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gmb Apr 30
there was a short sweet wait before the worry.
why do i miss you when youre next to me?

i try to fight
you take me back:
warm plaster walls and obtrusive matter. a mirror made from bolts and metal sheets, the taste of ensure. bathroom wall etchings, comfortable silence and silence that isn't so safe. hiding your hurt in the hallway and bleeding it out after bedtime.

i deflate-
i combust.
why do you make me feel like this?
i try speaking to you, but im just pulling the string
on your back
that connects
to the voicebox,
you say sorry in the way you always do.
i memorized your automated response.
i'm thinking i can't do this anymore.
Mar 16 · 45
untitled again
gmb Mar 16
Thank you for your patience,
carelessness imitating restraint.

He mutters something.
Words stumble through the air,
delay at my earlobe,
they dare not climb inside.
I won't ask again.

(Heartache is ghosts in the walls. Heartache is socks-on-at-all-times 'cause the carpet is gummed up with **** and little empty baggies stick themselves to the soles of my feet as I walk. Heartache is a few days here and there without power, a bowlful of dead fish left to stew. Heartache is bath times in mold, never being clean, when you'd rather let the pillow suffocate you rather than taking it off your ears and hearing the screams--you say you know pain, how could you know? How could you even begin to understand?)


I say thank you for putting up with me
regardless. You know I keep it all inside--
I know why you stir in your sleep.
If I were you, the guilt would eat me too.

For the sun always sets in front of me,
and rises from the back--

(Have I convinced only myself that you don't want me? Have I convinced you too?)
gmb Mar 15
The sky was grey, and the clouds hung low and kissed the trees with tongue. This was smog-in-your-lungs weather. She took note of the ambiguity of the tree line. She paused-

              the soil became

              painfully aware of the

              drip, drip, drop

Has it always been so warm here? So vibrant? Is the scent of the flowers always accompanied by an ache in the stomach? The plant carcasses crunched beneath her feet, sighing as they turned to dust. As she walked the crunches got louder, louder, turned to whispers, turned to voices.

              the overwhelming whine

              will you deny it?

              the plants extend their leaves

She forgot her destination. The colors swarmed her senses, breathed hot air on her face. She is unable to ignore any longer.



              Hunger overcame the girl. A piece of fruit falls in her lap, everlasting.
https://www.victoria-miro.com/artists/9-wangechi-mutu/works/artworks9560/
gmb Mar 4
your heartbeat quickens,
a rainstorm in my ear.
(what don't i know?)

a quick glance at the screen
the house talks
(why don't you respond?)

i'm next to you
i think about
the things i'd say,
the things i'll say.

it's cold outside
i hesitate.
does this even really matter if you
love me in the little ways?
i hesitate.

i know im not the only one.
i think you know i know.

it's only a matter of time
your mouse-paws pitter patter
when i leave the room
my comfort will cease the moment i cease to ignore
Feb 16 · 333
Untitled
gmb Feb 16
something is turning, turning. it unfurls and bloats before me; unrecognizable, aside from the eyes. they were always the same. she looks healthier, i say. healthier half beat to death. i let myself grieve.

quiet, as always.
there’s never anything to
worry about, seriously.

(the dog inside me growls, thrashes and whips his chain, splits his maw on his confines.)


Anyway, it wasn’t that dark out yet. The moist, hot breeze licked at their shoulders as they walked home. They oozed in through the back door like smoke, sweating and cursing, I appeared in the living room like an apparition. The curtains were drawn. The TV was just static. It all happened in slow-motion—I see five skeleton fingers clutching cigarette butts, someone scuttles on the porch, the screaming door bursts open

And, yeah. That’s all I can really remember. Looking back, I feel like I should’ve remembered something like that, right? Yeah. That’s the type of thing someone remembers.
Jan 21 · 57
Untitled
gmb Jan 21
again, this vessel bursts and turns to bite me like a dog.
an open palm connects with the doughy skin on my temple;
repeat the action til it satisfies.
i pray for my skull to give way at the soft parts,
implode at the seams. it smiles in my mind's eye,
tickles my nerves from the inside.

i'll still feel the buzzing inside me, the boil-bubble-brew of this rage,
i wish i could tell you. i wish i could tell you.

this is a poem about my violence and all the glittering ways i self destruct.
gmb Jan 19
i. it's a sad morning, but only i feel it. he wakes me up with *****. it's 5am again but still too dark outside to see so i take in the scent of his sick; i notice myself being pulled closer. i realize he thinks im sleeping and hope he lets me stay--he doesn't, but it's not his fault. it never is. he drags me out by the knobs on my feet; i dig my nails in the carpet, puke pooling under the fingers, the fibers rip the nails right off me--he starts to cry. i wonder why he's crying. he drives me home in silence, leaves me spitting in the snow, crashes the car on the way home. i'm through two pots of coffee already by the time he decides to love me in the morning.

ii. i wake, again, with my head on the floor; but this time it's my own. this 5am is dark as well, save for the light of my phone on the wall--it's ringing, the buzzing sticks knives in my head. i pick up and see his pale green eyes, deadpan and silent; i hear him crying in my head nonetheless. he asked me if he woke me up and i lie; i'm just thinking about the muscles on his back, the worry-lines, and our nicotine habit. he is unrecognizable now, but it's my fault--he looks so different under street lamps at 3am, so much softer when my vision is clouded by amphetamines. i find solace in the fact that, after all this time, he might be too late.

"we would've been forever," he said. "you and i would've been forever." i realize his eyes aren't even ******* green anymore. i thought you weren't afraid of anything? "i know," i say, and i hang up the phone for the last time.
Jan 15 · 49
Untitled
gmb Jan 15
i don't want to make sense anymore
i catch myself thinking in fragments again,
i emote in pieces; react at the apex,
my head never lets me just be angry;
i snap but i just dent the drywall again.
if these hands were stronger i'd tear the whole house down, i swear i can tear the whole house down, i could
Jan 14 · 26
Untitled
gmb Jan 14
at least these few more months,
you could love me until then.
can you at least pretend

i can feel your itch to crash the car
from the passenger’s seat,
you don't have to say anything.
don’t wait until you drop me off.
id rather hurt with you

you tear cuticles off
while i beg you to stay without words
you don’t listen
there's no point in pretending if you're leaving anyway,
it’s never enough
there’s no one left

i think of you in bloom
gmb Dec 2020
in the morning my back aches,
the sun rises with you everyday.
this obsession like cheap alcohol in cans
we throw up when it's too much.

i know your hands will be the ones to **** me.
not used to being loved more than you're loving
you fumble every clasp and button.

i long for nausea in tongues and on couches,
the sick feeling of love in my gut,
drifting off to the hum of your engine.
Dec 2020 · 53
Untitled
gmb Dec 2020
in my dreams i let the door lock behind me.
the air is heavy,
silent.

i take a walk.
i'd like to imagine it's warm
outside but

i know
i'd be weightless in summer.
so, the snow falls

i make footprints--my feet sink down inches and inches.
gmb Oct 2020
the room is warm, so warm it chokes me. the walls are draped with rugs and greyed with dust; the lamp-light struggles to reach my eyes through the smoke. cecilia wields her blade and runs her tongue along the edge. she has to taste it, she says. to make sure it's right. her yellowed teeth meet the hilt and she leans in my direction; the point of her weapon reaches my temple, caresses the skin there, leaves a drop of her spittle on my cheek from the pressure. she looks up at me--i hate her expression. i hate the sag of her skin; the way she looks at me; her cloudy, flitting corneas; dead and sightless. she's wearing my shirt. it drapes her frame. she looks terrible. i swallow my disgust and stare hard, i close the space between us. she kisses her blade, one last time, for good luck. love is oppressive. cecilia carves me a new pair of eyes.
Oct 2020 · 70
taurus
gmb Oct 2020
i imagine breaking each other's noses. i imagine the bone-crunch, cartilage on cartilage like a car crash, the feeling of the skin giving way. i imagine a nosebleed so thick, so clotted and deep-red, oxidizing in real time, warm milk on my face. i imagine a day without nausea. marked by stomach acid, snot pooling above my lip, the face in the mirror gagging into the sink. i draw anything and hate it. i go for rides and just get tired. i try to write and i feel nothing.

bits and pieces of the last few years manifest themselves in dreams: the feeling of handcuffs and hard car seats like playground swings; a six-by-six room with words etched into the wall; being sandwiched between linoleum and fluorescent beams. i revisit myself; she never cried, just dug her nails into the palms of her hands and bore the weight, i admire her stoicism. i admire the way she held her shoulders.

it's 2017 again. i clean blood off the walls in suburbia while a kitchen knife exposes a trachea somewhere in west virginia; i should've known back then that i was cursed. she skyped me with blood dripping down from her chin to her chest. i wonder if the scar's still there.
Oct 2020 · 57
glass in my feet
gmb Oct 2020
and after all this time
here i am wasting time again.
it's easier this way, me and my blistered fingertips,
squirming in the way that i do that you know when the
comfort's too much. the water's stagnant and the bugs will be out with
humidity. it bites the calluses--there's too much
scar tissue to feel it.

the feeling crawls in; house spider unnoticed. it has legs with claws and tiny hairs that scrape my skin; i take note of the brain-tingle, the alarm bells. i try to shake the feeling that

hiding something? no, this is supposed to be good. what don't i know? its a low pitched rumble this time, it started in the back of my head and my knees and not the top of my head like when love goes wrong or my toes when the blow is coming from the back. the spider tells me something's wrong. its voice is too soft to hear.

i ignore the gut-rumble and indulge my fight or flight. i can't shake the feeling but i try. i can never shake the feeling but
maybe i can
dislodge it
if i just-
one more second-

my poor spider's fangs probe my shoulder;
huh. i thought her mouth was too small to hurt me.
she's close enough now to hear her whispers;
i become the venom.

i ignore my sixth sense until im hanging on her noose.
Sep 2020 · 115
g
gmb Sep 2020
g
there is no reason for anyone in the world to like poetry
Sep 2020 · 64
sfhkjdfedjc
gmb Sep 2020
why do i even try? you make me want to give up. you make me want to give up. i will never connect with anyone like that ever again. you make me want to give up. the more you make me do this the more i want to give up. im going to give up. im going to throw everything away. im going to throw it all away i swear i will. i will ruin my own life to spite you and i will smile doing it. you kiss the spit and pretend  i taste good, dont lie to me i know when people lie i can see it. i see everything i notice everything you think i dont? you think i wouldnt? i have trained my whole life for this and for the moment after you can never make me look stupid. you cant. you cant. im more like my father than i realize and my brother is more like me than he has figured out yet, i see the parallels, see the repetition, i dont want to be like my parents and i hate that my blood looks up to me. i hate that he looks up to me staring at me in the room we share when once a month i decide to come home youre nine years old and youve already lived in more houses than you can count i am so so sorry i love you so much please never pretend to be okay youre more like me than you will ever know if you love god god will love you and if you dont love him he isnt real nothing can hurt you i swore id protect you and i failed i failed i failed you and you dont know it yet but i failed you already i can see it in your eyes that are just like our fathers and i hope you look like me when youre older i hope i live long enough to see it i hope you do too i can sense it i miss you but you need to leave me alone
Sep 2020 · 56
speck of gold
gmb Sep 2020
the room spins in past tense; i glance at the doorway. i could’ve sworn i heard the shift of the floorboards, i say the hinges whisper in my sleep. i let my eyes unfocus on the street lamp from my bedroom window and i follow the tracers; i befriend the ghosts under my bed. my mom only let me paint one wall pink. the memory drifts and gets replaced.

     i try not to let you see it but your
kindness shrivels me.
my whole life has been auburn
you think of me when the moon goes missing
i hold your spit-slicked hand
Jul 2020 · 314
blahblahnlahanlbahblah
gmb Jul 2020
i can’t breathe
the carpet stops swaying, sea legs suffocating
what does it feel like?
i feel my pupils return to normal.
i scratch the ever constant itch
she sits back on the ***** of her feet
May 2020 · 83
my girlfriend addy
gmb May 2020
the road bends and curves. our skin is dewy and hot and we fog up the windows, your breath is humid on my chest. my head throbs, the tips of our pointer fingers just barely connecting out of sight, my stomach churns, i forget to sleep for a day. 2 days. 3. i try to force myself to eat and i get sick. you make me think of damp leaves, cotton and rubber, as persistent as a hangnail and as urgent as a hole through my chest. you ask me where is the logic in this, i make excuses for myself again. i think you can tell how bad it is. this itch will never let you love me, no matter how i scratch it.
May 2020 · 64
nicotine headache
gmb May 2020
i. it’s a sad morning, but only i know it. he wakes me with such tenderness, with a graze of fingers across my waist. i realize he thinks im sleeping and i wonder if he was awake all night too. the bodies in this place are still. i rouse myself from the couch and look at the people passed out on the other side of it, on the floor, in the kitchen. i try to remember what their names were and i can’t. i think of how i want to take a picture, the whispers of 5am light peeking through the blinds. i don’t take a picture. this home is unfamiliar.

i struggle to open the door. the girl with red hair lifts her head from the coffee table, “where are you going?” her hair is stuck to her face, sweat matting the burnt ends from too much bleach. i have to go to school and for a moment this embarrasses me, i don’t belong here with my 15 years. i don’t remember what i told her but it wasn’t the truth, and from behind the curtain of hair i hear, “make sure you be quiet going down the stairs.” my new love and i look for the cigarettes and realize we smoked them all last night. we leave this apartment for what will be the first of many times. i trudge down the stairs with the force of an earthquake.


ii. i wake, again, with my head on the floor. i’m facing someone’s bare back. i watch the muscles ripple through the exhales, i reach my hand out to touch him. he twitches before my fingers reach his shoulder and i recoil: this will be another sad morning. my sweat sticks my shirt to my skin. i throw off the blanket. two years later and my headache reminds me of my nicotine habit. i climb up to the bed, i avoid the boy as best i can and i sit there and sob. i have 17 years on my back and i know i belong here. i belong where i put myself. i bleed under the morning light and nobody notices—every house is unfamiliar to me now. the parallels jar me. i don’t have to go to school this time.
May 2020 · 78
untitled 3
gmb May 2020
he’s top-heavy, he falls head-first when he goes. i think of trees in fall when i think of him, auburn fluttering when it hits the light the right way, brown in the dust kicked up when the trunk topples. i can’t seem to find ways to blame this on myself anymore. i love the sunlight but all your energy exhausts me—im thinking about my next high. i just want to geek out in my room.
May 2020 · 54
untitled 2
gmb May 2020
my limbs go numb, my fingertips swell like moisture in the doorframe. it was a scorcher out yesterday, and the sun burnt holes in our skin when we stood still for too long. we bonded over the fact that we all missed that feeling, missed the glow behind our eyelids in clear skies. i let the dust cover me happily, crying through the eye-burn, swaying, falling, i’m a collector. my eye catches a shiny thing in the sunlight and i slip it in my pocket.
Apr 2020 · 73
untitled 1
gmb Apr 2020
i sit back and feel the joints of my hips respond to the pressure, bones creaking like a staircase, a palm on my waist. you leave fingerprints, invisible, and bruises that aren’t. i breathe with the movements. i think briefly of trapdoors. my heartbeat slows and quickens to the tune of your vocal chords.
gmb Apr 2020
the scars resurface like bodies in the dirt after rain, orifices caked in sludge. the blood pools under the surface, nearly bursting. the expression makes it ******, i'm confused again. i cannot write anymore. i cannot think in sentences. i think in fragments and memories and thoughts of her sleeping with her jeans on. i speak through the crack in the closet door. i know she would've found it funny if i stayed, i think of his sandpaper hands and a stained duvet, i am 16 again with no one to hold me. i am 17 and this has never felt so right. i lust after senses, i miss cleanliness and remembering, i remember who i was when i was 15 and realize i cant remember much of anything since then. i imagine a situation where i never lost my love and kept my appetite, a situation where the drug abuse never stunted my cognitive functions, everything is so clear until it suddenly isn't, the last coherent thought i ever had i was 14 and the whole world was against me. i cant make **** sound poetic anymore. i feel like im 14 again and she sleeps with her jeans on
you planted the ******* seed
Mar 2020 · 85
orange 30s
gmb Mar 2020
somehow these walls look smaller with the pictures taken down,
i havent felt myself in weeks.
i havent felt this way since
my foot-soles kissed 230 on the comeup,
since 120 burned a hole in my nose and made me choke on the pellets.
i miss addiction in the purest way.
i miss your bed but not your mouth,
i miss your hands but only on my hips and nowhere else.
Feb 2020 · 117
2628 hart road
gmb Feb 2020
imagine:
the dogs are barking again.
the years have not yet caught up with me and
my hands are still supple, uncallused.
my mother holds them
in her working palms, cups my fists with nearly
20 years of withdrawals etched on the knuckles.
my father dwells on the couch like an animal;
his nose bleeds in his sleep. the afternoon sun wanes;
soon, he will rise, nocturnal in all his glory,
the nail of his pinky finger long and battered,
scratching the air for his next fix.

these hands don't gush from love--i was an angry child.
when the sun shone i screamed and i flew through the
tall grass; indiana was still a prairie back then.
i cut the worms up.
i watched them writhe.
they wriggled, brainless, back into the earth,
the remaining tail end helpless in my sweating palm.

when i was 4 they put houses where the fields were.
i was never the same after that.
Jan 2020 · 94
old new year
gmb Jan 2020
7pm:
january evenings are cold.
we know this place and all its weaknesses well;
we've spent summers spitting and nodding in the park bathrooms when
our parents yelled far too much and
sitting inside all day proved to be too much stimulation.
it's winter now; the third since my rebirth, in fact,
the bathrooms are locked
and our parents fall silent when we enter the room.
yet we are still persistent, perhaps more desperate, jaded yet still children,
so the strongest foot out of all of ours
connects with the space directly under the lock and handle
with a grunt and
the door thumps open without too much resistance.
like i said, we know this place's weaknesses well,
and staying in the house is no longer an option.
(however, we are still children in the end. i'm the only one who remembered to hide my face from the cameras.)
Jan 2020 · 53
120
gmb Jan 2020
120
It wails like an infant. the silence completely deafens me, the noise makes my head ache. the Thing crawls down my spine, ever so softly and i shiver from the tenderness. the promiscuity, undisguised. i remember where i am and my eyes focus on your figure. i pinch myself, i cross my eyes, i distort you. i imagine that you are a terrible thing.
Jan 2020 · 104
im high and dying
gmb Jan 2020
the snow leaves us speechless and comatose. you shudder.
i have always been obsessed with the movements of you, i sigh when you twist and you
****. the smell is ******. i
can’t feel my legs? i can’t feel my
can’t feel my
jaw or the
top of my nose or my
spine, i bleed inward, and i   i   i
i am TERRIFIED OF MY OWN BODY.
you swear that this silence is toxic.you
can’t get a word out of me i’ve been choking.im never fine but i believe it
Dec 2019 · 100
acceptable loss
gmb Dec 2019
you are collateral damage.

you look down at your hands, they are callused and bleeding in all the places your teeth broke the skin so many times, this is,

is this some small victory? is this war necessary? the sound breaks through the silence but it is still muffled. the bathroom door is closed. there are people on the sink, in the bathtub, you are puking and have no idea who is holding your hair back. you feel fingers shove their way into your throat. you bite down,

your hands are bleeding again. you don't know your limit, you fall in love again, it all just aches in your chest. you were pretending the whole time, oh my god, you were pretending the whole time. you are staring at your hands.

this death is inevitable and the artillery smiles at you with all the love of a new mother like the friendly fire is so friendly and these casualties are so casual. you are fighting a war with yourself. you are fighting a war with your body and you are fighting a war with whoevers *******
fingers
are in your
throat

and the body count is rising. the air teases your lungs.
Nov 2019 · 105
butterflies drink blood
gmb Nov 2019
there is something disgusting stuck in my throat.
the dogs are barking. i gnaw on the joints of my hands to the
beat of their dissonance; this is what got me sick in the first place.
me and my butterfly wings,
my butterfly knife and my
butterfly rash.
winter is always diseased.
i just want to be left alone yet i swell and secede,
i urge and i can't keep ignoring,
this death will be the death of me.
i hate me
gmb Oct 2019
you’re ******* with me. mom always said your eyes go black when you’re angry and i see it now, too clear, i’m Crying. i’m Terrible, right? like a boil i fester underneath the kitchen table. you can not touch me, you can not touch me, donttrytotouchme cause i haunt this place. i haunt this home and all the other ones i died in; i pull your teeth and make things go bump in the night

so here i am because ghosts cant leave the place they died. my blood is in the other bed ******* in snot. my hands smell like ****. i know your skeletons very well. we dance and bleed together when you walk down the stairs, when you give us that look, we cry when your voice hits the window, my little finger pushes all the bite behind me. we wail in unison.
Sep 2019 · 134
im talking shit
gmb Sep 2019
everything looks prettier fragmented. i have pieces of you lodged in my ribcage, my lower back, the bottoms of my feet. all catching the light as i move. (i imagine myself in the back seat of someone’s car. i cant hear the music over the static.

it marvels at my lucidity. maybe i am more blind than i thought, i think too late.) i know exactly how your heart beats. i know exactly how you breathe and all your dips and hills and plains, and i think maybe i know you too well. (it watches me destroy my body.

it nods in silence. i imagine myself in the passengers seat of someones car.) i puke and pretend that you’re holding my hair back.
gmb Aug 2019
poised to take this punch in the gut, i stand like a statue,
weathered and wasting before you.
what is left will remain hard until i am nothing.
i am ashamed at the
stability of your flesh,
your unsure steps mean nothing when
your tongue is all steel and
my core is all worthless and i
feel nothing from you and
this infuriates me.

the blood rushes to your head and yet your
eyes stay cold?

2. his lips are all softened strips of flesh like mine,
lacerations in the callus.
the contrast is hard to ignore.
i stand before him like i'm made of sand:
he has your smile.
his eyes wash over me;
i crumble.
gmb Aug 2019
im twisting through this harshness in all my bare-brained glory. ill come to terms with this before i burn this bridge and that i’ll live by; i’m throbbing on this curb,
i know i’m dying on this hill;

i am blessed in my heart and my soul and your
ridges in all their perfection. i’ve become obsessed with your pliability, can you twist your hips like that for me again? i want to attract the doves, your god can’t wait to absorb all my sorrow, and



my eyes give me away.

i swear i have

knives on my

waist and they’ll

cut if you

touch,

the solidity scares you,

why don’t you intimidate me?
gmb Jul 2019
i pay the price for this stale air, and savor the quiet: this humidity sticks to my shirt, coats the skin in my nose. i go over it in my head like i will say it, but i don’t, and i
still get a rise out of you. i can just hear your heartbeat over the air conditioning and lil *** vert and the ear damage. i am notorious for making homes out of nothing; a closet, a hospital cot, the floor of your bedroom. i shall only grow to fit my space and yet i realize too late that this is no home for me sober. ill get drunk and eat these ******* moths, i'll [CENSORED] and i won’t even see them.
Jul 2019 · 16
acid again
gmb Jul 2019
i have your mind, i have it squishy and malleable in my small hands, i have your heart and all that other **** that fills you too. i have you and you know it. i have you and it keeps you up at night, it keeps you texting me and it keeps you in my palm, wrapped around my little finger til the circulation’s cut.

i like it ****** but i always seem to **** the wrong way. your clothes are on my floor but i ****** it the wrong way. you gave my **** back cause i ****** you the wrong way, i wanna **** this up the right way. i do this for a living, i’m living as an actress; i ***** better than i lie and i lie better than i breathe.
May 2019 · 214
an isotope of guilt
gmb May 2019
i am a liar and no one is spared,
not even my love. i twitch and convulse and i
pulse like a sore, kissing my bandage with tongue,
professing my worth without words.
you melt into me like youre partly at fault when you
know that my fault is my fault and not yours;
i bite like im tough.
you snap like you’re not.
gmb Apr 2019
I relish in my ripeness, fertility dripping from in between my thighs, I’m this unchaste ****** Mary, I am. I’ve been touched by far too many and it’s obvious, obviously. He can smell it on me because it lingers forever, they say that dogs can sense the *** on you.

how unholy is this fornication, the irony of it all is so invigorating.
the hunger alone is enough to fill me, yet the act is carried out effectively:

he makes me *** like he’s reading verses:
the movements committed to memory.
our savior, the promised deliverer
Mar 2019 · 333
symbiosis
gmb Mar 2019
i.  its feeding off my body,
    the emotions turned to physical symptoms: i feel sadness like an
    ache in my stomach. i feel loneliness in my chest.
    my whole body is a callus.
          (how many bruises do you have?)
    im jealous cause i want you and it makes you want me more.
    i get high cause i love you and it makes me wanna puke.
                                                           ­                  i'll bite all your nails off.
    *******, just **** me already cause it makes you want me more
    and you need that security. its a give and
    take, mutual reconciliation,
    symbiosis.

ii.       i never fall for the body count, this **** means nothing to me.
          **** your blunt, that's my blunt now. i think i have control.
          
          so, *******, that's my blunt, that's my
          bad. you can do whatever you want to me; my pride isn't at
          stake, that's someone else's problem now. i have nothing so i
          have nothing to lose, we both know that i only came to
          smoke and you only invited me because
          i'm fresh meat. it's a give and take, supply and demand,
          symbiosis.
Jan 2019 · 219
tall grass
gmb Jan 2019
i want that tall grass field,
i want that summer shine, the drone of the cicadas,
i want it all. i want that all for me.
i need to stop ending up in the hospital.

she said, the next time you try to leave i wont call the police.
she said, the next time you walk out on me i wont bother finding you.

he lost it. he lost it and she told him so, he said he felt responsible. maybe you are. maybe i am. but i ended up in the hospital again and

the little ******* my bus watched me sobbing on a stretcher from her window.

this one boy i know still lights his squares in his hand, still thinks two cigarettes in a day is too many, doesn't quite yet know the constant throat-burn borne from all that puking, but he still knows that

flying too close to the sun will melt you like chewing gum.

i want that tall grass itch,
i want that on my bare feet.
Jan 2019 · 188
we still fuck
gmb Jan 2019
not quite over-the-counter but it works just the same, youre in way over your head, youre spitting and drooling and hacking out your lungs and you smile up at me in between the ******* and it makes me want to tell your mom not to worry,
oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,
                    where did all this ******* saliva come from, for christs
                    sake, im ******* drowning in it. i think i want to be
                    violent now, i think its my time, i think ive been waiting
                    long enough for it. in my mind i still have my training
                    wheels on, you terrify me
you still wear that necklace, i saw it when you pulled up your shirt the other day in my room, on my bed, lately looking you in the eyes has been so ******* hard but i manage, i manage when i can, i pull you to my chest when youre on top of me because i miss the way your hugs feel,
oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,
                     i still love you, dont you know that? lately ive been
                     crying and puking at nothing, these are the symptoms
                     i guess. i want you to be rough but its too soon for you
                     to hurt me; my parents arent home, do you wanna
                     come over
Dec 2018 · 207
ugly
gmb Dec 2018
im spiraling. im spiraling. im spiraling. i didnt think i had the fight in me to light a fire this bright, oh god i am relishing in hating so hard.
     i dont breathe easy anymore. every bit of breath i catch is milky,
     heavy like fog, hovering between the states of matter. i want to
     destroy this vessel.
i bask in this violence. i hate every inch of myself down to my guts and this is all my own fault. i love the summer but ill miss that winter glow.
     i want to destroy myself. i want to grind myself up into powder. i
     want to force all this loathing into my throat and choke on it.
Dec 2018 · 171
pineapple xanta
gmb Dec 2018
how am i supposed to write about being delicate when i am a pressurized ball of rage, coiled tightly like a snake reeling to strike, how am i expected to
write about the soft parts of myself when all i feel is this ugliness within me, swirling like a swarm of flies, dark,
dark like peeling away the layers of my skin,
imagine what i could do to myself uninterrupted.
imagine what i could do to myself uninterrupted.

how am i expected to love you when im overwhelmed with this hatred,
this loathing, ripe and so so so so close to erupting,
like a brain swell, and
how can i
explain this violence inside of me, so gory, so beautiful,
imagine what i could do to myself with this rage.
imagine what i could do to myself with this rage.

i am not beautiful. i am filmy eyes and dirt crusted nails and i want you to know that i am not beautiful. i did not appear here in a swath of light, all oozing with virginity, i appeared here with my mother kicking and screaming. my life has been years of lying in wait like a dog. i cant afford to be patient anymore.
Dec 2018 · 155
rendezvous with a godsend
gmb Dec 2018
he was vile, laying there all pitiful-like with his arms spread. "what happened to you?" i asked. he never responded, just spasmed and bled from his mouth. after everything i sat beside him.

the dawn was breaking then, and the grass was cold and slick with dew and ****** fluids--this was before northwest indiana set her cattails on fire. he looked up at me, not pleadingly. his gaze was full of understanding. his hair was knotted and covered in silt.

"youre going to die." i said. "youre going to die if you lay here like that." i always had criticisms. he told me so.

he rose with all the power he had left in him and ****** violently, separating the skin on his back from his muscles. for a moment i forgot to be afraid of him. with one last twist and twitch his bones

sliced through his pallid skin like butter and he extended his wings.

and suddenly i understood.

i left him laying there, all pitiful-like with his wings spread, on the pure homegrown indiana land.

he died, just like i said he would, because no matter what i always have to be right, dont i? he told me so.
Dec 2018 · 184
color theory
gmb Dec 2018
and so; here it is. i fuss like a ******* her wedding day, bustling, bursting with trepidation. i can see right through your skin and you look nothing like the pictures; rotten, rancid, revolting.
     i look in the mirror.
     im just like my father.
and so; here it is. i scrape the black out from under my eyes with my fingernail and flick it onto the floor. retribution! i say, i leave pieces of me everywhere! youll never forget this face!
     that face? the one you loathed so deeply?
and so; here it is. i find myself missing the warmer months again, pressing dandelions into the dirt, too high to speak. the air was easier to breathe in back then; less pressure, less dust.
     i was soft as butter and
     now i will be as hard as a stone.

id ask you if you knew how tragic you looked but you just turned away. i cant stand being rabid. my blood is toxic, volatile. no one can ever hurt me.

i stand my ground, pathetic and puffy-faced. i dont want to be fragile, i want to have control. i am disposable.

i dont know how to explain this to my mother. hate has hands like a vice.
Dec 2018 · 135
dissection
gmb Dec 2018
i. they crack under the pressure, complaining of headaches and the like. i'm on the countertop, thawing like freezer-burned meat. you approach like youre ready to pounce; hesitant. i assure you that i wont bite, not with my words but with my blood and the pattern of my muscles. how can you not trust someone so exposed?

ii. i trace your veins with fragile fingers, stopping where they split and kissing the skin delta. i pay extra attention to your pericardial cavity and breathe in the scent. i imagine myself nestled in your organs, flush against your trembling heart and your ribcage.
Dec 2018 · 260
early riser
gmb Dec 2018
i feel your hands.
youre slick up to your wrists with discharge,
disgusting. they touch my waist, i recoil.
i feel my insides wither up and retract like
a plant without water, a mercy; like
running away from whats already in you.

you have beady eyes and your tongue is a knife, and
i love you all the same.
your silence is endearing yet i push to break it,
spitting and swallowing seawater; fighting the current,
screaming,
"why cant i get through to you?"
you dont know and you never will.
youre wearing my jacket.
Nov 2018 · 161
it’ll never mean anything
gmb Nov 2018
i should probably try out the nicotine patches. i love you, im sorry. are you okay? yeah, im fine. trembling like a sewer rat and breaking my fingers like my mother when i was still in her womb. i think i just wanna stay here forever. heart shaped bruises and strawberry kisses, we’re like a ******* katy perry song. i think of the way your hips move when you walk, and it silences me for a while.
Nov 2018 · 174
reflection
gmb Nov 2018
your intestines are malevolent, plotting. one day they’ll mutiny and **** themselves to get rid of you. this is the most selfless thing you will ever do. the smell clings to everything in the room.

you’ve set everything into motion. it spreads like an outbreak, you can see the romance in the epidemic. the sound fractures like light, a splintering, a prism of ignorance. you press your body up against my lips and i press back harder.

im torn. i feel my body warping in two different directions. it’s kind of sad, isn’t it? the holidays are full of, are you driving yet? are you dating anyone? what school do you go to? i remember when you were THIS tall!

i hate the way my skin ripples, clothed in snot soaked rags and knowing the difference between a variable and a weapon. you kiss my neck and i shiver. i love you. i miss my brother.
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