Everyday I hang myself
I nail myself
I staple myself to the wall

Everyday I bleed myself
I let myself
I rub my blood out in the hall

Everyday I hate myself
berate myself
I get out of bed and mandate myself
to update myself
to curate myself
Artist the **** up and create myself

Everyday I design myself
define myself
I put on my face and outline myself

Everyday I dissect myself
I correct myself
Take out my parts and infect myself

I change myself
rearrange myself
I paint all my organs and stain myself

Everyday I reword myself
martyr myself
Use the strings from the Beats to suture myself

I collect myself
Resurrect myself
My volition in life; to perfect myself

If I fail myself
derail myself
I'll have nothing but a cheap veil of myself;
a shattered bulb
a melted fuse
a pack of matches burned and used.

No supernova,
glory,
fame.
No concrete star,
with golden name.

Forgotten, faded,
dusty muse.
Mona Lisa,
cut and bruised.
My blood still smeared all down the hall,
my skin still nailed up to the wall.
My body scarred from mutilation,
mapped attempts at self-creation.
A jagged,
torn up,
constellation,
The Hero of Humiliation.

Don't we all fear failure's kiss?
For if you shoot
for the moon
and miss,
*you'll rot away in the abyss.

do you know when you've had a really long day, and you stop at the grocery store to buy dinner, and you don't really want to cook so you go to the deli section and you think, I could go for some cheese tonight, so you head to the fridge carousel and you pick up some cheddar and it says it's been aged for two years and it looks pretty tender and you think, This is some nice cheese, but as you put it in your basket you see another cheese and it's gouda and it's smoked and you think, Gouda? I hadn't even thought about gouda, so then you think about gouda and you start to notice all these other kinds of cheeses and you see that the gouda is lactose free and even though you're not lactose intolerant that somehow intrigues you, and you don't know a lot about cheese so you think maybe it's because gouda comes from goats not cows and then you think How come people aren't intolerant to goat's milk? so then you look back at the cheddar and now it doesn't seem so nice even though it's been aged for two years and it's pretty tender and you thought it was nice before, so then you put the cheddar back but as soon as you let it go you think What if I don't like gouda? and so you put the gouda down and now you're standing there by that refrigerated cheese carousel without a ******* thing in your hands and you get sort of sad all of a sudden and you wonder if you're ever going to pick a cheese and even if you do will it ever be the right cheese and suddenly you start to tear up but you think, No, I'm better than crying in a grocery store, so you pick up the cheddar again because trust your first gut right? and you pay for your cheese and you walk back to your car but as you sit there in the parking lot getting ready leave you realize that maybe it's not about the ******* cheese and it's never about the ******* cheese and maybe you don't even like the ******* cheese that much anyway and so you kind of scrub your fingers into your scalp and pull your hair and hit the steering wheel once or maybe twice and your cheeks are hot and wet and it's hard to see so you rub your eyes dry and when you look up there's an elderly asian man watching you freak out a little bit in your car by yourself, and so you slowly start your car and pull out of the parking lot and as you drive away you wonder if the elderly asian man ever cries and if he ever can't decide on a cheese and if he ever thinks that he doesn't even like cheese at all either.

Let's talk about a sunset.
Let's talk about an apricot smeared across the sky.
About the plum that leaks in around the edges
And the calm and excitement we feel
For the following night
And the dandelion morning that we call a ****.

It's those summer days you've been aching for since the first snow fall. Where it's too hot to move and there's nothing to do, so you sit, trying to prevent your body parts from touching each other. God forbid you make physical contact with another live human and your skin vacuum-seals together like warm glad wrap. I say live human because I actually imagine touching a corpse would be weirdly refreshing. Nice and cold. Stiff too, unlike everything else which gets insanely pliable in the heat.

You've woken up late because you stayed up later. Relishing the few cool hours before the sun starts rising again. That determined *******. Just give it a rest for a day, wouldya? Any rain is a blessing in this desert. But the ground seems to show off with how fast it can **** itself dry. ***** *****.

Your skin is tight from mosquito bites and a sun-scorch from the one day you dared venture out.

It was supposed to be fun by the water, but the lake seems a pitiful puddle in this heat. It's a heavy temperature, flaccid and draining. If you could, you'd do a rain dance or a cloud dance or a someone-bring-me-a-cold-beer dance. On second thought dancing would take energy and what little you have is reserved for collecting enough food that day to carry you to the next.

Your days are filled with movie theaters, shopping malls and anything with chilly walls and bottled water. If you're a girl you wonder why you put up with such long hair and if you're a guy you wish shaven bodies weren't so heavily mocked. You watch tv when you're bored though you can't stand it most of the time. Visions of Marineland and Ice Caps and the new Baskin-Robbins flavours dance in your head. Those childhood sugar plums are now dead.

Remembering that childhood, this season never seemed so hot. Why could your tiny body put up with it back then, but your supposed "mature self" is crying out of every pour? Salty, sticky tears. Your entire body like a skittle held in a child's hand for too long. Sweating out your colour and leaving part of yourself behind every time you touch a surface.

Without air-conditioning, your best friend is your oscillating fan. Every time the boiling air above you is stirred, you smile (inwardly of course, outward emotions are hard) before another layer of hot cotton settles down from an infinite source.

Fresh out of your forth icy shower you don't even bother with a towel, trying to keep the water on you for as long as possible. Your neighbour makes eye contact with your naked self through the window, but you can't even bring yourself to be ashamed, so you shrug awkwardly and walk away. You live in the thinnest, smallest clothes you own, sometimes opting to simply wear your bed sheet as your wardrobe.

When you do wear clothes, you pour more water in your t-shirt than your mouth and when your friend calls to say "how's it going?" you just laugh weakly. A series of dares challenging each other to cross the outdoor furnace to come visit ensues, knowing perfectly well neither of you will live up to it.

It's like this for days, weeks, months. Until one day a leaf turns yellow then red and falls to the ground and before long it's covered with snow and the air is so cold it hurts to breathe and all you want is a hot summer day with long hours full of short sitcoms and sweat and so much sun you fear the world's going to melt.

This is the season of heat. This is summer.

Last night I witnessed the deterioration of our current generation. Talks of shots and girl's tight tops, which beats are sick, which beers have hops.

A dance floor full of bodies doing nothing more than rocking; simply swaying back and forth letting their bare skin do the talking.

Girls are laughing loudly, flirting dumbly without pride. Boys are softly grabbing, trying hard to get inside.

I'm not under the impression that a club is good for sessions of intensive conversation; but there's a line of crossed digression 'tween a dance or delicatessen and if these young kids don't lessen their completely bared obsession with finding a *** connection I fear loss of life, regression and required intercession so we may stop this great depression and procede with the progression of these young children's ascension to the spiritual dimension.

They owe it to themselves to see there's more to life than spells of boredom bleached by alcohol and music loud and dollar bills spent carelessly on swaying wills of little girls who get their thrills all fully spilled out of tight clothes and popping compact coloured pills.

And as I danced to pulsing beat, seeing all eyes know not discreet, feeling an overwhelming stream; an ocean trying to break free, behind the dammed up river beds all dried up in the drunken heads, I felt much higher, even hallowed, for while you're playing in the shallows, I know exactly where I'll be, diving into the open sea.

Do you ever wake up and feel like anything is possible?

As if anything you decide to do that day is the right thing. The perfect thing. You can make no wrong choices. You could get hit by a car and it would be the best thing to ever happen to you, because it happened today.

You decide to wander around the city where you've live. Where you've lived for years, but now, today, you see the place as a newcomer. A tourist in your own town. Every building beckons, and what better one to visit first than the bookstore?

Everyday should start with a trip to the bookstore, you think.

The small shop is full of staff recommendations and ratings from the internet. Every cover tempts you. They all seem so ******* interesting. You want to pick them up and eat them whole. Digest them all at once. This reminds you that you'll never have enough time to read everything, but instead of bleak, this prospect seems romantic. It means that every book you do get to read is much sweeter. And it's cool, because you get to join the book's club. The story becomes the common denominator between you and a bunch of strangers who've also read it.

There's a woman working at the book store. She talks to you about Thailand and this yoga retreat she just returned from. It sounds beautiful. She's beautiful. So beautiful in fact, you think she may be the most beautiful person you've ever seen. That's nice.

You leave the book store with nothing, as it's too overwhelming to try and pick a book, and it was enough just to look at them.

On the street you notice everyone seems as perfect as the woman did. Flawless. Whole. With their experiences carried on their shoulders, bursting through their eyes and spun into the palms of their hands. Everyone has a million little moments, memories and ideas all caught up in their hair and tucked into their pockets.

And they bring all of these moments into every interaction they have. Everyone who meets you sees you slightly differently. Because when they speak to you, they don't see you simply as you are in this moment. That's how an infant would see you. No, an adult sees you compared to the last person they spoke to, you become tinged with the taste of someone they know who has your same name. They see you with a hint of hatred because your eyes look like their ex-girlfriend's, or they adore you immediately because you said hello the way their father does. Do you understand? When you meet someone, you're meeting their entire life. All of their experiences bundled up and traveling around on two legs. Every interaction unwittingly influenced by all of their predetermined notions and assumptions.

So. Here, you've realized this overwhelming awesome fact. Which you don't really know how to explain, but when you try you find yourself saying things like; "It's like we can't ever really know anyone, you know?" or "When was the last time you cried?" or "I hope I see her again." but in the end you don't mind if you don't. See her, I mean. You don't mind that you'll never see the woman again.  Like maybe she and you were only supposed to have that moment in the bookstore. Just a flash of personality in each others day. A random face that will show up in a dream two years from now. And when you wake up you'll wonder if she dreamt of you too.

That would be ok. That would be good. Because if nothing else, it's nice to be dreamt about now and then. Yes, you think, that would be enough.

We will live like smoke. Free and flowing and forever changing. Shaped by the wind and carried by invisible powers. Love will lift us, trust will twist us, energy will enter us and in the dark assist us. We will be tendrils tumbling smooth. Never captured never controlled. If people were fire, you'd be a pyre and we'd be the sparks in the wind.

      We will live like shooting stars. Bright and surprising and ever-enticing. Burned in your sight so even when you close your eyes we shine. When you sleep we will soar, when you're wishing for more, t'will be us that you see out your window.

      We will live like dragons of old. The legends become us, and we become told. You'll hear of our ventures, 'How daring!' 'How bold!', but your eyes only glisten with the flash of fool's gold. We dragons have secrets to uplift your soul, we can strip off your shackles and let wings unfold. If only you'll listen to tales gone untold, we whisper the truth; You're being controlled.

      Just like the mice who are trapped in a maze, you sense out your prize and move on your way. But all routes have been found, to keep you contained, and though down on the ground, you feel unafraid, if you look up and around, you can see that you're caged.

      Even our paper has lines there to rule us, but essence and vapor have no need for cruel 'must'. So if you find out that the chains are unjust, remember that even iron can rust.

      A word of advice, for those who revoke, do not fear fire, once you've awoke. There's no hidden danger, dagger or cloak; For it is us Dragons, that live in the smoke.

There's a poem hidden on my tongue
but I just can't find it,
my mouth is numb.

I've been sipping on winter for way too long,
this city is colder than your bubbler ****;

but I like the way it's one way streets all seem to lead from you to me,
and I like how you take them at full throttle
playing marco polo with the bottom of the bottle-

-As if you don't find it every night;
like the last few drops aren't your lullaby.

And it's an alibi that lulls you out of lucidity,
because your favourite superpower is anonymity.

And you don't mind if I show up when I'm ******* high,
because I'm a ******* child who can't handle life.

I'm the peak of the mountain all covered in white,
I'm the age old dragon,
I'm the youthful sprite

I'm the bowl that you smoke when you come down slowly,
I'm the pipe that you **** when you got no rollies.

I'm your vice, I'm your habit, I'm your bad addiction
I'm your fight, I'm your project, I'm your real life fiction.

I'm the cut on your tongue that you won't let heal,
I'm the poem in your mouth that you cannot feel.

Now I'm the lover of your discontent,
I'm the jar in your cupboard that's labelled 'rent'.

It's the 26th and the jar's still empty,
but we've got a two-six and your pouring hand's heavy.

Using whisky and water as lubrication-
it numbs and smooths through our expectations.

And I don't know when we made the agreement to feed our ***** and starve our feelings,
But my belly feels full like the waxing moon,
and my chest holds as much as a fractured spoon.

*Naked and hungry-
we share your bed
-searching for the words, in each other's heads.

I throw paper cranes out the window
of my bedroom in the sky
On them I have written
all the reasons why

The wings will tell you
why I smile
The beak speaks of why I sigh
In the eyes you'll learn
why my soul burns
and the tail tells of why I write

I loose these birds
with feathered words,
hoping that they'll fly home true
For the paper folds that I have stole
used to grow from your front spruce

And I wish one day
you'll sit and sway
on your swing of rubber hoop
and from nigh on high
a bird will fly
out of the crystal blue
and you'll learn of all the reasons why
I do the things I do
For on the crane
is a single phrase;
"because darling, I love you"

I stopped bragging about my vices when
you reminded me that I existed before my addictions.

I stopped blaming love for knowing me falsely when I realized that I had never really met it before.

I realized that my obsessions ran shallow because I thought that it would be hard to quit them,
but it was harder to hold back
eternity;
the infinite moments that I felt
had existed
before I did.

As though the love I have for you was
pre-
determined
pre-
ordained
pre-
ternaturally formed.

As if the way I had organized my messy human emotions into neat little
boxes
   &
lines
had all been an errand to occupy my mind.

Before I loved you-
I loved escaping.

Any window
or stairway
or back-alley-path

that I could shimmy-down sideways
and avoid
things like

small talk
or
free verse
or
early mornings,

were the lanes I would dwell in,
hide in,
reside in.

But when I'm with you-
and when I'm without you-
(because now you permeate everything I do)
everything that I do is tinged with you;
Your colour
Your contrast
Your pigment
Your hue.

As if you are a light ray that I can now see,
my spectrum has gained the most beautiful wave.

And in this ultraviolet light,
the

small talk
and
free verse
and
early mornings

are sort of
breathtaking.

I say sort of, because while I gasp, you give me air.

And how can I choke when my heart's already gone?

When my skin is electric and my soul is
on fire

like some sort of creature that's been born from the flames.

And everything I thought that I needed
has now been
erased
and
replaced
and
preceded

by this uncontrollable urge
to eat you
alive
to have you
inside
to *** when
you die.

And this monster that you've made of me is hungry
and *****
and cannot concentrate on anything but
you

And I swear to God
or the grave
(and really, they're the same)
that if I love you any more
I will be ruptured in two
which would leave me a quarter of a person
because I'm only whole when I'm with you.

Like the four-legged beings that Zeus ripped apart-

I've searched for you always
I've searched for your heart.

will you live with me in poverty?
will you stay with me till broke?

will you take my hand and walk with me?
will you hate that I still smoke?

will you let me buy my cigarettes
when it’s them or food to eat

will you let me dodge my student debt?
will you help me steal and cheat?

will you let me write on anything?
even our own ***?

will you hold me down and call my name?
will you be my worst regret?

will you tie your fingers in my hair
on the nights that I can’t sleep

can you watch strange films with me?
can you stand my brazen cheek?

will you run away when I get scared?
will you stay here when I go?

will you judge my nasty vices dear?
will you laugh at all my jokes?

can I bite your neck all night
can I wear your clothes


do you mind that I can’t cook a thing?
do you mind that I can’t even sing?
do you care that I can’t stand myself?
do you think that I’m an easy fling?


Will you leave me when I do too much
or will you hold me while I shake

will you let me wear more ink than cloth?
will you hunt the demons that I’ve got?

will you help me **** my darlings true?
will you love me when my beauty’s through?

will you hold my skin while it rots off?
will you drink my blood when it’s got clots?

will you cut me open when I’m dead?
will you share for free what I have said?

will you keep my heart in a glass jar?
will you sell my teeth at a bizarre?

will you read my bones to know your fate?
will you let my innards dress your cake?

Will you take all that I’ve ever done
and show it to the midnight sun
can you leave me lying on the ice
so I never know true paradise

For I want to wander this ****** place
until your body’s in decay
and when you can’t stand another day
I’ll deliver your sweet coupe de grace

There is a lady like a crayon and she's melting in the rain
She's moldy yellow, streaked and mellow,
drifting down the drain.

But as her fattened thigh hits tide,
she pulls up from the gutter
Out she gets a cigarette,
and a lighter that just sputters.

Standing sadly, dank and dreary,
she flicks her bic again,
a yellow candle without flame,
a waxy tower of chins.

With luck a tiny fire sprite
wakes up to light her smoke,
and there the crayon lady stands
like slimy, shaky yolk.

She covers up her cigarette and forgets about herself,
Her thin hair runs in gross grey lines
down her bosomed shelf.

Like a lemon with grey mold on top
she teeters to and fro,
disgusting people passing by,
with her extra citron growth.

But the lady takes no notice for
She's got a game to play;
to finish off her cigarette
before she melts away.

doesn't this city just make you want to break things
doesn't this city just make you ******* hate things
doesn't this city just make you want to run
want to invest
in a knife
or a gun

don't all these people just drive you insane
and don't all these people always ask your name
just to forget
in a sec-ond
why they even came

into this world,
for shame
for shame

and wasn't it just the other ******* day
that you thought to yourself

maybe I can escape

and wasn't it just
the other ******* day
you told yourself

I can break the **** away

but here you are in the same **** place

and here you are
losing the rodent race.

because money is tight
and morals are loose

and who gives a single ****,
if their neck's in a noose

I mean, baby, or *******,
all these little games,
come on baby,
my *******
we're wasting away

bourbon,
no-
whiskey
the devil in a drink

he pulls me straight past hades,
to deeper depths I sink

And it's the scars that you can't see
that run the ******* deepest

and who are you to say
I shouldn't ******* drink this

How dare you look at me
and say I shouldn't smoke,

I look at you-
and encourage you to choke.

skip me, shun me
never touch me,
don't give in to my rushed lusting

bend me, break me
just forsake me,
leave me to my wild chasings

lose me, leave me
don't believe me,
when I say you'd get me screaming

haunt me, flaunt me
mock and taunt me,
tell the world you'll never want me

grab me, stab me
never have me,
tell me how you cannot stand me

fry me, tie me
crucify me,
leave me cuffed up; hang and dry me

beat me, bruise me
over-use me,
*****, abuse and tear into me

throw me, *******
get below me,
show me how you'll never stroke me

rip me, **** me
tongue and take me,
come inside and rearrange me

cut me, gut me
shame and **** me,
rip my heart out while you **** me

kick me, ditch me
pull-unstitch me,
spread my limbs and leave me twitching

tie me, lye-formaldehyde me,
out of sight and out of mind me,
live your life while I am dying,
pray no one will ever find me.

You look good with the lights real low
You look good when the music's slow
Tell me how you speak such prose
When all you do is say hello

You smell sweet in the summer rain
And you sound hot when you spit disdain

You curve my mind when you bend your back
and you give me what my body lacks

You feel like butter on my skin
You taste like cake when it's baked real thin

You look real cute when you're smoking soft
You look so nice when your clothes are off

Turn me into what you see
Cuz I can't tell what you see in me

I'm falling here into your hair
Soft and light like kindling fare

It's odd and sweet how you look so sour
When I come home too late an hour

It's crazy how you drive me sane
It's hazy how you clear my brain

Baby I'm just lying here
Wishing you were coming near
Hoping that you'll head my way
From your dimension out in space

Dazzle though, you have your place
and I'll just lie in shadows wait

Fractured prism glitter gleam
like a trick of light off a crystal peak;
You're nothing but a fleeting dream
A puff of smoke;
Dispersing steam

my name is lillith and I just want a cup of coffee and a ripe avocado and for people to answer their cell phones when you call and movies not to lose their imagination halfway through and purses to be big enough to fit a book inside and for people to stop singing songs from Frozen and I want to wake up when the sun is shining and go to bed when the moon is out and to write in a notebook that reminds me of myself and to drive fast on a straight road by a glittering ocean and every day I want to work up a sweat and an appetite and an eagerness to dream and really I don't think I'm asking for too much in fact I think we should all ask for a little bit more especially from ourselves and definitely for others and I could go on but what's the point in making lists if you never cross an item off

Here;
Take it;
No, don't speak;
I can hear it now;

You shouldn't have done it.
I can't take this.
What have I done to earn this gift?

Well if I told you what you mean to me;
You'd roll your eyes in disbelief;
If I said the words, You're my everything,
you've already heard all those schoolgirl's strings;
If I say that you have stolen my heart;
I would be lying, for I gave you that part;
If I swore to you that you complete my soul;
You'd laugh for all of the girls you've made whole;

So to prove to you that I haven't misruled;
I've taken my essence, and made it a jewel;
I've taken my words and my thoughts and my self;
and I've turned it in-to a small diamond of wealth;
It is this that I give you in my being wishful;
that you'll make out of rope and leather, a crystal-
pendant you'll wear 'til the end of all days;
for my self is contained in that violet haze;

Don't speak and don't shake for if you refuse;
It's all of my spirit that you will abuse;
This is the only gift I can give;
And I give it to you, the reason I live;

So take it and wear it and carry me close;
for it is my soul that does swing on that rope.

I love the rattle of bones in my head.
The tumbling pieces of some intricate being that hasn’t been created yet. Smooth details rolling around each other searching for the perfect fit. Different sections that want order;
come together; don’t make sense,
rearrange; indiscernible,
once again; ah!
At last,
They are a skeleton.

I can smell the cigarettes.
I haven't smoked in days
But I can smell the cigarettes
in between your legs.

I can taste the coke cut up,
running down my throat.
I can smell the cigarettes,
even with no smoke.


I can see an image of
a woman lying bare
I can see the ink she's buried
underneath her hair

***** becomes public when
we let ourselves believe
that smoking isn't bad for you.
that you will never leave.

if I could capture
you
and me
if I could capture
what
you see
if I could capture
the
capturing

I'd capture-keep,
the
long legs/
black hair/
smoke suspended in the air

a cat with whiskers wiser than/
the man who's broken eggs again

the shells that feed the mystery
because WHO THE **** COOKS EGGS AT MIDNIGHT
and I swear to god if one more person looks at me seductively
I'll rip apart the
leather jackets
jean vests
studded flannels
studded chests

because life just never seems as good/
as retrospectively.

as looking back on someone else's/
frozen memories.

and the worst-best part of everything
is when it seems so real,
that you could become one of them
if only you could feel.

You
       take my hand and lead me
into the fire

You
       put your hand on my back
                                          and push me
into the dark

I
  touch your arm
                          and ask
how you feel

I
take my place
                    by your waist
and I kneel

I am folding beneath you.
I am losing my shape.
I am fighting to breathe
             with little gasps
         fighting to speak
              with tiny murmurs

I am holding onto you
                                 while the rest of me
                          falls away.