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Jul 2018 · 334
Full Circle
kaylene- mary Jul 2018
And I'm back here
again
at the intersection of foreign language and familiarity
Choking down gum like a four year old memory
And it's not because my head's been somewhere else lately
but because it gets me thinking
about the difference between loosing you and knowing someone else found you
I keep opening umbrellas inside because I can't seem to get away from all this rain
and I've been in the gutter for longer than my father stayed but when the flood water comes it's not gonna be clear it's gonna look like mud
And it reminds me of being waist deep in an unfamiliar body of water,
trying to sell pieces of my old self back to the new one,
like history doesn't repeat itself
and I wonder if you dream of burning family photos and wearing the ashes as perfume too
Like somehow my inner child isn't gonna drown within you,
like somehow this mess will mean something
Like somehow the fire will end and the sky will stop burning
Jul 2018 · 307
like a smoke signal
kaylene- mary Jul 2018
i've got this new home now,
it's not really new
but it smells different.
and i'm sitting here in front my old home
like a smoke signal,
just a trail of grey,
trying to figure out when a home expands further than just a place to keep all my stuff.
my new home is where i'm living
so i guess that means my old home is where i died,
and i'm saying all of this
because i don't wanna say jumping off a bridge is easy,
to sink like a life raft
left out in the sun.
i don't wanna say that stealing a bunch of pills would be easy because it's too easy
to leave without saying goodbye.
you see,
people always say that you'll be missed
but if you've wanted to die for long enough
eventually
that loses its value,
cause it's too easy not to care, to just sink.
so i'm sitting here in my new home
and i don't know why i asked my phone how to get here,
maybe i just like it when something agrees with me,
and it doesn't feel like
the kind of home i used to know.
i feel like an actor in a poorly edited student film,
always looking directly into the camera,
like somehow the eye of the chaos will just dive out and grab me.
i don't really know what i mean by that
but i guess what i'm trying to say is;
home is where i have my most comfortable panic attacks,
it's a place that i never have to leave.
home is where i get to sleep,
and,
if I want to,
wake up.
Jul 2018 · 570
Fourty One
kaylene- mary Jul 2018
Some nights when I'm looking you right in the eyes, I can hear glass break in the backseat of my mind
Thinking, "this is it"
And when the engine finally starts I can't feel my own skin except the rambling in my veins knowing that somethings about to snap and I don't know what that means but you remind me of a pigeon trapped underground with no way to get out except straight through and maybe that's why they say you shouldn't bring a knife to a gun fight when you can't see the exit wounds
I know you're draining like a tub full of sand but you pulled your own plug and now I'm stuck sweeping up the floor
Jul 2018 · 275
so lucky to love.
kaylene- mary Jul 2018
it is not enough to love,
it is never enough. you must sew your fingers shut
like treasure.
mold into paper, heart like memory foam.
you must lock
the doors and change the keys, even if they don't visit. make your first drink in this palace a delight,
mount a bottle to the ceiling - decorate
with pale pink everything.
build a fist fit for windowpanes
and break no glass.
remember that a laughing bird will never fly at night, cranberries won't grow on trees and
his blood cannot stain your teeth.
young girl your are so lucky to sleep,
so lucky to dream and so lucky to love.
but it is not enough to love.
one must also learn to be.
kaylene- mary May 2018
Sometimes you are the gasoline to an already burnt building
Sometimes you are the anger of a child who broke his own toy
And sometimes you are a fist of rage,
Yelling at the television
A puff of smoke
You are the post apocalyptic chaos of a rip tide too far gone to break

See, racism is not the shark but it's the ocean
All teeth and no mouth,
No jaw and no muscle
Just the white rattle of hate
The sharp grip of an untrained dog

People talk about racism like ancestral land and confederate flags,
Knowing that you own these things,
And we don't 
As if we don't own this history too,
This system
Like we're tredding water

How many skin heads do you think were in the room when we signed off on immigration laws,
race legislations,
public school curriculums?
Or pushed policies like mandatory minimum sentencing,
benine neglect,
broken windows,
stop and frisk,
the race war?

Remember,
The eye of the hurricane is the least harmful part of the storm
You,
The eye of the chat room,
All poker face and no cards

So which individual Donald Trump bigot boogie man are we supposed to be mad at?
When do we stop pointing out the bad apples long enough to acknowledge the orchid was planted on a mass grave?
When do we stop slandering race and start slandering unsolicited rage?

Sharks **** about one person each year
Thousands drown

But of course this isn't really a poem for white supremacist
I don't know any white supremacist
But I do know the people in my neighbourhood,
And my family
And I know how white supremacy is upheld
Whether it is through action or inaction
How it isn't just the broken act of justice,
But the justice itself
How a white kid with a black face on Halloween and his friend who knew it was wrong but didn't say anything - start to blur together
Because let's be honest,
Some racists aren't even racist at all
So they say nothing
They're a silent chorus,
A dull underwater humming waiting to overflow
But when the songs of our cities break,
Will we choose to hear it?
Or will we keep looking for the shark,
Keep tredding water,
Not knowing that we're drowning?
Feb 2018 · 179
Obliterated
kaylene- mary Feb 2018
Love often reminds me that I'm not afraid of hights
or falling -
but I'm afraid of what will happen
the moment
*my body hits the ground
kaylene- mary Feb 2018
I frame the means of his work,
Faceless and boyful
Dissolving somewhere between love and abuse
Successfully regenerated in some rigid idealism
Shaking the wings of his terrible youth
Calling to join him -
The wretched and plastic
No more alone or himself could he be
No shortage of sordid,
No protest from me

He's The Angel of Death in The Ketamine Scene

Feeling less human and hooked on his flesh
Straight from the fields,
All frightened and fertile
****** and raw,
But I swear it is sweet
Lease the unsettling,
I'll wonder the concrete
Wonder if better now having survived

*He's The Angel of Death in The Ketamine Scene
kaylene- mary Feb 2018
One.* I planted a poppy seed in my back garden for every time you broke the sky. They bloomed as softly as the lies you rooted in my chest, conecting the exposed wires to my brain stem. I never thought they'd erode a part of me that wanted to die.

Two. I built a bed of thorns for every time you chocked down my trust. I slept in it for three days, like a shallow grave of misguided programming. But at this point you had watered our aviary with blood lust and it must have been awfully convenient that you had the poppies to match. God was off duty that weekend and all I could think about was your camouflaged bug trap.

Three. By now, the coding of my skull had cracked and everything looked much like your eyes did the night you accidently said you loved me. Stems grew from the pit of my throat and I swear I could feel the ground quiver.

Four. My poppy flowers have melted into a sea of unclaimed blood.

Five. I woke up to a locked jaw and a splintered tongue. Right then, I felt like every missing escape key on every abandoned keyboard in all the major cities of America. Despite my best efforts, I am real.

Six. I'm sitting in a bathtub with a little bag full of drugs and hand drawn map to the nearest greenhouse. I've spent the last hour picking thorns from feet, each one a replication of me, a me before I started planting flowers.
I haven't posted anything in a really long time, I'm not crazy about this poem - it still needs a lot of work but I wanted to share it anyway.
Sep 2017 · 663
decorated shipwreck
kaylene- mary Sep 2017
but isn't the real tragedy that I found myself within you
as you briefly gazed into the mirror that is me and walked away
isn't the real tragedy that I have become a vise of borrowed space
a gap to be filled by hands I have reached for in the dark
that I have misplaced my emptiness for loneliness
and in return
lost count of the bodies I have slipped into like old coats
trying to find the one that shapes me into the woman I was before you left
my bones may be empty but my fists are full of the laughter of native ghosts
mocking me for holding onto a love less real than they are
isn't the real tragedy that I can't place the nights I have attempted to answer my question of grief with ***
a wreckage of ash perading as anguish
but isn't that love
not seeing the explosion when you are the bomb
isn't the real tragedy that I am alive purely by luck at this point
that I am nothing more than a decorated shipwreck
*an obituary
my very own ceremony
Sep 2017 · 552
trainwreck
kaylene- mary Sep 2017
your ego cannot afford cremation
Aug 2017 · 437
finance
kaylene- mary Aug 2017
my body is not a debt to be paid.
Jul 2017 · 280
untitled
kaylene- mary Jul 2017
my version of love
is getting robbed eight times
in a row
on the same street corner,
and hoping today will be different
Jul 2017 · 1.2k
I'm Just Afraid I'll Miss It
kaylene- mary Jul 2017
I think of it as coming
back to myself,
like a second cousin
visiting from the states
As if I'm waiting in
the airport terminal,
hands full of sweat
and a note stapled to my chest
I can't remember when
I first became a space to  be filled,
an empty vessel floating
in between the veil
But I'm starting to feel
like more of a splutter
than a storm,
and it's moments like
this that make me think God
is just ********
irresponsible
I find myself digging
for my sense of wonder
at the bottom of my music box,
like the folded ears
of a saxophone player,
sitting across the bar
As if I'll slide my hands
across the slime of my exterior,
slip back into my identity
like an old coat
While I  tumble into the
empty bellyed passion
of a man with small hands
and an inability to say my name,
hoping I'll come across
my purpose for life
while drenched in his ***
Jun 2017 · 393
do not resuscitate
kaylene- mary Jun 2017
i've watched him bleed emotions in the way he holds his beer;
like a lover too potent to choke down but not sweet enough to finish

he is the side effect of the phrase
"kids can be cruel"
and i've spent nights searching for a warning label tucked in between his ribs,
expecting to find her name under
"owners information,"
but he won't let me close enough to find it

he ***** like he wants to forget,
but I don't much mind because i'm just trying to remember,
remember what it's like to feel that the stars are something someone built for me in their garden shed
but i grew up believing nobody would ever fall in love with me,
and he's too busy dragging his feet across the bar to notice the way she looks at him

i can hear the faded tunes of children singing
"words will never hurt me,"
while we empty ourselves onto *** stained sheets
don't tell me that hurts less than a broken bone

i want to tell him that we are not stalled cars sitting abandoned on the highway,
and if in some way we are,
we only got out to walk and get gas
i want to tell him that this is just debris,
but he's already half way down the street,
substituting prayers for broken fingers and i can't run fast enough to put a cast around his broken wrists and sign it
*"THEY WERE WRONG"
we're not the only kids who grew up this way.
inspired by a poem by Shane Koycazan - To This day
May 2017 · 435
Imprisoned
kaylene- mary May 2017
You sold me a love that resides in a cage,
confines of guilt that only grow stronger with age
You expect your love and all its intensity to justify your self-righteous jealousy,
as if a sufficiently suffocating love defies all practical incompatibilities

Bless me with a love that is void of steel and chains,
one that let's me grow without restraints
Feb 2017 · 890
Muse
kaylene- mary Feb 2017
Someone once told me that life is just a series of moments,
that the past is merely a story we tell ourselves before we fall asleep.
And so I look at him and I am reminded that I am not who I was a moment ago,
and that I shouldn't try to be.
I fear a reality of fiction and distortion,
where my life is a blurry foreign film and he is the fourth wall,
always broken.
I have written of lovers and their seemingly intangible hands for so long that my concept of time is impressionable,
one might even call it sacrilegious.
I have bled dry every metaphor capable of embodiment that I wonder if it ever meant anything,
I wonder if anything ever will.

I want to write him into a scripture of meaning, of something other than illustrated angish.
I want to write about something that isn't love,
that isn't a thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.
I want to write about the way he leads me into rock pools,
like a child being baptized.

I look at him and I am reminded of the ocean,
as if his blood can only move in waves without devotion,
more like instinct.
I want to write about something that isn't love,
because this is more like inspiration.
This is not knowing what could possibly come after his tide falls back.

I am aware that literature always ruins the ending,
that finishing a book mid sentence is the only way to avoid the loss of its final words.
I am aware that beautiful things can never stay,
but maybe that's what makes them beautiful.
He is a picture of my perfect faith,
but he doesn't make me want to believe in religion,
because I know god hates the competition.

For so long I had thought that I was never going to feel anything new,
that I had exceeded the depth of emotions,
like anything that follows can only be a lesser version of something previously felt,
but here I gawk with a mouthful of blasphemous teeth.

I couldn't tell you about the snowstorm he evokes within my chest,
nor the locust plague that raid in his name.
Because this is not a love story,
at least not just yet.
This is a man that has grown roots where I have only planted seeds,
a man that scripts his stories on the soles of his feet.
*And so I look at him,
and I am reminded that I am not who I was a moment ago,
and that I shouldn't try to be.
Feb 2017 · 829
Seventh Seal
kaylene- mary Feb 2017
Falling in love with you is like watching a genocide from the comfrot of my grave
Like our *** is some kind of biblical analogy for everything that should have lived,
but couldn't
There are prophets holding art exhibitions beneath your skin,
and I can't help but feel like it's my god-given right to undress you,
like you're my seventh seal
We've romanticize death like a Shakespearean concept,
all passion and prejudice and perceptive pain,
but baby you look so beautiful when you're fighting to live
Feb 2017 · 380
Captain, My Captain
kaylene- mary Feb 2017
Stumbling from the depths of Heroahima,
you came to find riptides in my hurricane,
only to learn that two storms can't build a home
And besides,
you've forgotten how to float
Dec 2016 · 584
Pestalince
kaylene- mary Dec 2016
When you write about someone for long enough
eventually all you can do is replay the last time you saw them,
like a record player stuck on repeat,
spitting out words like
stay.
And I can't help but wonder why
I love you
sounds more like an apology than a confession when it comes from my mouth.
Maybe because I could write an obituary for every time I ever fell in love with you,
but I don't know if that means I've fallen out just as many.
I think of you and I know what Van Gogh meant when he wanted to feel yellow inside -
but this is about the time that paint starts to taste a lot like pestalince,
and I just don't feel like much of an artist anymore.
Especially when all I can ******* think about is you leaning in first to anyone other than me,
but I learned a long time ago that no matter how much you love someone *it won't make them miss you.
A stranger once told me, leave before they love you, or you'll stay until they don't.
Dec 2016 · 553
Necessary
kaylene- mary Dec 2016
I think of you as breaths of air;
forgettable but necessary.
I think maybe you could manifest into solidity -
if only I stopped comparing you to wind;
blury and fleeting,
but oh so necessary.
Nov 2016 · 614
Oh, Gabriel
kaylene- mary Nov 2016
I tell strangers in fast-food restaurants
that my existence begins and ends
with you,
like my life is some sick joke.
(Two past versions of yourself walk into a bar.)
But they just scoff some rhetoric and say
"are you going down with the ship?"
Like I just woke up from that dream
everyone has where all their teeth fall out.
And there's a little girl
at the end of the docks
unmooring all the boats
because she thinks they'll float away,
but they just sink.
You see,
no amount of blood can change the colour of the sea
and nothing makes sense if there's no you and me.
I want to show you that I write like I ****,
with wide eyes,
both hands
and all over the house.
I want to tell you that I've been in love with you since I was 15,
that I want to sings songs to you from the passenger seat,
I want to make your bed and watch you fix the tv.
I want to look you in the mouth
and not worry that you'll walk away without looking at mine
kaylene- mary Nov 2016
He's not a man of many graces,
fewer teeth than tongues
but he won't say much with his lips.

He's at his strongest when you push,
but never from a kiss.
See,
he's stubborn in every way that doesn't matter,
in every principle that has no lesson.

I've bent the spines of fragile men
to see how far they'll go
before they break,
before they'll form into a crest
of his back that I can't dig from my head.
I've watched them fall in love with me
because I thought that maybe
one of them would empty me,
but they didn't.

He is an ill-mannered world,
the kind that breads creation.
A manifestation of passion and fear.
With eyes that dug twelve foot tunnels in my veins
and went there to die.

A man of simple needs,
plesantaries and shaky knees.
But he doesn't want to see you quiver,
*he only wants to know it.
kaylene- mary Nov 2016
The mind of a tortured artist is
One we worship for its struggle
And judge for its suffering*

The mind of a tortured artist is
One we find necessary to understand
When it is simply necessary to love
Oct 2016 · 545
Existential
kaylene- mary Oct 2016
I feel the weight of my words
crumble more with every day
that passes by,
like Autumn leaves beneath
my feet.
And I wonder if they ever
meant anything,
or if they ever will again.
Someone once told me that
life is merely a series of moments,
like blury foreign films
watched in a ***** haze.
Our lives are but a silver platter
of stories that can hardly be proven,
only eaten by those who listen.
There will never be certainty
that "then" ever really happened,
that words were ever said,
or even felt.
We are insignificant figures
of organic matter
and restless molecules
that spit out words,
to form phrases,
to form moments,
that never truly occur.
And again,
I wonder if I ever meant anything,
or if I ever will again.
Sep 2016 · 678
Untitled
kaylene- mary Sep 2016
You were a ghost town and I was too patriotic to leave.
kaylene- mary Aug 2016
He abandoned you for no-mans-land
For ****** souls and bullet holes
With blood as thick as water
And it wasn't the first time you drowned in shallow seas
Your wounds won't clot unless you touch them
And you won't find plasters between sheets
History repeats itself
And you're becoming your mother
But if you pull apart your skin for long enough
Maybe you'll find solace
Or maybe you'll bleed out
Aug 2016 · 352
Untitled
kaylene- mary Aug 2016
With the weight of Gods word
I will break the twisted
ribs that hold Adam straight
And I will preach - "Oh Dear Eve
You are not born from this travesty
You do not take after he
YOU WERE NOT MADE IN A MANS IMAGE"
Aug 2016 · 1.6k
Dear Heroin
kaylene- mary Aug 2016
You've been known to reside inside the pockets of our local ******,
more often in my mother's bedside draw.
You were my childhood kiss,
a silhouette of senses dancing on the street;
adolescently sweet.
You were his means to an end,
a partial paralysis of collapsed arteries,
swore only to be a friend.

"Step a little closer,
come take a clearer view."


But those to make it out alive are few.
You said you'd take away the pain,
you became the blood inside our veins.
I watched him rot straight down to the bone,
his agony poured out in moans.

"The shakes, the sweats, how can't you see?
They're all gifts from me."


They always warned us of your games,
I should have known it could only end in shame.
But you were here to stay,
and oh,
how we played.
Spin off of a previous poem, "*******".
Aug 2016 · 508
Stillborn
kaylene- mary Aug 2016
Life's entirety - bled out across bed sheets
A soul as dense as my morning coffee, still in its infancy
She buried him beside the shed, beneath the Mulberry tree
Storks brought no bundles to any doorstep that Summer
For Winter murdered everything they had, and the next Autumn was very foreign

They named him Angelo, before or after - I am unsure
Mother Mary was there, ghostly floating above his head
The coffin didn't fit right, left it open
She couldn't take another foot to holy grounds thereafter
Not since God took away her son

She wrote it in a letter - before she bit the bullet
*"No Church, No Gods, No Masterpieces
This is sacrilegious"
Jun 2016 · 379
biblical
kaylene- mary Jun 2016
your skin is the novel I never found the time to write
the kind to reside beside my bed
but every chapter is a break up letter to myself
and I keep passing them off as bed time stories - hiding them beneath your pillow in crumpled ***** of love notes
and god's word
you say you're not a prophet
but I swear you're the reason people still find comfort in the afterlife
and I stopped going to church after daddy left

I painted pictures of your chest
in every alter that would let me
but you're "not quite sure" how you feel about heresy
now you're sounding much like the pastor did on christmas,
with his drone of sinful scrutiny
and a pocket full of choir boys
you are the book in every top draw of every hotel ever slept in,
you are the force that brings babylon to its knees,
the hands that drowned the sea
kaylene- mary Jun 2016
They will write entire novels based solely on your eyes, create depths of intangible intimacy that can only result in displacement.

You will come to know of death before death.

They will dip their fingers in your blood and paint diagrams of love across your chest. You will transform into artwork, a selfish inspiration.

On nights that end in benevolence, they will be too frightened to speak; and you will never understand.

You will learn how to break, but more like waves and less like porcelain.

They can feel agony far beyond your compression. Your silence will be substance for extinction, *and a poet never forgets.
May 2016 · 308
Untitled
kaylene- mary May 2016
I want to see god. I want to know what god feels like.
Apr 2016 · 463
Natural Selection
kaylene- mary Apr 2016
I have traced the war torn lips of death
But never the relief of her graceful intimacy
She found me in a bed made up of morphine
With a stomach still regurgitating loss
Her undertone was pitiful and the octave never changed
But she was full of a warm embrace
By the skin of my teeth, I have touched her only on days that consist of threes
The hour of the unholy
The hour that god sleeps
And he plays my preys on repeat
But humanity still hides at the thought of my farewells
They reside between their bones and mourn their probable loss
They hold no flowers of remorse nor confine
But rather weep for their own, still and barely shifting
Leaving me to soak in fears and fright
They hold their lives in such decay, survival fit
And disregard my uncertain departure
In the face of death, many run home to hide beneath their beds
To mourn the loss of a soul not yet left
They fear the loss of their own in simulation
And will not give up preys for reconciliation
Leaving me to throb, to pulse and bleed dry in a bed made of white
Apr 2016 · 1.3k
Self
kaylene- mary Apr 2016
For all the self destructive souls
That think they'll never be themselves again
I understand that self harm
Is really just self defence
Mar 2016 · 461
Faulse Law
kaylene- mary Mar 2016
I have run in fear of hierarchy and seudo embrace - to lay hands upon embroidered skin,
skin so arbitrarily tainted that it smells of innocent seas and eloquent loss.
I discovered ignorantly hand stitched protest that formed naivety in effortless waves.
An effort so void of physical touch and second sight,
that it resembles a vastness that once drowned the lesser version of my inhabitants.

I climbed mountains in length to hang upon a crucifix made of passion and scrutiny,
a comfort known by none but a malicious compliance requested by authority,
only to regenerate the secrecy of silence.
Mar 2016 · 473
Testimony and Objection
kaylene- mary Mar 2016
I've come to the intersection of
false law and steal bolt spines
My blood keeps pumping kerosene
and my lungs can hardly stutter
but they still beg me to breathe
No one ever tells you when it's
a good time to break and the last
time I tried to swallow it was a
handful of rispodol and my brother's
fingers down my throat
I woke up in January with a father
and the seams to my soul
But now I have neither and they
ask me to be still
I could count the apologies I
ever got from both on one hand
and none were from this man
They tell me to write because it
gives voice to my speech but I
found the library of my mind in
ashes when I asked for a plea
And I don't know if maybe she just
gave up on me or us both
But I've left laders outside my
window for all the hands that couldn't
hold me and all the lips that never
mind to tell me why
Does one bleed at the knees for a
shoulder to sleep or do I blister my feet?
Mar 2016 · 527
Annihilation
kaylene- mary Mar 2016
I desire to perish,
yet I ask for health
I love another -
and thus I hate myself
Mar 2016 · 468
Dazed & Confused
kaylene- mary Mar 2016
He said it in blood rituals, in blasphemy
All soul and no body and arson as a hobby
He brought sugar cubes and moonshine - begged to lay with me just one last time
Seven months in counting since he made me die that night
Seven months in counting and now he wants to do it right
He was shaking on my door step, smelt of shame and desperation
He promised to be gentle
He won't yell and fists won't fly
He just kept saying "forever"
*"Forever baby, forever, just let me hold you for the night"
It's taken him seven months to see that I would have died for him. I died for him, and now he wants to die for me. Last night was the first time he said "I love you" and I believed it.
Mar 2016 · 422
Dear Lord,
kaylene- mary Mar 2016
Far too long he has slept inside my head
He weeps for me as we lay in bed
I wanted no more than to die by his side
By all your commandments I have abide
But please do not ask of the price I've paid
For I must sleep in sheets you've made
But Lord, obsolve him of my sins
And I will throw his ashes to the wind
Help me accept the passing of his soul
He is the one who took upon much of this toll
For far too long my lover has been dead
For far too long I have slept with guilt inside my bed
Feb 2016 · 414
Arduous
kaylene- mary Feb 2016
I used to bring prescription pills
to parents day
because I didn't think anyone
could tell the difference

What'd you call Christmas
without heat
in a house without power?
2007

My father swore that he'd
teach me how to ride a bike but
instead he introduced me
to his new baby girl
And every time we drive
past the hospital
my mother remindes me how much it cost to save my life
that one year
She doesn't have
to say that she wished I'd left
instead of him
She spent twenty one years
tucking my brother into bed
but it took her nine just to touch me

And when I finally had the courage
to tell my mother I was too afraid
to eat - she told me it's a blessing
That she spent most of her twenties
regurgitating flesh into paper bags
and that's how she got daddy
to stay

I haven't seen him in close to three years
but he calls sometimes
and we talk about the weather
I still remember the day he said goodbye
He said he'd come back
and we'd clean up that old bike from the shed
*I still walk home
kaylene- mary Jan 2016
Fat* was the first word people used
to describe me when I was a kid
And that didn't bother me much
until I found out it was supposed to

By the time I was fifteen
I knew what it was like to be clinically
overweight, underweight and obese
It was the year of menthol cigarettes
and baggy clothes
Hunching naked over a scale shrine
Mixing ***** with vitamin water,
complimenting each others thigh gaps
The year breakfast tastes like giving up
and the only time you feel pretty
is when you're hungry*
Not obsessed with being empty
but afraid of being full
Replacing meals with more practical hobbies
like planting flowers or fainting

And ever since I started evaporating,
girls that never spoke to me,
stopped in the hallway
and had the audacity to ask how
And when I told them I was sick,
they told me I was an inspiration
How could I not be in love with my illness?
My eating disorder was the most
interesting thing about me

But how lucky I am now to be boring
To look at a sandwich
and see just a sandwich
Not half an hour of sit ups
or two spent hugging the toilet
This is the year I find more productive
things to do than googling the amount
of sugar on the back of a
lick and stick postage stamp
The year the calculator in my head finally stops
The year that I eat when I'm hungry
without punishing myself
And I know that sounds stupid
but that **** is hard
If you're not recovering, you're dying

When people asked me what I wanted to be
when I grew up,
I said *skinny
Jan 2016 · 724
Cell Membrane
kaylene- mary Jan 2016
You are not defined by those who never loved you back.
Jan 2016 · 722
Methanol
kaylene- mary Jan 2016
I'm telling you I love you
You're not saying a thing
but I ******* love you
I keep finding blood on my sheets
but I ******* love you
And I haven't been sober since
the day you left
I don't think I've been sober since
the day we met
Because whether you're staying or going,
you're always leaving bruises
You're always leaving
Tell me how this game works;
You're the one with bullets for teeth
but I'd do anything to be your target
if it meant you'd call me back
I bled at the boarder of
life and death for you
because I couldn't think of a time without
your violence
I hate you the most on the days that I don't
And I hate that I want you back
I'm still wounded and healing
but I just want you back
I'm telling you I love you
You're not saying a thing
*but  I  *******  love  you
kaylene- mary Jan 2016
Remember that this pain will pass
Remember that this too will pass
Remember that time spent with
cats is never wasted
And he has a habit of walking
into hearts without wiping his feet
But you can't keep dancing with
devil and wonder why you're still in hell
And he may be no less than an angel
Only fallen and slightly bruised
*But even Satan looks calm in the tides
kaylene- mary Jan 2016
I think of you while underwater
And it makes me wonder
if this is what it feels like to die
Or if I'll ever understand god in this lifetime
But I know he still chokes
at the sound of you saying goodbye
And the angles still storm heaven
every Sunday night,
looking for the missing piece of your heart
with my name etched into the side
I would have died with you
once or twice
I would have dug up a grave,
fit just for us two
With my own marble hands
and flaccid nails
But you left me for bar fights
and short skirts and quiet sheets,
anything but dirt
*Oh god,
anything but dirt
Jan 2016 · 1.7k
of Mice and Men
kaylene- mary Jan 2016
Crippled by sin of a second nature
Nurture, heaven and home
Move with the motion of tongues and tide
Born beside kings
Silver and gold
Silicone sweet
Plastered with empathy
Healed by loyalty
Reflect of steel and stone
Since the dawn of the age of the innocent ones
The indigo children
*The indigo children
Dec 2015 · 1.2k
Griffin
kaylene- mary Dec 2015
I drowned my will to live
in the bathtub across the hall
It didn't put up much of a fight
It didn't seem to mind much at all
Dec 2015 · 511
Sell Yourself
kaylene- mary Dec 2015
We spent our youths
sleeping in empty bathtups
because we like the way it
makes his memory echo
through the silence,
the way syllables got
trapped beneath the taps.
And we only paid
attention to abandoned buildings
when we became one.
But we never had someone
around to tell us that
the objects in the mirror
are less depressed than
they appear.
So we keep reciting bedtime
stories and dryheaving
scattered sensations because
saying his name feels
like chocking down bleach
but it hurts less than
knowing no amount of time
spent staring passed empty
doorways will bring him back.
No one told us that goodbyes
taste like the back of a
postage stamp and no one
told us that coming home
feels a lot like drowning.
Every year for Halloween
we dress up as the versions
of ourselves that were in love
with the way their skin
looked in the day time
and we sit
outside upon the porch
hoping we'll walk out and
leave our heartless archetypes
behind.
No one told us that loving
would be like playing
the piano for someone who
can't hear,
or that it would remind us
of the way we felt the first
time we dropped our ice
creams as a kid.
So we're trapped finding
colours in the shadows
on the ceiling and
we keep storing secrets
in our cigarettes.
Because we just can't seem to
find our place
in this world and
we swopped a one bedroom
apartment for a bloodless
bag of dark hair and
dislocated words.
We curled our spines
into shapes that resemble
hurricanes
because all we see
between our bones is
substance for natural disaster.
We lost hope the moment
she hurled from our van
and we've been searching
inside drug stores
ever since.
So excuse us,
for we smell of death
and cheap wine.
And our clothes are stained
from loss and citric acid,
but if you let us limp
our way passed,
you may learn the lesson
your mother never had
the nerve to teach you
Nov 2015 · 3.4k
Pirates
kaylene- mary Nov 2015
Gabriel,
have we not set sail upon this ship once before?
And did it not sink at the sight of a storm?

*Lillian,
we built that ship in arms,
and when we sank,
we sank together.
Our wood was fragile and water torn,
but I've come baring steal.
Nov 2015 · 755
sensory neurons
kaylene- mary Nov 2015
there are receptor cells inside
your head that set off chemical
reactions every time you split
your skin, like tornado sirens in
misplaced cities. this is the only
reason why you think torn flesh
will mend the hole inside your
chest. but death metaphors lived
and died with pen and paper, and
no amount of blood can change the
colour of the sea. so if you can't see
anything beautiful about yourself,
get a better mirror. look a little
closer. stare a little longer. *because
there is something inside you that
made you keep going despite
everything that told you to quit.
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