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 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?

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.

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?

I know
my mother is not proud of me
when I change my hair
bejewel my face
or tell her about the newest boy.

I am my mother’s daughter,
and we have made so many of the same mistakes.

I hope
my mother is proud of me
when I get a nice job
in the tallest building in the city
wear nice clothes
and sell my soul
to become another piece
in the people’s machine.

I want to have gardens on my arms
I want to carry pictures of all I have loved
and all I have lost

I want roses
and roses
and roses.

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.

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.

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.

despite the amounts
of sleep and sanity
I sacrifice
to ensure the extinction
of the other woman

she thrives.

like flies to putrid corpses
the threat multiplies.

you attract.

you have no patience for me

the times where I lie on the ground
screaming

my chest ripped open
bleeding

I gave you my heart
and you are sick of hearing it

beating.

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

I owe it to you
to let you go.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Red, like the river that flows between my legs every so often.

Of course, this the color I paint my nails, as if the subtle yet bold mark of femininity could make me feel any more like a woman. As if the pain in my abdomen suggests that, yes, one day I shall be worthy of the burden of bearing human life - a parasite within, a martyr without.

Such gifts these are. Never asked for, so oft granted, regardless of prayers for fragile offspring.

We gasp at the guarantee of torn womanhood. We sigh at the kick inside.
We are women - strong, unyielding beasts of the northern stars. We bleed ourselves dry in hopes that we may find our way back home - our blood ever thicker than any sweat or tear could dream to be.

The red of our bodies shimmers bright beneath the moon.

The perfect pathway from mother
to daughter
to mother.

I try too hard
and the taste I leave
on your god-given lips
is heavy,
chalky and bitter.

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.