michele shulman: Poems

May 2014 · 877

michele shulman May 2014

Life is but a series of redundancies strung together. Sitched with tragedy by ****** hands, I only hope not to stain the thread.

Every event in this existence is nothing more than a domino in an endless time loop
, constantly falling/ constantly falling / i am falling.

fact: the name of the spots on domino tiles are called pips and i’ve tried killing myself two times.

The night I snuck 3 orange bottles from the kitchen cupboard and melted into pillows/into bed sheets/ into wooden ikea frame
waking up to not shiny gates but my mother holding a skeleton in the shower
head in a galaxy so far way i almost missed my alarm clock.
i wanted to hit the snooze but got a glass full of charcoal instead.
mm was just how i like my coffee, black and ***** inducing.

fact: charcoal is among the purest forms of carbon as are diamonds

I am not a diamond, but a piece of pyrite. fool’s gold.

The second time two years later involved a bulk bottle of excedrin
one part aspirin, one part tylenol, one part caffeine.
if you ever try to off yourself i don’t recommend this recipe,
dog ear it in your terminal cook book as do not try this at home
you will lie on your bedroom vomitting your intestines until your parents are tired of hearing it

They will make you go to school the next day.

You wont.

fact: The most common causes of death are heart disease and cancer. Suicide is number 11

My world spilled over like a bag of glass marbles hitting the floor

nothingness

#nothing #draft

Apr 2014 · 1.3k

spaceman

michele shulman Apr 2014

spaceman

Spaceman with galaxies tied to fingertips

Like a puppet you make the universe dance

You are their creator with strings of umbilical cords

Freckles scattered on your nose were the original constellations

Pensive eyes, the first stars and each blink causes galactic explosions

Astronomers were unable to properly trace origins but I did the moment you entered my orbit

draft written on back of coffee shop napkin

Apr 2014 · 1.4k

The Birds and the Bees

michele shulman Apr 2014

The Birds and the Bees

'All nature seems at work ... The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing ... and I the while, the sole unbusy thing, not honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.'

My fingers can’t trace the origin of the age old euphemism
Its roots planted firmly in childhood paired with sitcom cliches
A conversation never had with my mother

I learned the moment he touched me
My mind buzzed as the sweetest nectar kissed my lips
Arms turned to wings and we flew away

The age of fourteen
A baby learning where babies come from
Innocence poured out like an overfilled glass of milk

When he left I was a hummingbird
Heart at 1260 beats per minute
Fading in and out of anxiety

He was the bee
Flew to the next delicate flower
and ****** her dry like a parasitic insect

Always told to be weary of disguised villains
Old women with apples
Wolves dressed like grandmothers
Never of the natural behavior of pollination

Apr 2014 · 3.8k

A moment

michele shulman Apr 2014

A moment

I am sitting at a desk,
back straight, head forward, eyes open. Blink.
Economics melts into white noise as
supply curves become demand curves become supply curves, elasticity.
Water weeps through the crevasses of the windows and ceiling,
mocking my ever fragile existence.
Ankle deep in yesterday's cold forgotten words unsaid,
the lesson advances.
Demand curves become supply curves become demand curves, consumer surplus.
A single drop christens my desk and terror fills my long hollow eyes
as the ceiling mutates into a congregation of puddles.
Rain that felt of hydrochloric acid
dissolved the very flesh I tried to escape.
God is not so sweet when it comes to sinners,
confining me to the barriers of an insignificant wooden desk.
The class remains like mannequins,
indifference radiating from their plastic cores.
Supply curves become demand curves become supply curves, externalities.
The only witness to this nightmare,
my last breathe finally deserts me.
I tense as the numbing waves climb up my spine,
injecting lethargy in each individual vertebra.
Malicious tentacles wrap around my throat and water floods my collapsing black lungs.
White noise consumes the entire classroom as I float in and out of paralysis,
only to open my eyes. Blink.

Apr 2014 · 951

Poem about puking

michele shulman Apr 2014

Poem about puking

I thought I could purge all the flowers and metaphors trapped inside my rib cage with stems tickling my esophagus.

Blooming on the tip of my tongue, teeth locked them in but finger allowed escape.
Hand prying its way through my mouth, I wished to pull out my intestines and allow the stitches holding me together unravel.

Beauty doesn't thrive in an abandoned building so I let them free, no sense carrying casualties in a house destined to burn.

I remember the first time I prayed to the porcelain throne, begging for salvation.
A feeling manifested in my stomach and infected each vein, it swam through bone marrow leaving behind a trail of decay.
My framework was rotting and mind consumed, knees fell to the ground and I prayed for forgiveness, acceptance and peace.

Every time I vomited I felt one step closer to heaven, as if entrance to the gate had weight restrictions.
You stepped on a scale before they sewed on your wings, for all angels have to be pristine and my soul carried the weight of an eternity of mistakes.

I was a coward hiding behind a romanticized disorder to avoid reality.
The light has grown within, it keeps my food safely in my stomach lining and let's my words out,
A lesson I've been unable to face for years.

I remember the day I was diagnosed with EDNOS.
Eating disorder not otherwise specified.

I wanted to punch the specialist in the face with my emaciated knuckles for degrading the massacre I instilled on my body.
Not bulimia. Not anorexia. Not specified.

She tied me to a label that said the years I dedicated to restrictions and malnutrition and stomach acid dissolving the very foundation of my teeth meant nothing.
**** your dsm 5th edition and the ****** waiting room keurig green tea with low calorie sweetener you provided for each session.

I found a reason to live within myself.

Apr 2014 · 490

Lost

michele shulman Apr 2014

Lost

Surrounded by fire,
we are the gate keepers of this living hell.
Alluded to think we swindled the universe,
yet drowning just the same.

He's never wrote before,
sweet words melted into verses was a world he had yet to touch.
His hands only reached for a bottle, a pack of cigarettes, another mistake.
Lethargy comforted him when others could not.

Constantly labeled, every characteristic has a medication.
Phizer strives to one day cure our personalities.
Bending to fit the mold our parents left on wax paper near the oven,
we scream in the face of society.

Beauty hidden behind half closed lids,
comfort is a brown couch and black coffee with two splenda.
A warrior, fighting for her life in a world that keeps swallowing and spitting her out.
Every day is war and she is both armies.

They ask why we are suffocating,
to be explained in a 5 paragraph essay.
Times New Roman, size 12, double spaced.
Tragedy formatted by MLA 7th edition.

Lost in the chaos,
there are no winners but only survivors.
Eyes filled with doubt we face the world,
exit plan crushed in bags in wrinkled wallets.

She's afraid of his past, his future, his inability to control himself.
My inability to control myself.
We are flight risks, broken souls with misguided dreams.
A lost breed dying by our own hands.

This is our disclaimer

Mar 2014 · 333

2/13

michele shulman Mar 2014

2/13

He said he'd never hurt me
I am the light of his life
The reason he wakes up in the morning
What he dreams of falling asleep at night

He introduced me to the devil
The one that put a noose around his neck
He tied the knot for mine
And we danced until we all fell dead

Grateful to be a part of the destruction he kept only to himself
I felt blessed
Given a way to cope with reality in a time where I was too vulnerable to stand on my own
I thanked him

Mar 2014 · 616

heroine

michele shulman Mar 2014

heroine

veins full of synthetic sunshine
you tied your tourniquet to hell
where light folds within itself
mutating into a room of padded white

reality more numb than my hands when i heard about the relapse
your soul now floats in the land of discarded stamp bags

when eyes grow back from self imposed blindness
i hope you read my text asking “who are you”
you are a parasite infecting the host that gave them warmth
lulled me to think you needed a shoulder to rest on
instead you wanted one to bite into

at night my palms still search for yours
my body curls up in a question mark
waiting for a ghost to wrap their arms around me
while fingers grip steering wheels driving to the next fix

my heart quivers thinking of sunrises and moon light
the universe collapsing and earth swallowing us whole
the bag that finally takes your breath away

your mind only wanders to the one lady that never let you down
she kept you high as the heavens without ever growing wings
i wanted to be your heroine but all you wanted was ******
in sickness and in nod i join thee in holy matrimony

Mar 2014 · 383

Disorder

michele shulman Mar 2014

Disorder

Distorted self loathe falls drop by drop,
submerging vibrant kaleidoscopes engraved in eye sockets hollow.
Blinded, beautiful fractals dissolve into the bittersweet horizon
And I stand screaming to the past, future and present, “I am not ready”.

Rose coloured glasses have long since enlightened
the thin pale flesh that delicately stretches across my decaying framework.
I traded my adolescence for an apple of darkness not foreshadowing who would consume who.

My mind is accustomed to disorder, insanity being a childhood friend.
It has stood in the background of birthday photos, desperate for attention and my own self destruction.
It will never let me go, as I to it for we are in love.

Each year it urges the suggestion that
I am worthless , I am a burden, I am a failure.
Entropy tears apart intricate neural pathways,
manipulating the very thread that barely stitched me together.

It has taken many names,
cowardly hiding behind toxic masks.
Disguised as my mother, a box cutter, a diet that got out of hand
Always convincing me I am not good enough.

— The End —