One day I will be some teenage boy's princess
a widow to myself, but in full bloom
longed to be taken
and more than just poised on the posters in his room

And as much as my eyes
will glimmer just for him
I will be some girl's witch
to be burnt at the stake.

Never in this life will I know how she will martyr me
for my words, or my face
for my selfish suffering.
Never in this life will I know
the confusing duality in being both loathed
and lusted after.

My face on a million blogs
my skin in someone's dreams
or my words inked beneath their skin.

The infamy I hunted after
commercialized, torn apart, over analyzed
and made out to be
just another man's sin.

Boy, remember well
just speaking my name to her
is a sin.

Resilience is the most cursed gift
The hand that never tires of holding
And how eager the heart is to hurt.

Forged between the veils of anger
Of sorrow
Of wretchedness.

We beg like children
To never feel the heat of the same tears
Wetten our faces.

But the past shall repeat.
But the past shall repeat.
But the past shall repeat.

there was a time in my life, not so long ago
where I shuddered at the thought
of accepting rides from strange men

my stubborn pride and hard caution
(along with my mother)
warned me against the dangers of this world

I would have rather sweltered
in the summer sun
than sit shotgun with a stranger

yet in these days of loneliness and repose
I have found any and all reservation lifted
I no longer mind the men of the road
aviators, mustache, gun in the glovebox

whatever unexpected kindness offered
whatever companionship, if just for a moment
I will now gladly take the risk to have.

familiar trees
the wood I call home
play on repeat all the things that I know
something rotting
flesh and bone
yet undiscovered
dried up blood on the sidewalk
quicken my pulse
twitch in the lung.

Once upon a time
there was a girl
and how happy and swollen
her heart was in love.

a drunken disaster
of honeymoon blindness.

the satisfaction
of dreams come true
eyes always shut
waiting for the next kiss.

somewhere in time
she came into bloom.

the color drained
from her precious petals,
reality sunk into her.

heavy iron anchors.

the only strength remaining
learning how to cope
writing needlessly.

hungry, forlorn
the words make little sense
even ninety days later.

Sometimes I feel so cute
wearing tall socks and short skirts
that I will send you a picture or two
so that you can see me too.

You used to get so excited to see me -
even just the pictures.
But now, if I'm lucky
I'll get a generic affirmative response
no adorable alliteration, no emoji
the equivalent of a head nod

just short and sweet enough
to rip whatever self esteem I have left
into tiny little pieces

always second guessing.

There is a place in my dreams
Where I meet you for *** and cigarettes

I feel your hands on my hips, tight as ever
You never say a word
And just like the waking world,
I'm not sure if you push into me
Out of love, or out of obligation

A year ago the dreams were more pleasant
And through feeling you, I felt the love
It was so much more than enough

Ten extra minutes in the morning to lay
Awake but asleep, in the silence
In the peace of one another.

And I still love kissing the skin of your chest
And I still brush your hair and call you mine
I still miss you more than the rest
Every single second, of every minute
Every hour, every day of my life.

And in last night's dream, we did little more
Than **** and prime for cancer.

My chest in the morning, full of hurt
Aching for the dreams of days past

Where my lungs
And my heart
Were crystal clear.

These crossed out plans.
The foiled intentions.
All the ideas in my mind
that I had
for someone else to save me
to save myself

They are gone.

And they are dead.

Much like me
myself
and my love for you.

i am his moon,
though he will never say.

i lit his way through the dark.
he was never without the promise of home.

he is my sun.

five hundred and sixty days
without sunscreen.
my flesh is burnt beyond recognition.

I am the eye.

Oh god, I am the eye, and I have seen
Enough vulgarity to burn ******-skin
Obscenity in corrupted files
One upon one and another.

And how much I would love to gouge
This golden honey brown from my skull
Feel the chill upon my temple to help me forget
Forget and forgive, forget and forgive
As if it had never happened.

I am the breath.

I am the breath and the poison
The only reckoning I have to offer
In words like mustard gas
How I would boil your flesh in hatred
Rage and despair.

Wistful weapons to bring you home
Fragile shield against my heart
Nothing to hold close.
Nothing to push apart.

No hope and no mercy.

Trust is feigned.

I am the eye, and I am the breath.
My love is gone, and you wear his flesh.

I am the eye. I am the breath.

How strange it is
that we will write until our pens run dry
yet we will not dare to open our mouths
when we come face-to-face with the ones we love.

How awful.

I dream so fondly of the dark
But I do not have the courage to see it through
The same cowardice that grips me
Holding me hostage
In every miserable corner of this life.

I'm the subscription inconvenience
Waiting for you at home
The love you don't have time for
The obsession you didn't ask for.

And despite my best efforts
I continue to restart each day

Fear in my chest
Water in my lungs

So heavy my head
So frail my heart

So easy to break.

what a wonder
to be comfortable in your own skin

and my body
scarred by every sin

what a life
to scorn the skin I’m living in.

the words that we grow to respect
from our mothers, our fathers
our older brothers and kin
are the same words we learn to resent
sowing seeds of doubt in fertile heads.

I owe you happiness.
For the short time I knew it -
when I knew you.

I owe it to you
to let you go.

There is something disturbing in the scarcity of my name leaving your lips.

It comes in a whisper, in a hiss. It comes as mist on the wind. It comes, but never stays.

Is it necessary for me to lose control of the corners of my mouth, my throat bubbling in a giggle, when you finally say my name after two months?

As if it were something to be kept secret.

I don’t have anything nice to write about myself
because I have no good thoughts about myself.

time after time
after time
after time

we repeat the appropriate
expected
scheduled mantras

as if they still have meaning
as if they promote feelings
as if the syllables are different now
in number, as the words leave our lips

the bittersweet

wishing for a time
before time
before time

when the resistance of regret
was as foreign to us
as wilted blossoms to seeds.

it is 2 in the morning
and I am up, sick
pregnant with such wishful thoughts
if only things had turned out differently

hello

goodbye.

My demons are my best friends
The ones who hold me in my times of need
Who press themselves into me
Without me ever asking
Despite my protests

They sow the seeds of anguish
Amongst the fields I reign
Like plague they reap
Before I may ever thaw.

I hear the electricity humming above me as I make my way back on the long dark road. Lampposts scarce, my way is illuminated by the irregular volumes of light pouring from the cars that pass me by. I catch glimpses of roadside carcasses  in the abstract light, and through my open mouth.

The path is clear but it is jagged. My canvas shoes have gotten wet from the shallow puddles I couldn’t see.

Sometimes it is dark. It is lonely. There are no cars, carcasses, or other urban romantic ideas to keep me company in my travels.

Sometimes I get so focused, furiously typing. I end up in the middle of the street. A horn blares. My heart catches in my stomach and I correct my failed trajectory.

It is 7:43 pm on a Saturday night at the end of February and I wish you were here to walk me home.

I open up my bleeding heart and let it leak upon you
Let it stain your skin, let it blur whatever sure sight you had

For whatever reason, you welcome it
Now soaked in my blood, I look upon you and realize

How ugly I am

The life force my heart pumps
Barely enough to keep me alive
Weak in the light and strong amongst lies

I am not your lighthouse
I am my own ship, lost at sea

I am as ***** and worthless
As the one who first crushed me.

I work hard.

I break myself for the better.

I choke on my own exhaust.

I sob on the long walk home.

I lash out intermittently, as if someone would care about my struggles.

I cry for help.

I snap at the hands that reach to touch.

Like a wounded animal.

Screaming.

Fighting.

For what?

Where is the line between fighting and dying?

these days
i look less and less into your starving
stunning
open
absent eyes

in your vacancy

it almost makes the one-day
inevitable pill
easier to swallow.

I look for love where it cannot be found
I search barren places for any trace of fruit
honey
sweetness
sensations that have no place in the bed I have made

your lips are rough with sugar
I would rather keep you ripened
than let you rot away

ever still
selfishly
I beg you to stay.

This year
You were a liar
And so was I.

The beat of my heart went unanswered
And your biological responses left unchecked.

I was alone
And you were smiling in the next room.

There was death.

Death of people
Death of friendships
Death of trust
Death of love.

My birthday was just another day.

And your gift to me,
The same as always
More oil to keep
This monstrous engine running.

I build myself up with kind words.
Words I do not hear from the person I want to hear them from the most.

Sometimes the things that are best for us are also the most painful.

I hurt so much, I don't want to hurt any more.

But I don't want to hurt any longer.

I am not the girl you admire on the train
I am not eye candy
grown wild in the streets

I am nothing beautiful
nor mouth watering
not desired
nor dreamt of

I am the fire and I am the eye

I am wits-end
calloused fingertips
split ends
tired eyes
and cracked skin

with every hope in the world, still
that I could lead one more heart to demise.

it’s been one year
i am still consistently horrified
at the thought of what could go wrong
how many broken promises must I suffer through
like shattered glass in each step
******, broken, without you?

I carry libraries in my spine
a collection of scents, sounds, secrets
calibrated poor coping mechanisms to get me through each day
the weight of it all almost too much to carry
just enough force to push me through the ******* at bay.

There is no shame
in the show of color from your heart
running to meet mine,
leaping at the chance.

The contrast between
what I have, and what I need
is too plain to see.

The pain of a bed that stays empty,
more like roommates
than lovers entwined.

The ache of a heart that is longing
for yet another
that I can call mine.

I pass myself along
from man
to man
to man

in search of shelter
I cannot find
in the graves I dig
with my own two hands.

why is it that I must wait
for your apologies to me
to be coaxed out of you
by your friends

who somehow smell
who somehow see
who somehow ******* hurting

long after the words fall from your lips

and far before the “sorry” comes?