i built barricades to block my desire for your lips
because i thought it would be easier
to not be around you
than to be around you and face the truth that you are not
and never will be
with me
but the nights are cold
and your arms are warm
and i am not sure how much longer i can go
without seeing your smile

I am high off the possibility
that maybe
just maybe
you can be alongside
because now i fit criteria
and that excites me

I cleaned my room a couple days ago.
I never do. I get too tired.
But, ironically, today it is messier than before.
Isn't it always?
You try to fix something and it just bites you in the *** in the end.
Best to just leave it all alone.
It takes too much energy anyway.
Besides, maybe my head was just mean to be messy.

Free me.
Teach me how to be grand and pure.
No more will I be an expectation unfit for the queen.
I may have potentioal, but in my capabilities,
it is nonesistant.
Bring me to the sun and let me burn
The cigarettes match my memories, but
they don't add up.
Electrical wires are down.
No one seems to see farther than glass.\
If I were any more translucent I would be a ghost - i was always quite spiritual
I am trying so hard to listen to the secrets but
I am enslaved by souls that are far from sane

You have to have a strong exterior.
Life attacks every day.
Some can handle this constant fight.
And some can not.

Battle wounds swarm the skin.
They come from multiple places.
The world. Others. Maybe you don't know how they came.
But, the scariest are the ones you create
Yourself

Look at the scars. Look at the cuts.
Your body cries tears of blood every time.
Take a good look.
And be reminded of the life you made.
Of the pain you have.
And fear.
Fear it.

These battle wounds will never heal,
For they are not just skin deep.
They penetrate through your muscle and bones.
And attack
Your heart.
It is vulnerable and unprotected.
And all at once it feels the sting
Of the knife
Of the hand
Of the pain
Of the mind.

And all it can do is give you a tear
A salty, wet, tear.
Maybe two.
And that's all you have left.
The tears
The scars
The pain...the reminder
And that's all you'll ever have

You have to have a strong interior.
A strong exterior.
In life.
So, please be careful.
I bruise easily.

I'm a pack rat
with a furless tail
and red
raspberry
eyes
and I will never
get rid of
(that envelope)
you
gave me
on Xmas eve
with the
crooked tree
on the back-side.
It was carelessly done,
but I am acutely
aware that you did
your best.

It's on days like these when life is rushing in at light speed
and I am breathing in Carbon Dioxide instead of air.
When the world is unbearable and
I'm stressed from the giant rock of fate.
That I think about you laying next to me
with open heart listening to my soul beat.
Your hand holding mine - pulsing it,
reminding me of the patterns of living and
looking into your eyes and feeling that pain could never exist
when we are looking at starts together
You are the heal, and I love you more than the sun
And I kiss your nose.
But, I miss and hit my empty pillow.

I'm not going to be a teenage wasteland forever
Someday I'm going to stop polluting my body and hating my mother
I have an addiction to those
toxic remedies
like hair dye
nutmeg
and bleach.
I'll be taking calcium supplements
for dwindling marow
and for once I'll actually care about politics.
Daddy had a habit of calling me a
super-feminist
just because I wouldn't bring him his slippers
when he got home
from retrieving the mail.
I've always hated dogs in the house
so I became vegetarian.

My subscription to Cosmopolitan has long
been expired.
Instead I stick my fingers inbetween the crevices
of the fan

There's a secret to resentment:
Hang it up in the closet
on the hanger
next to the apron.
It's wanting to pour wasabi down pants
so they feel the kick
so they can hear

i dont have the energy
to care about wilting daisies
on rainy days
or broken cds stuffed into my
pockets.
i dont have the time to
try to fit in with your hands
anymore

I told her I loved her
She didn't understand completely how much, then again,
neither did I.
Love is such a cliche thing
overused and abused by false accusations and taudry
romantic comedies.
I'm not sure what
real
love is
but I do know what I feel for her is stronger than Nicholas Sparks and all the red roses in the universe
combined
Yet, all I could say to her glitter face,
All I was allowed,
In the most innocent way,
(For innocent, and as friends, is the only way)
I told her I loved her
And she said
"I love you more"
And I laughed
Because lord knows that is not humanely possible

I'm afraid of contradictions
more importantly the space
between them
Aching with this carnal
blessing of your voice in my ear
"She resonates" I say I scream "she Resonates" never even heard the words
before
I wanted to call your name -
the way it lives in my throat
clenching at the letters, I in the middle
with a delicate hum at the end

The problem with me is that I believe in souls.
A dangerous belief to say the least.
I feel as if I have lived this life a million times over
The pain is
so routine
so familiar
so real.
It is recognizable.
Quite.
I have been around a long time.
Though: I am not experienced.
Nor am I inexperienced.
I am not young. I am not grown. I am not old.
I never will be.
I am but a mere soul living in yet another tattered body.
A problem in itself.
But, if I am a soul I will exist forever.
And I am tired.

I wish I could live in people's brains
like solid tumors that are far from cancerous
so that I can feel their thoughts rush past my
skin so that I can
remember how it feels to be alive

I sat there in the darkness of this girl's backyard
I didn't know her that well, but I felt that I should have.
Missed my chance.
What I do know about her is that she was very beautiful.
I didn't know that until she was gone.
It wasn't until the tears were streaming down my face that I realized
She was very beautiful.
It wasn't until I was standing in the darkness in her backyard with a hundred other people who's eyes were red and who's candles were gleaming that I realized
She was very loved
I didn't know this girl. I went to school with her. I saw her in the halls. I heard her screaming in classrooms.
I never knew how much we shared in common - the same family, the same passion for art, the same life.
It wasn't until I heard all the stories people had and all the memories people shared with her that I realized
I loved her.
And it wasn't until my candle got down to the nub to the point where it was burning my fingers to the point where it blew out that I realized
She was gone.

Let's go on a Journey. She said.

The problem that lies within my raisin-swelled brain is that I do not like to speed on open highways
or smoke behind chipped bathroom doors.

I vomited in the kitchen sink once
because I couldn't make it
to the trash.
Now
when I dye my hair and
rinse it out
under that faucet
I get extremely uncomfortable.

So maybe,
one day
we can travel again.

Somehow
in my conceived perception of
glitter
I desperately try to latch-on
to another
beauty.

Somehow
in my blurred realization of
time
I think that not being
alone
will make me not
lonely.

Somehow
in my outrageous menacing
skin
I thought that
She
could be replaced.

Humming sultry love songs and
lathering in tanning oil.
Wind-up chew toy.
Everything's
clearance.
Car roof down.
Stars are fire you know.
No more
No less.
Parts of me have been run over by
that sailboat party.
I threw up
everything
but
I pretended to not know
that I lost my voice
from tin cans and lighters.

I can't be free of the river dread
that has consumed me whole.
But, I am trying to learn how to swim
again.
They keep throwing me life jackets
and oars,
but it's a sinking ship.
Don't worry, I tell them.
Don't worry, I love you
and I'll be back soon.
Maybe later if not sooner.

It is not worth the troubled heart to take a bite out of happiness
Pleasure is best left to interpretation.
Don't get me wrong
it all was real
it is all real
I will always throb for your figured smile,
but life is a tease
and I don't know who I am yet

The best thing about life is not living.
Nor loving.
It’s forgetting.
Forgetting the sadness and the pain and everything in the world that has ever left a scar on your soul.
And for awhile.
Life is bearable.
And you can sing and dance and laugh and smile and mean it.
It’s real. The happiness is real.
And when you glanced at the scars there was no haunting memory.
You could pull your sleeve down and enjoy the breeze in your hair.
And I remember those days when I forgot the suffering.
But, somewhere along the line I could no longer forget.
A trigger of some sort.
I slipped into the realization that I was living alone in an eclipse.
I slowly realized that my songs and my smiles were fake.
And as I glanced at the scars there was a throbbing memory that tempted me.
So, I pulled my sleeve up and watched my world unravel yet again.

i am most free when i let my mind wander
i dont know exactly
but if my soul were an instrument id be a guitar
and i pray that someone would mend my brittle strings and play my hollow body

I only started to travel
after I lost you in my
suitcase. I went through
all my laundry and
wallet, but I never
saw you again.

Scatter like roaches
and feel the sun beat down on you like moldy
sidewalk chalk
and cheap plaster.
Seep into the ground as if it were swallowing
time and eating the sea.
Don't look back into the eye of the storm until
it blinks 57 times and winks twice
It is an important concept that would behoove the
stale aura of your nature
And if you die during this so called adventure,
Smirk
And heave whole-heartedly with the last breath
allotted that you just tasted what it was like to
fall in love
and you proudly let it **** you all at once

Bring me to justice and whip my smile away
Morbid may be better than believing lies.
I believe in many things, many faces,
sadly
when you look to too many things you don't look to yourself.
Sometimes it's hard to leave love behind,
but sometimes it's even harder to let it take over you
while it does nothing but drink calm earl grey tea with your lover.

I am tired of writing of you as if you were an old polaroid photo from 1975.
The kind that fades slowly and turns yellow in an old trunk.
The kind taken of a happy sad girl laughing at her youth which she has kept in a glass bottle ever since she was 13.
That is how I picture you – frozen bittersweet melancholia giggles.
You are my dark little secret, and something tells me a part of you always will be.
But, you are real.
So very real.
In fact, you are the only thing that is real to me anymore.
You are more than what I write of.
You are more than anything.
What I write of is fiction.
The dreams I have of us entangled.
Fiction. Sadly. Fiction.
I will never stop the imagination
the creation
of a “banana pancake good morning” love with you.
Never.
But, what I wrote of was fiction.
Perhaps. Perhaps we just need to change the genre.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if my fantasies came true and we were together. I wonder how we would spend our days.
I’d wake up in the morning to see your face on the pillow next to me. To see you wrapped in the cream linen sheets
the comforter fallen to the floor.
To hear the rising song of our alarm and to have
you reach your arm over
slamming the top and turning back to me with a defeated smile.
I wonder
what it would be like to force myself to get up from that bittersweet moment and put on my blouse and skirt and
get ready to face the day.
Always asking myself
why
for the perfect day would be to stay in bed all day next to you.
I wonder
what it would be like if you cooked me breakfast with smiley face pancakes and a tall glass of oj. And the delighted smile on your face as I compliment your apron.  
And to see you drive. The wind blowing our hair from the windows
cranked down.
Your sunglasses sitting perfectly on the bridge of your nose and
your hand gracefully placed on the top of the rolled down window.
Running your fingers through your hair and me wishing to do the same.
The music softly playing in the background making the moment seem more and more unrealistically perfect.
Maybe we’ll shop in those trendy villages like blue back square.
Just walking the streets together, not really even entering any stores. Just walking.
Pointing out interesting things in the windows.
Maybe we even touch hands for a short moment
and if I’m lucky
our fingers intertwine
and it seems casual to you
unawkward
natural.
Maybe we'll go to dinner and we just talk over pointless subjects and a flickering candle.
Then I don’t know what.
Maybe we walk again.
Under the night sky.
Seeing your beauty in glimpses of the city lights.
Maybe it starts to sprinkle maybe not.
We laugh at a pointless joke.
I love your laugh.
I love your smile.
I see your crisp blue eyes as we walk past a neon sign outside a dull bar and I realize that I love them more than I could fathom.
They look into me and see every little thing about me.
The good. The bad. My fears. My past.
I can sense that. And I can sense that you understand.
That you get it.
I realize that those eyes are the purest and most beautiful eyes on the planet.
Maybe I feel the need to tell you that.
Maybe after we laugh and smile we both realize that this is the moment that happens in movies. The one where they realize. The one where they fall in love.
The moment that happens after dinner and drinks by the streetlight’s corner.
In a hip city of artists and thugs.
Like us.
Exactly like us.
And we realize that we must follow through with the movie.
Follow through with the feeling of realization.
And then maybe our laughs and smiles drop
not completely, not seriousness, just pause.
And then maybe we look into each others eyes and slowly slip.
Run my fingers through your silky blonde hair
heads lean in.
I feel your lips against mine
I am truly happy.
I want to stay there in your arms forever.
We pull a part for a second
Catching breath
Opening eyes
You smile
And that is what I live for.

Spoiled in more ways than one
For the record
I once was a pure white maiden
who wore their hair in pigtail braids
and only chewed tobacco on
Saturday evenings.
Sabbath never meant a word to me
The misunderstood don't understand
Mistakes are still made
Out of control
In the backseat beating to a drum
Sound coming from the heart
thrown in the glove box
I didn't mean to -
You chopped off my hair
with a rusty blade
left scars on my shins
battered not broken
for the record
rotten. In more ways than one.

my hips next to hers and we could have the Universe.
her rolling thumbs pressed against my blushed cheeks.
her fire light piercing through all of my -

i don't care
if the moon chokes me.
these throbbing increments of time
are wasting away like musk rose.
and the smell of her spirits are lingering.

her shoulders are galaxies
i'm tied to their crevices
i'm tied to the souls
of her shoes.

i want to know all your ghostly habits
do you cross
yourfingers
yourlegs
youreyes
                 my planets orb.

come close to me and feel my breath
against the ice of your heart
i will melt you
i will make you feel again

She kept up with her housekeeping.
Typically. Very Neat. Shelves everywhere.

Today, the melon baller was out of place
and she was busy batting flies.

Actually, there was only one fly.
Senses deceived.

The humming was too loud to go undisturbed.
Attention becomes focused digitally

on enhanced minute wrecks.
Hours spent trying to get the flies.

Illusion.
One fly.

She didn't know. Suspected worst.
Kept at it.

The sexless man walked in with a tophat. Brimmed.
Asks why the dishes weren't done.

Too Busy.

Why the floor not swept.

Too Busy.

Vacuum.

There's flies to get. I'm busy.


The house is a mess. The house is a wreck.

Bronze belly burnt from sun kisses;
Yesterday afternoon when I dreamt
we were at the beach and
you were numb from being heated by the microscope light
and I was drowning in the pools of your eyes -
tsunami tides, killer wail -
No matter who comes to save me, I'll always wish it was you.
So I wait and let the cold sea salt gurgle in my lungs.
But you are still,
you are warm and bothered.

They made me read a segment  about who they think I am.
I don't know who "I" is.
"I" gave it a shot anyway.

Biggest fear: Failure...?
In bold.                                  That's me.
Failure.
Perfectionist?                        Yeah, I guess so.
Yes or no?                              Isn't everyone?

Do you tend to forget things easily?
Do you get dizzy and light headed when you stand up?
Are you a perfectionist? Are you a failure?
Are you this are you that?
Are you sad? Are you scared?
.........................................................­.....................................................Yeah, but isn't everyone?

No sweety.

she was silent
on the other line.
and i thought,
if i cant hear her
anymore,
then i must not
be listening
hard enough.
and if i'm not
listening
than it must be
.

My therapist drinks his coffee lite and sweet
I drink mine black with ice
I feel that says a lot about our personalities

The saddest day of my life was the day you told me you weren't going anywhere.

I often live in those moments of smeared eyeliner and shaking hands
lost beyond all belief
and found in the crevices of your warming knuckles.
If you ever wonder why
I was crying so hard into your neck

think about the thoughts that tell stories
think about how I couldn't tell where your body ended and my began
think about this
unconditioning
that had to be known
that had to be hush.

All the times i told you "more" ran through my mind
as i was fixing the tufts in your hair.
You told me I was beautiful with mascara washing down my cheeks
bare with this envy
for the passenger seat in your sedan.

And as the words left your lips
my hand clasped mine
to prevent me from revealing
you're the definition.

The saddest day of my life was the day you told me you weren't going anywhere
because I always knew you would.

The three little pigs had it easy
they were destined to be blown away
into oblivion
But,
expectations weigh me down in my sleep
and I have to greet the sun and the moon
with open arms,
and I'd rather be curled up in my bed of rocks
that I made with my own wretched hands.

My nails have dirt under them
so when they find me
when they dig me up
they'll realize
I was more alive than dead.

Perhaps perhaps that is true,
but I'm unsure at the moment if I can breathe anymore
without the man upstairs jumping on my chest
and rattling my bones like
windchimes in a blizzard.

They forgot to take me in from the porch
so now I am covered in ice.
Hypothermia is contagious.
I learned that the hard way.

My mother doesn't know any lullabyes
so I fell asleep alone all my life
there is no such thing as love in a world where
doors are always sewn closed.

My brother doesn't know the meaning of the word death
so he doesn't know who I am
or where I came from.
It's a divided house with splintered shutters
hanging only on one window.

My grandmother handmade the curtains so my mother
wouldn't have to spend any money on décor.
It is important to be fasionable yet frugal
she said.
Know your odds and ends
and always sweep the dust under the rug
at the end of the day.

Clean freak.
Everyday.
Shine the house. Shine her shoes.
I think she mistakes them for her soul.
But, it's okay
because ***** things teach important lessons in life
like who can bring the most to the table.

Honesty is the best policy.
I lied to my aunt so I could go smoke
her cigarettes and drink her *****
while she was gone on vacation.
She doesn't know I've slashed wrists
and doused pills with beer and dry martinis
on Sundays after church, but
Honesty is the best policy.

It's hard to explain to someone that addiction's not
addiction because you sound like
you've been shot
when you ask for the stuff you've been dying
to hold.
And they look at you as if you were the one
that ran over Princess Di.

Back up.
Back up.
Sit down. Breathe clean air and tell them that
you're not
suicidal
you just like the way the word sounds
on your tongue.

Aftermath is fear.
Intentions
always change last minute and as they
stuff the tube down your throat
you question if you are you
any longer.

People like that shouldn't rely on such
demeaning ways to be found,
but I can feel my skin rotting
and I'm terribly afraid
someone is going to cover me in
buffalo sauce and swallow me whole.

I was drunk
but does it still count
I've never truly known a woman
because I know the one for me will be
unknowable.
I am drawn to the things I can't have
and oh god
I can't have you.

I hear that if you lick the alphabet
they will fall in love with your tongue.
No one has made me fall yet,
that is no one I have tasted.
I don't trust they are worthy
if they can't look me in the eyes.

I pray to god no one ever inhales the carbon dioxide
I contain.
It is spoiled rotten with ash.
In fact, I am confident the dioxide
has turned black
by now

It tastes like fire.
I've been run over by crickity
subway carts
one too many times
and now my deformed fingers
can't pick up pencils.
On the way back from
Manhattan
I was tied to rusted train tracks
and left to drown
in the salty August rain.

Old man with cane,
let's call him Michael,
prods at my sockets
picks at my skin.
Rope burn stings almost as much as an
infected
sore
from all the laps around
my head
is filled with
maggots
and being
last year's leftovers
again
and again

we'd play hacky-sack -
I don't know how, but
I'll make it up
and I'll teach them
what to do when
they get papercuts.
And when I make their fluffer ****** for lunch,
I'll leave a note that says
“sweetie”
and they'll throw it out,
and I know they will
I'll **** five hundred trees
but it's all worth it

And there we were standing there as if nothing could ever touch us,
putting red lipstick and curling our eyelashes
For the sake of youth
For the sake of not caring
about what the standards should be
for young women in glossy stilettos.
We sat there listening to Pretty Woman
puckering our lips with all the seriousness in the world -
We believed, we truly believed,
in the push up bras and black onyx mascara.
We felt they understood us,
that we belonged
But we were always just little girls
playing dress up.

Rhymes have no reason
but they are pleasant I suppose
It seems that's all that matters
Satisfaction is bliss
So is ignorance
But it's hard to say which I would prefer
in a world that is deaf
and the people wear eye patches
to save their irises from the sun

i promise to never drag you on roller coasters you don't consent to
and if you do take a chance on the rackety rails
i promise to never let go of your hand

i promise to never pull you through this life
if you don't wish to be by my side
but, if you do decide to accompany me on this journey
i promise to never let go of your hand

Life really *****.
This isn't a poem.
Just a reflection of the truth.
15 letters that scream.