gently
so gently
you pulled the
threads loose,
set me free

but the relief lasted
barely a moment -
you tied me to
you, chained me,
and even after
you decided
you didn't want me
anymore

you left me
with the shackles
and the bruises
and the empty bed
and the sheets
that still smell
like you.

I'm sorry
my broken pieces
cut you,
but I'm not sorry
for the way
I chose to put
them back together.

I built my house
with the stones
I found
when I hit
rock bottom.

it's a mess,
but it's mine.

I am discovering and
rediscovering myself
every single day.

some days I am masterpiece
and others I am tragedy.

most days, I find I am both-
my ruins have been tagged
so many times they've become
a mural of memory. all the
love and the loss and the longing
carved into every inch of bone,
sewn into every inch of skin.

some days I look at the architecture
of myself and I swear I should have
been excavated years ago and
some days I'm in awe of what the
wreckage has become.

undress
peel the layers
of skin

find the name
of every boy
carved into a
rib

the bones are like
flower petals
the blood like
a river

fed it the lavender
heat of want
and neglect

paint it on your
skin the war paint
of trying too hard

of giving up

find her in pieces
each and everyone
with your name on it
only yours
only yours
only yours

she pried every rib out
years ago, used them
to burn at the alter
of every loss and

every longing
and she still holds onto
the ribbons used
to connect you

the one you untied
years ago

they don't taste right -
other boys.  they put their
hands on me and my brain
is the tornado and my mouth
is the hurricane and they
don't taste right. too much
salt, not enough sugar.
like a meal, always missing
something, never quite
sure what.

I never had that problem with
you. you were always just
right, tasted like warm whiskey
and strong coffee. always knew
where to put your hands.

I wish you'd carry my body back
to the river, to the ocean, to the underwater
abyss where it belongs.
my bones have been used as kindling too
many times, my heart the flame,
my blood the life pumping through veins
that have never been under my skin.
my ashes have been spread in graveyards
I never meant to die in and they take
my fingers, they take my hands,
held above the fire for warmth, held
in the candle wax, calling it my rebirth.
I wish you'd give my body back, still
feel the map of me being rewritten by
your fingertips, the weight of you,
the breath that was no longer mine to
take, or mine to give.
the way you anchored my soul, tethered
it to 'home' but you forgot to take it with you
when we left. nothing's been home since.

tired of the mess
tired of bleeding from
the hole in my chest
tired of feeding mouths
that aren't mine
tired of going hungry
tired of empty hands
tired of the give and
the give and the never
get, tired of empty
hands empty heart
empty house tired
of the hole in my chest

you will always be a part of me
and I both hate you
and love you
for that

let me fall down the well
into chaos, into rebirth, into
wonderland. let me drown,
let me disappear, disintegrate.
I hope you watch me go,
watch my body sink into
grave you dug for me,
baptized in the water you
poisoned. something about
the way you designed my
destruction will always
sign the masterpiece in my hand,
though, and you'll carry the
grief and I'll carry the blame.

to hold on
to let go
you're in
my heart
but you're
still not
home

paint my bones red
dress me up like the
wolves, let me reclaim
my wild.

let the lavender in
my blood turn chaos
into quiet storm.

let me be whole
again, the full moon
on a clear night.

drips on the floor
an oil spill of
all the loss and longing
i tried i tried i tried
to hold your hands
but you let me slip
like water through
your fingers when
the weight of mine
became too heavy

my hands are empty
bruised and ******
yours are fists
yours are fists
yours are fists

quiet
pops and
bubbles
the burns and the
flesh the anger
the quiet
memory of
moments
feelings of
rightness of
balance
that aren't
there anymore
whispers of what
used to mean
okay
and not
okay anymore
not
okay

I have only been held
by careless hands
and loved by
damaged hearts.
my body has become
a graceless wasteland,
an asylum for those
who can't be saved.
I'm tired of this dented
body and this hollow life,
tired of being the water
that holds up ships and
being left to drown in
my own sea. tired of being
the savior, never the
saved. tired of being the
forgiver, tired of being
condemned.

unraveling
slowly but surely
the threads spread
all over the house
you've tripped on them
so many times but
you hardly notice
you hardly notice
how the skin hangs
from my bones now
and you hardly notice
the whisper when i speak
you hardly notice
the threads on the floor
how they spell your name
and how little I have
left to give.

an open wound
ankle bone to coffee
table, elbow scraped
against the concrete.
the knife, blade first,
the skin of your legs
the skin of your wrists
your ribs. curled like
lace, drawn on like
sketchpad. the ache
the ache the ache
the scars of never
letting go and the
gnawing, raw
pain of the open
wound you won't
stop picking, you
won't stop scratching
the ache of it the
ache can't forget
can't distract
doesn't stop doesn't
stop doesn't
stop

and the words
whispered over and
over again, the scream
the cry the bang the
whimper

i'm sorry.

I'm just a little mess
in a pretty black dress.
you used to like that
about me, loved me once
until the candles were
puddles of wax on the
floor and I was too
burnt out to light you up
anymore.

you'll never look at me the way
you used to, that face you had
just for me. I'll never feel your
wrap yourself around me, call me
baby, feel your fingers in my
hair or your lips at my throat.
I won't hear your laugh anymore,
your footsteps down the hall.
we won't ever sneak out in the
middle of the night, won't
cause a ruckus, be the riffraff
mama warned me about. I
won't ever hear you drunkenly
tell me I'm the most beautiful
woman in the world, won't hear
you tell me all over again in
the morning when my hair's a
mess and you kiss me awake.
it's like an open wound, every
moment, and the hardest
part is letting of what we
were and that this is how we
end.

i'd give anything
to have you back
but i'd give anything
to never want you
back

I think about the pieces.
the way we scattered them on
the floor, the collage of unfinished
pictures in every room. we
never picked them up, never
put them back together.
does the picture remain
the same when it's never
really painted? that vision
in your mind, does it ever
become art? or is it the whisper,
the thought, fleeting and never
again? the single melody
in your head, played over
and over and over and over
but ultimately forgotten,
becomes the soundtrack
for things that could have
been but never were. becomes
the body on the bathroom
floor, sometimes she's naked and
sometimes she'd in that white
dress. she never wakes up,
though. she's the body of
everything you could have
been, never were.

the way the
story twists -
all the harm
came from your
hands, and yet
in the end
I am the one
to carry the
blame.

home isn't
home and permanence
isn't permanent
and i'm still waiting
for the boy
who promised
me forever
to make good
on his word
but he's long gone
making home
in someone else
and i'm still here
feeling like an
unwelcome house
guest in my
own bed.

sometimes I sit
next to the river
watch the rapids,
consumed by them,
and I wish they'd
consume me too.
wash me clean.
wash me away.
either would be
just fine
with me.

I'm afraid of the brush strokes,
afraid that the pain won't stick,
that it'll stain, that it'll look more
like Rorschach than art.
I'm afraid of the pen to paper,
that the words I want to say
will never ever come out right.
I'm afraid of sewing needles
and spray paint and I'm afraid
of torn canvas and dirt brush
water. I'm afraid that my art
and my poems will turn into
the tangent of my head, the
same strings of words repeated
over and over again and the
same messy lines that link
one hemisphere to the other will
bleed onto the paper, out of
my mouth, and all the paper
and the ink and the paint will
go to waste and all my attempts
will be on the floor and I'll
lay with them and they'll
put a sign on me saying
something like
                 she will be missed.

it's okay to
hate me now
as long as
you promise to
try to
love me again
later.

the flesh peels apart
find your name carved
into the bone
find me in pieces
on the floor

her hand is on your chest,
small and wanting. your
heart beats beneath it -
slow and steady. you can't
feel hers, but it's running
like a wild animal. right now,
right here, it beats for you
and only you. but yours
is steady. the heart of a man
in a moment of certainty,
or the heart of the man
whose heart beats for
no one at all. she doesn't
know which, and neither
do you. you feel her small
hand on your chest, you
feel her desperation but
the question hangs in
the air between the both
of you -


                         he loves me
                                                                       he loves me not

drop the ashes
from your cigarette
on my grave -
your white lighter
hangs out of your jeans
pocket, drag a hand
through your messy
black hair -
you are the embodiment
of every poetic cliche.
all anger and angst
and lost love and
all the women who
fall at your feet
and fall at the phone
desperate for you
to call them again the
morning after.
I wanted to be the
only girl you ever
loved, really loved-
and maybe I was.
but old habits are
hard to break, and
**** if I didn't try
to break you of your
cigarettes, **** if
I didn't try to get you
a haircut, new jeans.
throw away that lighter.
for awhile I had the
privilege of kissing
your mouth when it
didn't taste like
smoke, and **** if you
didn't wear those jeans
for awhile. but my
mother was always right -
you can't change the broken
boys anymore than you can
save them, and they
certainly don't save
you.

I was always the girl
to leave before she's left -
but when I left us, you
locked the door behind
me, and it's a different
kind of ache to realize
I had to leave you
behind just as much
as I had to watch you go.

the lull, the longing,
the ache  just before sleep
and just before wake -
the quiet, rhythmic
shushing, the weight,
the heaviness.
it's too dark, but
it's too bright, too
much, not enough,
too warm, too cold.
always too something.
never quite enough.
it's the swell of the sky
just before the rain,
the stillness and the hush
around midnight just
before it snows. it's
the creeping feeling
of change, of danger,
of letting go, of giving
up - it's how the winds
change, it's the stack
of papers blowing
away in the sudden
gust. it's the boys
who promise to
never hurt you while
they're untying their shoes,
unbuttoning their pants.
it's how they sneak out
after you've fallen asleep,
the cancer in the way
they kiss your forehead
just before they go.
it's your father holding
your small hands, and
your father's weight
after he buckles under
too many beers. it's how
no matter how many times
your he disappoints you,
you'll always call him daddy
when he finally comes around.
it's your father being the first
man to break all the promises
he made you and it's your aching
little girl's heart believing
him too many times. it's your
mother telling you to be better,
but never showing
you how to be better.
it's the way your mother tells you
to be safe but never teaches
you how to say no,
how to tell the boys when
enough is enough -
how fingertips creeping up too far,
how hands slipping down too low
should never feel like a debt to be paid.
she doesn't tell you how that sudden
vacancy in your mind is a warning
sign, how it's a quiet no,
and that maybe will never be a quiet yes.
it's the teachers telling
you that boys will be boys,
telling you that girls are mean
and to get over it and handle
it among yourselves because
there's no referees in real life.
it's lies that sound like promises
and words like forever and love
and ipromiseillneverleaveyou
hitting your heart like a brick.
it's empty beds and empty
houses and empty cupboards
and ghost towns in your chest
and abandoned homes in your
head and it's the way ghosts
never leave the places that
harmed them the most. it's
how falling asleep every night
feels like the battle and waking
up every morning feels like
the war and it's the way that
no matter how many times
you fight, nothing's ever won.

sometimes i wonder
if ideas like fate and
soul mates are just the
clumsy words for things
that are tangled together
for awhile until they
are eventually unraveled -
if soul mates are only
together for as long as
they're together -
until the cords are
cut, the ties are
severed. until the
bath tub drains
and all that's left
is the filth, the rot,
the longing.

the silence between us
is heavy, kind of like
the silence in a cemetery
between the widow and
the buried. home isn't
home anymore, and
you wash your hands -
try desperately to scrub
your skin of any remnant
of the feel of me,
watch the sink empty,
watch the water drain,
wishing it was you -
wishing it was the
idea of me in your mind,
wishing you were anyone
else, wishing i was anyone else.
and i wonder if anyone
else has felt you the way
i have, if anyone's body
will fill the hole I left
in your mattress,
the gaps in the closet,
the hollow in your chest.
i wonder how you miss me,
if you miss me in afterthought,
like misplaced things you've
given up on finding.
i wonder if you miss me
like the drowning miss air.  
i wonder how i settled
on you, in your mind -
the ache of a years old
injury? freshly opened
wound? thick, naked scar?
maybe i'm more like
the pain of a phantom limb
lost to disease - something
you'll always ache for,
something you know you'll
never be able to reclaim.
and there are nights when
i walk all the trails i walked
with you, stop at all our
spots. and i feel you, but
maybe it's just the ghost of you,
the ghost of us, when we still
loved each other in all the
right ways. other nights,
i sit on my porch rail,
watch the streets, watch
for the boy that loved me
once to come around the
corner, be the boy
who loves me still.

got a hundred
a thousand
a million
little thoughts
bouncing
around in this
broken little
brain - tell me
you don't love me,
tell me I should
feel the same.
it's hard to let
go when you're
everything
I know.
the only thing
that's ever held
me down on
these two feet,
even on the
days you knocked
me down
the hardest.

sometimes I think
I don't want to be
alone. but then I
realize I'd rather
be alone than
with anyone
but you.

and you'd rather
be with anyone else
than be alone,
and you'd rather
be anything
but with me.

I'm sorry.
I know it
doesn't really
matter anymore,
though.
you're kissing
other mouths,
tracing other
hips - and I
only have myself
to blame.

I took too long
to unbury that
love for you I
thought I'd lost.
I found it in
mouths I
shouldn't have
tasted.

the only
difference is
I found my
way back to
you, and you
made sure to
destroy every
route home.

blade to skin
let the demons in
can't save me now
can't let me drown

soul deep,
by heart
by love
by soul
by mind.

you feel me,
and you
wait.
you push.
but you feel
me.

I'll hold
on while
you can't,
I'll wait
til you
can.

my body is an apology,
paying off debts that
I don't owe. my body
is tired, thankless,
an empty pit, a broken
mirror, a monument to all
my sin. a church to save,
but nobody saves me.
they lay me to rest in
my coffin of rot, my pits
of self-loathing and they
leave me there. they
believe I deserve it.

I believe
I deserve it.

nothing is permanent.
but then again,
nothing is permanent.

do you miss me?
the girl I was before
my lips turned to ash
and my fingers left
black tar smears on
the furniture?

soft. sweet. haven't
seen her in years,
not since the blonde
curls went dark.
so did the eyes.

feast or famine,
there's war in
my bones.
wipe my
blood clean,
brush away
the ashes,
burn what's left.
let the smell of
gunpowder replace
the lavender and
the honey and the
sweet salt of us.
start over again
on the charred
remains, leave
the burning bed
frame so we remember
to do better
next time.

like most things,
you are left on
my nightstand,
unfinished.

the roses
died. little
shriveled
petals made a
path out of
our garden
and into a
graveyard.
our names on
the stones,
love me,
love me not.
an undoing,
of sorts. a
****** in
another.
said goodbye
too early,
buried the
bodies too
late.

you put your hands on me
like I am a church, a body
of worship, a home to confess
all your sins. write my
body like a poem, like a
confession, like you'll
find in me the verses of
redemption.

I am not your savior, not
a holy body. I am nothing
like salvation. I am the dark
place you only visit when
you're overrun with guilt
and rot and desperation.
I won't leave you feeling
clean, you'll leave me with
stains on your skin and ache
that will never empty.

comes out when you're
quiet, when you least
want her - fingers. claws.
the blood drips down
your thighs. the
rumbling of your
mind become shouts,
become cries. she feels
like drowning, she feels
like trying to pull yourself
out of a cement mixer.
feels like the rain and
hail and blocks
and blocks of locked
doors and blinds
pulled tight.

I said
goodbye
and you said
goodnight
thinking we
meant the
same thing.

I dream about magic.
about bending time
and undoing the strings
of mistakes that land
me here every night,
the ocean of regret
and longing.

I dream about the
drifting, the days
I spent pushing you
away and the night
I spent falling into
the wrong arms.

my favorite dream is the
one where we go to bed
together, where
we should have been
all along.

that's the dream. the
longing is the nightmare.

felt it in my bones,
the day I met you.
felt the air around us
vibrate a little bit,
like the universe
whispering in my ear,
welcome home.
swept me off my
feet, swept me out of
my mind. took me too
many silent screams,
too many apologies,
too many scars to realize
the universe wasn't
welcoming me, but
warning me. run, babe.
get out of there while
there's still some of
you left. took me
years to realize I wasn't
swept off my feet but
pulled down by the
undertow.

burned the
house down,
started with our bed.
shredded the pictures,
used our bones as
kindling. watched
the kerosene of
everything we
could have been
feed the flame.

I watch my life
turn to ash, watch
you desperately
cling to any little
piece that still
remains.