxy?

i've gotta say man, this is it.
this is the time where you get to feel better than you
ever have and better than you ever will.

don't get used to it.

don't get used to that freedom feeling
that fly-away hyped up bs
they're always gonna look at you and scour
always gonna have that glint in their eye and its
not the one that says
i love you
i need you
i want you
how you are...

its the one with that bitter disapproval
the one with the utter disappointment
the ever-untrustworthy smile.

this isn't you
this isn't you
this isn't you


so come on
grab your KNIFE
grab your sutures
grab your morphine

get on with it,
and don't forget who told you
about God on your way out
Jan 2021 · 199
top-surgery
em Jan 2021
sleepy-eyed, walking through the
field of landmines and bombs.
right foot left foot no protection.
pain up to my brain and down to my feet.
not a single thought behind these eyes except destruction.
cold clang of hospital metal, warm drip of intravenous.
why am i shaking?
am i terrified?
unfamiliar with this feeling,
the strangeness of an ownership
that has never been mine.
i am afraid of this part.
afraid it might fester, rot in the corner,
away somewhere unable to be seen
but forever existing.
i am left hoping
and praying to simply concave, implode,
fall apart one last time, for the last time.
i need this,
with every ounce of my being
i need this.

i must destroy this monster outside
so i can destroy the one in me.
Jan 2021 · 502
trans
em Jan 2021
dont mind me in my predicament, steer clear
just waiting for the evident fear here
of the confinement
to a prison for
one.

mama said ill regret it in a year or so
but to her i say at least thats a year of my
life to know
that i wont have to wake up
wanting to shed this skin.

my thoughts are filthy, shallow, obsessed,
theres not a day goes by where im not lessened
by the urge to destroy
and snip and cut and bleed.

and so i lay and wallow, grieved,
upon my throne of mutiny
suckling a fantasy of
FTM.

holding on to hope that it will
end.
Jan 2021 · 75
a sparrow
em Jan 2021
his eye was on the sparrow
heavyset and rolling
in a great golden socket,
bulging in a way which told the
world
he was God.

with every touch,
so enlightened
so unoptional
so curse-d with understanding
yet the bird shrinks away,
for her wings and feathers find
no flight in
purism.

shelved somewhere with survival
was the epitome of Death
He takes shelter in the songbirds respite
and leaves nothing for her
winters, proving more onerous
with each shift of night.

and by the light of a meat-eating sun,
He takes his hand and lays it upon the earth,
with such an exclamation:
Mine! This word which in express means
nothing less than what the human soul can
manage.
Mine.

she is furious, alas, and lost so,
in agony she sings
she dwells in darkness,
and darkness is where she
belongs.
Jan 2021 · 58
a dream
em Jan 2021
i did absolutely nothing.

back up against the dirt,

should i die today, among the weeds

maybe death won't hurt.


and should the flowers

watch me as they grow,

and the birds with their serenade,

at night's delicious close.


and not the silence gathers round

to take upon my plight,

so quiet, gentle hands

which take my thoughts in flight.


so gather round and watch me fall

sinking chagrin in my chest

between the line of life,

across the line of death.


i lay among the trees which reach

their arms up so desperately high,

oh how i wish i could reach with them,

and now i realize why.


the grass does not appear afraid,

the leaves shake not from fear,

but alas, my triumph's had enough,

my eyes shut tight as he draws near.


i did absolutely nothing,

and here i am to live,

purple shadows under my eyes

and all i've got, i give.


i did absolutely nothing,

and those flowers wonder why,

all i can say is that i'm here to reach

like the trees that touch the sky.
Jan 2021 · 66
summer
em Jan 2021
There were red berry trees, with their marmalade skies
I saw gossamer green with my color-blind eyes.
And the roads which spiraled this way and that
Spun a yellow brick road for that silver-haired cat.
But despite all the blue and the green and the red
There's a high tiding chance that I wished I was dead.
Dr. Seuss in his study, dreaming down to his toes,
Was the black and the white that I read into prose.
And that poetry book that was cracking and old,
Held the brick-heavy grief stuck way in its fold.
And the tears which fell like clear droplets of rain,
From my cheeks only soared further into the pain.
"I don't want to hurt you, you're the one I adore...
But hurt you I must, can't you see that I'm bored?"
And down by the river near the colony bees,
Happened a thing that struck even the Queen.
In between mud fights and bruises from stones,
Came the black-taloned secrets and their bellyful moans.
And even among the bristled red berry trees,
and the yellow brick road and the colony bees,
and all the roads which curved this way and that,
and the cellophane green and the silver-haired cat,
There was Death with his smile atoned in faux-white
and medicators to push their manipulated plight.
And even besides the mud fights and blue skin,
There was always a bathroom for us to "play" in.
Slowly I realized, with a chagrin so great,
That this victim of circumstance had a five-letter name.
Thus the only thing waiting for nameless to do,
was to fast disappear in the green and the blue.
Those wilted berry trees, with the glassy grey skies
and the fake plastic green with the shy-away eyes,
and the roads which all spiraled out of control,
and the broken brick road for the cat on the stroll,
all these things might suffice with the brain in your head
but not on the days that you wished you were dead.
Jan 2021 · 65
beast #2
em Jan 2021
i told him with my silent lips
and sleeping face,
do not come near this
sing song beast inside of me,
and i said to it
hush, stay in your cage
you hideous thing.

i shouldn't let him see you.

and they have that saying
little do you know
little did he know
how tall and big and wonderfully
horrible
it is.

i remember
riding down the red petal street
as fast as my legs would allow
squeezing the handlebars,
squeezing out the rage,
as the beast sat nestled right next to
that beating thing.

i remember playing hard,
cocking a loaded gun,
waiting for the shame to come
dancing in for the ages,
far from dead now,
but he's got some exit wounds.

what nights i had,
lying under the crooked ceiling fan,
salty with sweat and tears,
yet laughing anyways.
i tried to tell him about the
beast,
but he only understood with his
hands.
he only understood with his
hands.



forgetting of me entirely.
Dec 2020 · 35
quiet
em Dec 2020
when empty, boneless fingers claw
in haste at my shy-away face
and the waves of pain lap silently at my
ears,
when my sordid mind believes
in part that all is lost...

i remember,
i am what i am and
i am what i am.

when the cage of ribs achieves not
a flight, however stalled
and aching teeth gnaw with fever upon
remnants of joy.
when the seeing eyes depart so intentionally
out from their sockets,
and blindness ensues in its grateful yet laborious
way...

when i slink as a stranger around the chains that
hold me down, a prisoner,
i rejoice,
and the scent of victory floods as quickly away
as it came to be.

i rejoice,

when talons of grief grip hard at the hands
i used to pray
when the walls become more
than the grooves and dips which my fingers
have created
when the hurt settles in the permanent
crater of my face..
when the pain is undervourable,

alas,
when the euphoria surrenders its hands
at my feet,
glowing like two capable hearths,
i rejoice a final time,
await the cycle as it rests,
and kiss each knuckle
abrasion, bruise
and find my place among the sinews
of purest joy.

i remember,
i am what i am,

i am what i am.
Dec 2020 · 39
high
em Dec 2020
im young i said, you turned your head
and snatched it up anyways.

i have met again my match
this dangerous optimism
acoupled with a cockeyed rage
which tears about in my blood
like some hell-bent rabid beast.
and i hope and say my prayers that
shes just an exit wound.

lay your greedy hands on me
sew your wings upon my back
your voice of ecstasy disguised as reason
this is euphoria
a high where ledges don't exist.

look at me
the fiend
the pessimist run askew
this newfound joy might break me

and alas, i realize, i am not predator
but prey
and this hunt is mine alone.

time again i lay here
near death and suffer-spent
a ginger beer in hand and half a heart
to hold.
as happiness, the *****, laughs in my face,
and the silver cheeks of grief are pressed
against my own, waiting for the fall
for me to fold in my own
existence.

for this joy does leave
the rage does stay
and there is little left to
say.
Dec 2020 · 40
shes come undone
em Dec 2020
once i read in a book of the time
a girl was hurt
not in the way where one can say
here have a bandaid,
or stop the bleeding
or numb the Pain.
he held her to the ground
as the rocks dug into her back
tugged on her hair in the way which
men do when they use
someone.
and as he held her, pushed her towards the
dirt
she did absolutely nothing.
i believe, her heart stopped.
it stopped because it couldn't keep
a steady rhythm,
as he did.
pushing and grabbing,
owning and groaning.
i imagine her,
staring at the sky and thinking
this is how i come undone.
this is the time, the moment,
the very seconds in which the
corpse becomes a corpse,
the face becomes a moment frozen in
between what could happen and what
never did.
and as i sit here
devouring the Pain
suckling on the hurt and fear
i feel it too.
that it's tearing me apart
"all i want is to *******"
and all i want is to die.

but i can't do it
because what a life i would take
what a soul i would un-soul
and do i even believe in me?
as i sit in this perfection of Pain.
this metamorphosis of suffering
i feel it too.
i feel it so deep in my bones
that it makes me sick.
but alas, i know
ill up and face another day
another day to destroy it.
destroy her.
destroy him.
destroy myself and the sky with me.

i know ill up and face another day.
Dec 2020 · 37
6:54pm
em Dec 2020
come to meet me, friend
in this sunken place.
the time is now.
like the spider on his thread
hanging from an erroneous web
creeping his way
to freedom.
he knew these things
because he knew everything
he knew the empty bottles of ginger beer
to stave away the sickness that comes
from simply being
******* alive.
he knew the smell of ***** and
the sight of bruises.
he knew the sound of sobs
and the audible chorus of a heart.
he knew the pain so well
he could trace the cracks in its palms
with his eyes closed and
no hands at all.
the pain which has so dutifully begun
the hibernation
and deliberation inside
the wrong body.
and now i know
just as he knew
that death is simply a door
and i have found the key.
Dec 2020 · 34
07:05
em Dec 2020
i have rules for these things
as these memories over take me
as the sun creeps up, talons ablaze
and my sleep breaks and my heart along with it
again and again and again
and i open, laboriously,
an eye to meet him.
what a gift it is to
wake in the face of fear.

i have rules for these things 
and memories to forget.
but grief will always be there
swinging its blind head
towards the terror-stricken faces.

its what happens in that second
larger than hell or heaven
than the laws of motion
like the spiders in this basement
simply crawling backwards
not really knowing.
not really growing or spinning
like me. like me just sitting here
amongst the webs 
a decimated, unexonerated
corpse.

its funny how they all crowd around
the most intimate of pieces
like that blue pair of *******
stained with blood but they
like I
know not whose.
nights turn to day and day to
dusk
and i am still in his basement.

i have rules for these things.
these ******* and that bra 
those ***** sheets and tumultuous dreams.
is that what they are?
in one i am chained at the ankles
in another intertwined with him,
as if I wanted it, you can practically
hear my cries.
you decide from what.

I have rules for these things.
and this stays shut.
Dec 2020 · 30
my time is running out
em Dec 2020
i am just a puppet
strutting ceaselessly about in
this mortal flesh.
hanging by a thread.
there's peace in the sadness.
but my time is running out.

see something
say something
that's the plastic sign
the bumper sticker
the hurried whisper
the fingers, wishing and taking
my time is running out.

incubate the sadness
pacify the pain
live another day
live another life away from
him.
I've sinned an ocean and
my time is running out.

I sit and write these words
they come fast, abetting me
my hands shake from what
rage?
dissolution?
and I think,
aloud

have I become the cavity I feared?
Nov 2020 · 28
sorrow
em Nov 2020
she takes my arm and sips the blood i bled
shuts my eyes and says,
i cannot bear for you
to see what lies ahead.
this hurt siphons down
like the tears on my chin
and i cannot seem to reckon
with each and every sin.
and what's to stop this time
marching on in fury, enraged
like it cannot seem to fit enough
of the pain in every day.

sorrow is like a smog
sometimes it is thick
sometimes less apparent
but day in and day out
i am breathing it in.
Nov 2020 · 62
i am grief
em Nov 2020
and hear me this
you wake to me
you sleep to me
you die to me
i am grief
and from my throat tears
the unencumbered rattle of
despair.
i am grief
a great beast
with dripping teeth
and souls to keep.
i destroy the ground
beneath my claws
and the flesh between
my crushing jaw.
i am grief
the notches in your door frame
and the smell of him,
untamed.
hear me this,
you wake to me
you sleep to me
you die to me
you fight to me
and cry to me
i am grief,
i am you.

i am you.
em Nov 2020
i used to focus on all the things that hurt
knowing that's what most people do
i felt more justified
i used to jump out into a sea among
all the children who had more than enough to eat
and a bed big enough for their egos
to rest alongside them
they seemed to fear those kids who
lived on food stamps and played on
imperfect lawns
but somehow hated those kids who had bigger beds
bigger houses
bigger egos
they told me i was lucky to have two homes
even if my mom didn't love my dad anymore
even if no one is there?
they told me i was lucky to be that skinny
cuz they would die to look that way
and aren't i hungry?
they told me i should be thankful
that my daddy's rich and at least i don't
look black,
how awful it must be not to be able to
wear your skin like a trophy
they said who cares if you were scared
you're lucky you have someone who wanted
You.
who couldn't keep their
hands of you.
Are you even listening?
Don't you know how lucky you are?
Nov 2020 · 39
reality
em Nov 2020
the truth about life is that
there is no truth
truth is just reality
of which there are 8 billion
possible perceptions
conceptions, deceptions
8 billion possible ways and misperceptions
to live and love and hate
the truth about life
is that the humans are always
living, loving, dying
hating and creating
fighting back
biting back
moving forward and left and right
but never backwards
predisposing, decomposing lives of
salt
the truth about reality
is that we take comfort in
the niceties of bright cities
in the shouts of 7 million men
because we cannot stand the sound of
our own voice
the truth about reality is the
commonality between brutality and love.
the truth is a girl who is berated by the blacklist
just because she kissed her
that Love is not allowed
her fear becomes a cloud
as she walks into a crowd she knows can ****
the truth is the black man who is handed a gun
told by the cowars who never see the sun
end it all to get the job done
Handed the best key to death and told to have fun
"places like that are for people like you"
society works in one mind
Blind to scripted history
Back of the bus was so 1960's
lets have em go to hell.
Color created the hate people think they need
to win
the black man could live in a house of gold
but it only matters the color of his skin.
the girl could find a cure for cancer
but she doesn't get the chance her
mind is sick.
The truth about reality is the commonality
between brutality and love.
Nov 2020 · 43
a fly
em Nov 2020
sometimes when i think of
living with depression
i think of my aunt
who is living with a dog
that jumps on the bed
and children who never stop barking
its kind of the same
depression is a bit like a fly
that's been in my house for as long as i
can remember
buzzing and humming and
right out of my reach
and when i try to swat it,
i end up hitting everything other
than the **** fly.
i spilled things, i broke things, i smashed things
and destroyed things and i tore
apart my house but i didn't
ever manage to get it
but never did it occur to me
that eventually
flies die.
Nov 2020 · 44
ignorance is bliss
em Nov 2020
and you
you think you see snow
over those ridges
but its really government factories
churning out the next shiny thing
but no, my friend
how blind can you be
not a single planet
not a single moon
not a single stare moves for you
you see,
perhaps you don't
that we are just rats in the ever
changing churn of a system
a system that clamps down
on our will
that thing inside you that no
matter how hard you search and
scramble,
you might never find.
it clamps down and never lets go
it chews through your soul
right to your core
right to the bone.
and you,
my friend,
there, chasing the whitecaps
braving the wave
the great, unbearable
crushing wave
i think one thing:
there is beauty,
collateral beauty in you,
your ignorance
your bliss.
and you,
you think they'll help you
you think they'll stay.
and i have just one thing to say.
they never, ever
stay.
Oct 2020 · 41
dont talk about it
em Oct 2020
you've kept me up most nights
nights, bleed into day and day's end back again.
you've kept me,
surrendering into the nothingness of sleep
wrists and ankles bound to dreams
like you did to me.
she taught me to nod a yes instead of screaming no
instead of- help me, help me please.
i try so hard to remember anything, but you see
with a mind like mine the body is the brain.
i scream out only to realize
my lips have not even parted.
and that song, it sounds like the color of her house
forgotten love from lust only the love is a child and
she's crying out and nodding yes.
when i am broken and
there is nothing left of me to
touch
to hurt
to choke in your fists
maybe then they'll all realize
im just a little girl,
with a thousand ways to
die.
Oct 2020 · 69
a story
em Oct 2020
the first time you wake in prison, you forget
eyes slow to open, free and glad
but, seldom a blink and you remember
it was freedom that you had.
i want to go now
unmitigated pain, my friend
its quite enough to break me so,
and i think i've met my end.
asleep in a stainless coffin
among the scarves of smoke
this hurt is merely stars at night
but the night, grief-strick- he spoke.
and from my broken jaw, i scream
and beg for a lifeboat
to save me from this seething blaze
and these hands around my throat.
and to my pain, i speak of wish
to have my noose and do them in
i know he's only testing me
so i insert my head and grin.
but, alas, the rope pulls through
my stool is kicked away
and i know that finally on this earth
i shouldn't live another day.
they say that there is beauty in the struggle
for you, im sure, but for me, there's never been
in all of the world's demons, struggle
is the ugliest i've seen.
Sep 2020 · 50
inside of me
em Sep 2020
lost am i
on a season of
reconciliation.
tried and true
the billowy blue
which calls itself
a home.
i see everything
as it comes and goes,
as my coffin lies in wait
for a sordid corpse to pick
its way through the dying
leaves.
but before my death i must
surrender, this depressive mode
for freedom never came to the weary
only the willing.
and the audience applauds
well done, you sickly being
forever living as an open wound
but little do they know
i've my own audience now.
and i know i stand in hell
with my own mind.
Sep 2020 · 26
non-binary
em Sep 2020
there is a part of me
which lies, eyes wide
awake.
and im stuck with who I am
and these thoughts in
the bone arena
of my skull.
mens rea, guilty mind
because i know i haven't
gotten to you yet.
and for that, how sorry
i am.
i used to love those baggy jeans
torn up tees
and nicotine.
the way the fabric never catches
in my dreams.
so im waiting now
heavy-hearted
lying low
for some part of me to show
they understand.
Aug 2020 · 25
guilty
em Aug 2020
today i am running
i think i can fly...
but, once more, once again
i am stuck with who i am.
mens rea
a guilty mind
and once again
i think i can fly
but for now
i am stuck with who i am
and to these thoughts
in the bone arena of my skull
i bid no second glance
for they are what gave me
such false wings.
em Aug 2020
she's here again.
loud, loud enough that
i cannot hear the woman tumbling
from my '98 Crosley,
that voice like liquid silver.
she's here again.
come to hurt me, bad.
i thought i closed my door.
i thought i closed my door.
leave me alone
i say.
loud, loud enough this
time that maybe she will go.
and i can sit here,
without her hands on my bones.
and i can sit here with the cat,
who is soft, and silent.
and i might be able to hear
that voice that cracks like lightning.
i thought i closed my door.
i thought i closed my door.
help me.
break out of this glass prison
where there is hardly room to breath
only to see in.
Aug 2020 · 27
he has won
em Aug 2020
i need to be let go,
like icarus near the sun,
my wings will break,
and i will not make it,
alas, the man has won.
like a trojan horse, he comes for me,
in my dreams, my mind
but there is nothing left.
and to this he is blind.
a man of God, or God, he fell astray.
and he looks down upon
me and you.
or perhaps, away.
what was your favorite color? red.
and the purple flush of my face
as your hands cradled my throat, squeezed hard
with the warmth of Death’s embrace.  
now, i find myself lost, where the dark seeks
to be,
a monster on an upside-down throne.
i must be cured of this disease,
to know the light where Icarus had flown.
and so i sit, an animal
chained to what i know so well
amid the cries, my own and yours
aflame in some forgotten hell.
Jul 2020 · 27
river
em Jul 2020
i wish i had a grave to visit
i wish it was my own.
he grabs me from behind
hands trace my hips, sunken bones
you don't want to go where
i have been.
without relief, i am resigned
breathless, helpless, close to death
eyes wide shut and hypnotized
waits patient, for the ending breath
you don't want to go where
i have been.
those words are caught inside the dark
they fuss and whine between my lips
i try and try to let them out
and between my teeth, loosen my grip.
you don't want to go where
i have been.
and just as they begin to fly,
your hands are around me again
wrapped around my throat like vines
and now I know, this is my end.
you don't want to go where
i have been.
running down the riverbank,
chasing, screaming, the quiet frown
hands move under the willow tree,
1, 2 ,3, waiting to drown.
you don't want to go where
i have been.
he's giving up, i've given up
today is not the day to win.
my heart beats faster than he can hurt,
his fingers lift my chin.
you don't want to go where
i have been.
you don't want to go where
i have been.
Jul 2020 · 47
sun
em Jul 2020
sun
the mind surfaces,
afloat on nothing, extinct almost
but not yet.
a swollen soul, adrift on blue
i am suffocating, taut
is the net.
the hands lost inside me
broken fingers grasp
and break in two.
i pray, religiously,
and once i know i see
im drowning as he grew.
as i have grown a bit since then
and much inside me changes when
im grasping at the sun
to fill me up with something
that no longer resembles
the pain that I've outrun.
and then i realize
i am alone
and nothing can be saved
this **** is not a memory
nor a thought, rather a road
forever unpaved.
May 2020 · 48
ode to tommy trantino
em May 2020
the world is dead
but in my head
the "not good enough" still roams
the world is dead
and by a thread
my consciousness is thrown.
I see my body in the mirror
too fat, too big
too much I fear
that even when the world is dead
I won't.
I won't be enough for anyone
because I can't use a glue gun
or create a piece of which DaVinci would
approve.
I won't be enough for anyone
so **** it all, I'm flying on
the world takes time to love
time I don't have.
I look now, I am enough,
I'm adequate, ample, strong enough
to take the earth by storm
and prove my worth.
so **** it all, I'm flying on
I'm flying on.
May 2020 · 54
demons
em May 2020
diaphonized love
an arm to reach
out through the ivory black
needed that.
most days are spent between
the rift.
a losing battle, and a waiting game
this want.
skeletons serve as a muse
on nights and days like this.
where darkness refracts
and shadows hang like
fractals 'long the walls.
tonight I ride the high
tonight its to the bone
there is no winner here
only losers
lost minds
and found demons.
May 2020 · 53
waves
em May 2020
i give thanks, of a sort,
that there were waves. green oil or not.
to block the sound from my throat,
a kind of mourning bellow,
of which i held no recognition.
these walls surround
on all four sides, a valley of hurt
and prove solid enough to hold
the shaking body.
will I ever be Happy?
won't I ever be Loved?
give me back what you took
so surely, like an old possession
give me back this
capacity
to hurt.
for i feel nothing at all.
Apr 2020 · 49
i dont know
em Apr 2020
and here i go making a fool of my cards,
laughing easy, crying hard.
this fight is great, im lost again
when everywhere is all I've been.
there's nothing left to do but wait,
till all my sorrows are down the drain.
dear god, credit all where credits due
but devil, how I've danced with you.
there's not a sight i haven't seen
with you by my side through thick and thin.
these sorrows have turned me bitter and black
that fleeting joy's not coming back.
oh god, you've made me a dear friend
but the time is now, the ends the end.
my moments come to **** the dark
and you best believe ill make my mark.
and so i sit to pay my debts,
and smoke that one last cigarette.
Mar 2020 · 54
Untitled
em Mar 2020
this is a kind of pain
I cannot fix.
the gnawing, clawing night
has found an opening.
its blue-black fingers itch for
restitution of my skin I
give it what it craves so
I may sleep.
this is a kind of pain
I cannot fix.
among the grieving sighs of sleep
imprisoned in this mind to keep
the aches and pains of grief
where they should be.
this is a kind of pain
I cannot fix.
Mar 2020 · 55
night-time
em Mar 2020
these visions come to me awake
despite a gnawing need for sleep
in tangled sheets, I lay,
writhing for a different dream.
goose-fleshed skin under her grip
a trembling chin, and stone-cold eyes
I pray to a God I cannot see
and hope it wasn’t the same as she.
the hands run along me, poking
prodding, loving, lusting and in
short moments they take their
fill, hungry mouths awaiting.
and this ugly feeling in my gut
takes hold my throat and
I fall down into this hole of mine,
the dark creates the blind and
I am blind to all I cannot see.
her outstretched hands grasp
at me for more and more and
I cannot give,
for she has taken all there is to take.
Mar 2020 · 51
down the hole
em Mar 2020
her gleaming eyes atrate in
black
reflect in them the lies I've
told
untouched blood no longer
flows in lack
blessed be her hands which
hold
the supple flesh of a corpse,
my own
with greatness she consumes me
whole
I am left with nothing but
a throne
which crumbles like dust 'round
my soul
her gleaming eyes atrate in
sorrow
with rigor and a story
tamed
from a locked door and no
tomorrow
I am now broken, with heart
un - chained
Mar 2020 · 48
insanity
em Mar 2020
I want for nothing more than my own mind -
but obsolete it is and empty as I.
for hours in this corner I shake,
and get nowhere with my cries.
on this floor, I turn to dust -
and walk unsteady with my pain -
prescribed dose goes down my throat -
seven pills to keep me sane.
I want for nothing more than my own mind -
but obsolete it is and empty as I.
for someone has taken my thoughts out
and replaced them with a lie.
Feb 2020 · 52
truth
em Feb 2020
it is but a puddle, which contains so strongly my veracity -
a naked pain, which inflicts like a cursed spoke.
and though the sea may be livid, I have been inured to its anger.
you must not believe the sight of such torment.
see not the gossamer of my skin, nor the stiff white edges.  
hear not my howls which echo behind the black door.
feel not the warmth of Blood stitched upon white sheets.
hold not my aching limbs for they may never come undone.
lift your neck and heavy head, hold steady your breath,
to let your eyes rest upon me and see the truth
as a tentative gift, so that everyone may watch as
I inhale Misery, feather-quiet creatures wait on me
for the Rapture is near! on unsteady feet, I rise,
careful as not to wake them, At last, I have summited,
out of this tempestuous sea,
I do not recognize myself.
there is a salt upon my lids,
where I let the angels cry unto my brow.
they come to me in this euphoria,
this window of time that had been opened
whereupon I weep, this time at their feet.
I kiss their toes and cradle in my hands their marble heels.
oh, joy! I have been awakened,
and yet, still, the mirror is clear.
where am I?
What have I become?
Feb 2020 · 50
cut
em Feb 2020
cut
the beginning began as all beginnings do.
slow. slow like the gradual roar
of a whitecap, with its pigeon blue body.
the first time, my skin was beautiful.
my wrist, like a pale, smooth sheet of gossamer.
ready to be awakened and bled.
I hold my skin close like a mother holds her child.
for I cannot bear for them to see.
the rigidity of it now, the toll of age.
the patterns that time, ticking,
left upon my forearms.
Feb 2020 · 50
monday
em Feb 2020
help.
help me.
ad infinitum, a life that never ends.
this life never ceases to exist and because of this
I kneel to my master with alacrity and grace,
for this brisk readiness to end my life is tangible to touch.
and in my catharsis, I still fight, too hard and long to see out
help.
help me.
in this field of broken flowers
smashed stems and divided blades,
I cannot be infinite anymore.
so I write this to let you know my end is near.
it does not bother me so, this ephemeral life,
for a thousand years could not reflect this pain.
help.
just help me.
Feb 2020 · 55
black 2
em Feb 2020
stultify, my mind
this routine is never kind
the same drill of terror, obsolete
to black and blue, I'm beat.
this pious voice inside my head
wants nothing more than me dead
and yet I quarrel with my sorrow
and hold it to my breast.
clutch tight to your volition dear,
you're too smart to give him power here.
God doesn't know what he's created
monsters, demons, angels,
me.
God doesn't know what he's created.
Feb 2020 · 49
black
em Feb 2020
stultify, my mind
this routine is never kind
the same drill of terror, obsolete
to black and blue, I'm beat.
this pious voice inside my head
wants nothing more than me dead
and yet I quarrel with my sorrow
and hold it to my breast.
clutch tight to your volition dear,
you're too smart to give him power here.
God doesn't know what he's created
monsters, demons, angels,
me.
what pious voice echoes in my thoughts
that all but consumes me.
what sorrow lies upon my breast
that all but consumes me.
em Feb 2020
these creatures in my vision
they dance around a skeletal me
with cries, they leap in their
animal ways and they then count to three.
to three they get and all their cries
come forward into the night
what skies hold fast their darkened hues
shall set forth all their light.
I call to them, please help me
take this sorrow out my veins
release me from this downward hole
from this everlasting pain.
these creatures in my vision
they toss the marrow-bone
from claw to paw, they sing.
come back to us, our queen.
Feb 2020 · 29
red
em Feb 2020
red
my ears still ring
from all these screams
still cooped up in that corner of my head
I look around
for that dark sound
I can't find it because I don't have a shred
of sane-ness left inside my mind
inside my mind and this mind of mine
has gone all but dead.
so trust me when I say
yes I would like to wake up but
all that I know is hanging by a thread
my life has met joy and
sorrow has met me
but not a single soul I've met has said
that I can live without
this dying part of me
that is begging to be bled.
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