Dear titanic, tell me of how you survived your last hurrah- tell me of how you didn’t see the iceberg, tell me of how it felt to lay down on the ocean floor, tell me of how empty you are, the skeletons of your passengers are all but hollow husks- skeletons from a time that is now gone.
“I am not empty,” the titanic says back to me, her voice muffled by bubbles and groans from rust coated pipes.
“But you are, I say. “You are empty but filled with ghosts- yours, the oceans, theirs. They party and laugh and drink and dance and run in your rooms, your hallways that go on forever.”
“You are the empty one,” titanic whispers, rusty railings creaking.
Dear titanic, how did you feel, sinking, ripping in two- unable to be put together again, how did it feel becoming a broken heart? Did you bleed? Did you do it to yourself?
“Was your sink an accident?”
“What do you think?” She growls- groans and moans echo all around.
“How did the music players continue on as you sank- their instruments and lungs filling up with seawater as their somber music filled the ears of your passengers?”
“They just played on, soothing my pain,” came the reply.
“Dear titanic-” I started.
“Let me ask you- why have you come?” She demands.
“To learn your secrets of course.”
“That’s not why.”
“Who hurt you for you to seek me out? Why have you come?”
“I've come to find out what you did to survive.” I reply.
“Then you know now” She whispers, pipes groaning as she shook with mirthless laughter
“Do I?” I questioned.
“Yes.” I imagined her smiling at me- broken glass as teeth and sharp lines for lips.
“How did you survive?” I whispered, my heartbeat echoing in the stillness- needing to hear the words I hoped she wouldn't say.
“I didn’t.”


— dear titanic, tell me of how you survived your sinking // a.

four things to know he's in love with you.
1.) he looks at you as if you're the sun.
2.) he will follow you anywhere.
3.) he will love you too much to let go.
4.) he will want you to be the last thing he see's before he goes to sleep

four things to know he's in love with you.
1.) he looks at you as if you're the sun- you're the centre of his universe and oh so beautiful.
2.) he will follow you everywhere- you wished he would stay away just this once
3.) he will love you too much to let go- you don't want him to let go.
4.) he will want you to the last thing he sees- you will be, before the water lulls him to sleep

The sun
gold and radiant,
                                                The boy
                                shy and ambitious,

the warmth
that shone brightly,
grew weary as man took flight  


                                            the tower,
                             an illusioned prison,
    held onto the yearning soul tightly

the god
that loved mighty,
the echoing of the lover silenced

                                                  the lover
                                  a tragedy himself,
                calling out to the gold fiend,

the fiend
that mourned nightly,
the golden star shined not bright

                                              the tragedy
                                   lost beneath blue,
         mourning the fiend and himself

"dying is easy" they said looking over at achilles standing over patrolcus' burning shroud, tears in his rage filled eyes.

"to live in this world- now that is harder." they said turning their eyes away as achilles piercing scream rang out.

love is, perhaps, the cruelest mistress.

love is a double edged sword
that speaks truths and lies,
aphrodite and ares, venus and mars,
love and war go hand in hand
as does death and beauty

you had a smile on your face
as you fell to your watery grave.
i wondered how it felt to bear witness to your lover-
to see Him,
to touch Him,
only to burn as you fell.

i.
The little things I remembered about us was the texts of adventures and dancing under moonlight and midnight picnics and chasing around an empty park and singing the words to songs we’ve forgotten making up the words as we go; the conversations of questions like what’s your favorite color or what does your tattoo mean or is this okay or can I kisss you and cautionary touches on my part. Me feeling your heartbeat and the warmth of your skin under my fingers, as your lips meet mine and we whispered words of something akin to love and stolen kisses on rumpled sheets as we lay together in bliss, our bodies tangled like string as we touched and explored and came undone.   We held hands in public and we didn’t care. We would drift off to sleep or at least pretended to so I wouldn’t have to leave, I remembered how you had a cute voice and you were like sunshine, always happy and smiling and warm even though you wore no jacket even in the rain, dressed in one of your flannels.

ii.
I remembered how you stared at me and I stared back. The conversation was awkward on my part as you found a way to get it moving along throughout the night. We sat on a couch in a church which I still find funny that a bunch of openly queer teens were partying in a church, while we sat in the darkness of the corner. I remember how the night ended and we played in the playground in the night as we filled the void with laughs and inappropriate jokes as we all shouted and screamed into the night without a single care or worry. I remember how your face lit up and you smiled and we both seemed tipsy off of how happy we were.

iii.
I remembered the late night phone calls and the late night texts and the soft kisses and the light touches. The softness of love or something akin to it, as we talked about everything and nothing at the same time. The soft giggles and the cuddles as we sat together while the movie you never saw but wanted to play it anyway played in the background.

iv.
I remember the sunshine and the heat of the summer. I remember the sound of tears from your end. I remembered how I called you and how I listened to you cry as I felt nothing but hurt for you, not me. Which I still feel bad for breaking your heart. I remember how we might’ve had something akin to love, you were my first in many ways but I was simply another girl in your ledger who broke you and left you to pick yourself up again.

v.
I’m sorry that I left things the way they were and I’m sorry you’ll never see this because I’ll never send this to you. I’m sorry that I loved you, or at least something akin to love, which if it was I guess you loved me too. I’m sorry.

vi. It’s been three months and you’ve moved on, got a new girl among other things. You’ve changed your hair and you don’t wear flannel as much, but I see that you’ve been doing better. We talk, it’s not the same as before, but we’re moving. Maybe we go back to being strangers, after all, we don’t know each other anymore. Maybe all we had was something akin to love.

the gentle hands that wrap around my throat,
the decorative jewels of bruises,
the pale flesh that inspired poetry,
kissed by the silver blade
as i kneel in the scaffold

the scars on my skin bleed red;
the burn of my flesh
from scratches meant to
rip apart the pieces of my skin
stained from your touch.
i tore myself apart,
hoping,
praying,
you would still find me beautiful
even with my scars.

i just want to be clean again-
to wash away the remaining traces of incommunicable words
that still stain my skin-
the softness that i once took for granted,
has turned hard and still holds on,
its fragile, oh so fragile-
i fear that becoming stone won’t hide the cracks
i’ve spent so long trying to hide

the months i lost my voice became a pattern of days filled with dreamless sleep and nights wishing for nicotine stained fingers and red lipstick kissed cups.

i held words on the tip of my tongue, fading into smoke the second they escaped the bitter confines of water drowned inked pages.

the months i lost my voice the nights seemed quiet, frozen in time as my eyes were blinded with the aching only poets can ache.

i held back words that came out in sounds and tears, screaming shouting, the sounds of glass breaking from inside a soundproofed room with only madness for company.

the months i lost my voice, my mind became a boat in an ocean of words, and the days gone in the blink of an eye.

i am haunted by a ghost
who calls my name,
who whispers in the wind
and runs in my shadow.
i know her, i know her well.
she was everything i could’ve been,
and everything i lost

pray away my sins with your lips,
fingers intertwined with mine
and whisper gospels into my ear
as we explore our celestial altar's in worship-
in hopes that i may be purified once more

“i love your neck,” he whispers as his hand curls around the pale flesh delicately. careful not to bruise in places easily seen.
      “i love your neck,” he whispers kissing the bruises he left behind. red, purple, yellow decorating it like a necklace.
      “i love your neck,” he says gripping it tightly as he thrusts deeper in your body. your breath is caught in your throat, you struggle to breathe.
      “i love your neck,” he says pushing you against the wall- bruises are a normal sight, it doesn’t scare you anymore, not to breathe.
     “i love your neck” he says as he leads you to the scaffold. you think of the blade at your neck and wonder if it loves yours too.

i remember the taste of metal in my mouth,
the warmth and the pain of
turning my fiery words
into mountains of ash
years of biting my tongue,
wanting to scream,
yet the smoke chokes my lungs

when i wanted to die
i wished my grief would swallow me whole
like a boat caught in a storm
and with a soft, tender kiss,
would bid me a soft goodnight

the silence is deafening
the silence is deafening
the silence is deafening
the silence is deafening
the silence is deafening
the silence is deafening
the silence is deafening
the silence is deafening
the silence is deafening
the silence is deafening

i hang my head over the cool white surface
gazing at last hours lunch.
my stomach hurts.

i hang my head over the cool white surface, washing away my pain
and remmenants i couldn’t flush away.
my teeth ache.  

i stare at my reflection:
short cropped hair,
almost beautifully defined cheekbones,
red eyes that feel hallowed.
my throat aches.

i turn to the cool white surface,
a colourful mosaic of food i can name
on all of my fingers
and notes from my daily logs.
i ache for the number on the scale
to drop once more.

if my body is a heavenly temple,
i pray that you kneel before me in worship

say my name like a prayer on your lips,
hands clasp in worship,
and kneel before my body-
to worship as your altar

If my father could see me now
I hope that he would be disappointed in me.
It would be easier than knowing
I can make out a man underneath the smoke,
underneath the mountain of ash left on a burning man’s face.
It would be easier to hold water in my hands than accept
that his love would burn me to ash too

leave me in the garden to die.
i will not let you save me-
leave me alone with the dead leaves of autumn,
with the coldness of winter settling in my bones.
i don't want to be saved-
leave me along the dead and decayed
and come back to bury me in the spring.
i have left to find death,
to pick it's flowers and to finally rest.

with your sin stained touch,
unholy scriptures,
and whispered prayers
falling from your wicked tongue,
sometimes i wonder if we’re
truly of the ******,
disgraced in the eyes of the lord,
or if the lord revels in our unholiness

its a tragedy, you know.
that he looks at you as if he's the sun
and you still burn him,
sending him with wax coated wings
beneath the seas.

i once wished i was made of
sharp hipbones and tainted glass,
that my wrists were tiny fragile things,
with fingers that looked like spider legs
covered in too large rings.

no one told me how much it hurt.

i once wished i was made of
cigarette smoke and black coffee.
that my body could look like a model in a magazine.

no one told me how much it hurt.

i once wished i was made of
sugar free jello and *****,
so that my body could be small and dainty-
with a hunger that could only be quenched
by photographs of unknown girls i envied.

no one told me how much it hurt.

i once wished i was made of
rotten flesh and bone,
if i couldn't be small-
i had no worth at all.

no one told me how much it hurt.

If loneliness is a memory that tastes like
cigarette smoke and *** soaked ash
I have lived it a thousand times.
If the endless nothingness of being lonely swallows me again and again,
like waves on a beach,
Leaving me to drown again and again-
Leaving me gasping for breath in a moment of mercy.
If loneliness tastes like getting caught in a thunderstorm in an unfamiliar place
And there is no one to comfort you,
Then I have been left in the cold for what feels like an eternity

light touches, soft whispers,
smiles that only appear for you,
laughter, giggles,
afterglow of blissful nights,
basking in your warmth,
that is bliss.

do not waste your breath on me.
do not waste your words on me.
do not waste your hymns or prayers on me.
do not waste your time or energy on me.
leave me be, let me rest,
let me become forgotten- erased
buried in my garden of death.

it's 3 am again;
and you're still not here.

I guess you thought we were forever,
but you were temporary
sorry I’m a *****.


— I’ll say sorry forever but I won’t mean it, unlike you // a.

sometimes i miss the touch of rain on my skin,
the water pouring down on my body,
soaking me to the bone.
sometimes i miss the feeling of calmness,
the racing thoughts in my mind
drowning into a peaceful quietness.
sometimes i miss the feeling of not knowing
where my tears begin and the rain stops,
basking in the sorrows i feel.
sometimes i miss being alright,
the depths of numbness,
the emptiness staring back quietly.
sometimes i miss the sun,
sometimes i miss the loud thoughts.
sometimes i miss the nights it rained for hours.
sometimes the soft sounds luring me back to sleep.
sometimes i miss the calmness i seek.

we live as star-crossed lovers do,
patiently, seething, waiting,
wondering if we’re a tragedy
like boys to suns or
gods to mortals,
doomed to part only to die second
or worse, we live in the end.

medusa stands proud.
happy and proud and peace filled.
sisters in arms held for worship,
sisters in arms disappeared from grasp.

medusa stands small.
hurt and small and shame filled.
maidenhood stolen and high priestess to athena no more,
maidenhood stolen and cursed with protection.

medusa stands weary.
cold and weary and anger filled.
isolation has become her paradise of silence and stone,
isolation has become her graveyard of silence.

medusa stands tired.
worn and tired and sorrow filled.
awaiting the blow to her neck by perseus' sword,
awaiting the blow to end her suffering.

if i disappeared
would i become like echo?
the words on my tongue
fading into the wind,
my spoken words echoing around me
as i’m hallowed out by the silence.

if i disappeared
would i become like eurydice?
my ghost lingering behind my husband
who reaches the light with me not far behind;
only to turn and **** me.

if i disappeared
would i be come like icarus?
too stubborn and
in love with the sun-  
only to meet my fate into a watery grave.

—— if i disappeared would i too become a story? // a.

i want to be clean again.
i want to wash away my sins
like the tears of smudged mascara
after reveling in the familiar ache of
a hollowed out stomach,
which lingers,
long after the evidence is flushed away.

regrets are like stars;
too many to count,
too many to name,
too many to remember.

If i gave this empty feeling a name to
beckon, call, cry or scream
I would force myself to acknowledge it’s presence.
To acknowledge the crushing weight that clings to my neck like a noose.  
I would be forced to call this weight my own,
I would be forced to proclaim it mine and face it's tightening hold
The more I plunge myself into the depths of my emptiness.
I would fear i would come to fix it,
To acknowledge that i am not okay,
That my saran wrapped skin is on display for you,
For anyone to bear witness to my path of self-destruction
To watch me to put myself together again and
Fear who I can be without this empty feeling I've made a home in.

the morning after i killed myself,
everything was cold.
the air,
the bathtub i fell asleep in
and the cold tile.

the morning after i killed myself
i saw no beauty in the vibrant sunrise.
i didn't think the pink, orange, yellow-
the colors i once had fallen in love with
were suddenly dull.

the morning after i killed myself
i saw my mother hesitating to go into my room.
her face tired and worn, aging years in one night,
her grip loose as she opens the door tears filling her eyes-
the faint scent of me still lingering in the air.

the morning after i killed myself,
i saw my sister staring numbly at nothing.
her eyes red and regret on her face -
her thoughts on our arguing the night before.

the morning after i killed myself,
i saw my phone blowing up with messages.
my friends ignorant to what i did the night before,
but only one person knew.

the morning after i killed myself,
i saw myself dead.
my body cold to the touch, heartbeat still
and wondered if my mother could will me back to life.

the morning after i killed myself,
i ended up missing the warmth.
my silent screams echoing in the bathroom
as i tried to undo what i did.

the morning after i killed myself,
i decided i hated being dead.
and i found myself wishing
i didn't wait too late to save myself

you’ve become nothing
but fire and wax and regrets.
you’ve become a cautionary tale,
a warning of loving too much too fast
you’ve become a memory
in a long list of lovers, of tragedies

you’ve become nothing
but ash and feathers and bone,
you’ve become a story,
a tale of boys who fell for suns
you’ve become a glimpse,
a moment of clarity that ends all too soon

You’re like Aphrodite girl,
Untamed like the seas she rose out of
Falling in and out of love,
Wearing your heart on your sleeve,
They only see your beauty.
They forget that love is dangerous,
It blinds,  
Makes men go mad,
Creates wars.
Let them think you’re weak,
Then show them how love
Is the deadliest weapon of all,
And that you wield it.

maybe i miss the butterflies.
maybe i miss the warmth.
maybe i miss your hands in my hair
or the moment time stands still.
maybe i miss the fragility.
maybe i miss the late night talks.
maybe i miss your lips on mine
or the moments of peaceful silence.
maybe i miss the time.
maybe i miss the what if’s
or the what could’ve beens
or maybe i miss the idea of you.

A faint moment of serenity,
kisses that stain hands in worship,
of feathers light bliss,
using sinful touch as words,
singing praises and gospels
almost missing your wicked smile

i can count the number of times
i felt like killing myself
on both my hands, feet,
on all of my bones with my eyes shut.
i could tell you details,
how, when, why,
but change my answer each time-
i could count those times on both hands.

i could tell you of the days i think of
fireflies in the summer
and snowfall in january,
how both disappear after time,
yet i can remember the images
so clearly, so vividly.
i could count those times on both hands.

if you asked me to share
the number of times i felt like killing myself
you’d be waiting for months, years even.
maybe sooner,
as you might be reading my note,
with them all included.

i saw a video on tiktok.
on a father wanting to spend time with his daughter-
something i couldn’t quite remember
the last time i heard the words fall from his mouth without meaning.
i saw my screen through half blurred eyes,
half burned with half shed tears
as he said i love you.
something i couldn’t remember
the last time i heard those words
without filled with a need to rip my skin new.

what happened to us?
the flicker of times gone by,
the brief glimpses of past adventures,
phone calls that go late into the night,
i look at you- eyes red and hair askew
what happened?
where did you go?
and i realized the door is open,
and the ground is cold.

my eyes burn with unshed tears
as i swallow the lump in my throat,
willing myself not to break down.
all because i heard your name in passing.

You're the light to my darkness,
I'm the darkness to your light,
A never-ending battle,
Our game of cat and mouse.