11 pounds lighter. 3 shades more red. Dreaming of something opposite of death. Really sleeping again. Running. Showing teeth. Using my all-time-favorite pens. Listening loudly. Slowly moving in to the world. Feeling skin. Warming my cold hands. Reconciling with the body. Complimented. Coming. Reassured. Sorry, but for once, not for myself. Watching someone watch. Thankful for this life.

it was last night when
the first
favorite memories of you
climbed
into my head.

summer's sweat
above your lip.

subtle stubble
on your chin.

bold shoulders
forever bare
in tattered shirts.

thighs stuck
to ***** bar booths.

and johnny cash
on the juke.

they called us
lovebirds
every night

just because
of the look
in our eyes.

Life is better than it used to be. But in a different way. She doesn’t feel lonely, like she used to, but she does feel lost which she never did before. She spends her days with books and tv shows; she likes their constant comfort. She drinks on most nights. It helps with the pain in her chest because she can’t seem to forget how much she still wants him.

She tells herself she’s damaged goods, a throw-away. ***** helps slow that down, too. Unemployment never seemed like it could be so hard, she thinks, but never, ever says out loud. People hate her for her jobless yet decent lifestyle. They call it laziness, but she knows different. It’s called aimlessness… purposelessness. Just trying to trudge on.

She goes on week-long benders with a boy. For five days, all they taste is ******* and being ******, glass bottles of ***** (because he likes that too), and fast food (delivered because they’re bedridden) if one of them remembers hunger. It’s films and television and long, long talks about anything sad and bursts of tears that dried up years ago.

After it’s over—only because he actually is employed—she walks around the house, dizzy from being in bed for days. There’s only trash and rotting food, empty bottles, all on the ground, covering every surface in the house. The air has a stench that she’s used to by now: a colorful mix of un-scooped cat ****, open cans of cat food, spilled drinks, lingering smells of **** or **** or sweat.

Even two days after, she can still smell his come inside her. She smells it with her fingers after taking plan B for the third time that month, though, mostly she doesn’t keep count anymore. She wonders if she’ll still be fertile when she’s ready for kids. She wonders if she’ll ever find someone to have children with now that he’s gone.

There are bruises on her wrists in the same spots, reflecting each other. They’re red then purple then the impression of his teeth fades. This is because she likes that. To be bitten. Hard. And hit, in the head, until her ears ring. Hit on the ***, where she also has four stretched out marks from a hand. She likes to be cut—stomach, arms (old habit), legs—but many lovers are too timid or concerned, so she takes the steak knife or the wine opener and makes them watch, softly saying, “Like this.” Sometimes they’re not afraid after that.

A day comes once a week when she decides it's time to stop drinking. To make herself available to the ache of her insides and outsides. The heartbreak and loneliness and love, still the main components of her soul. And there's also the awareness that she is entirely grateful for the ****** boy and his kindnesses. His honesty. His openness. Kisses. Hugs. Advice. For a week she's sober, trying Whole ******* 30, exercising, dealing with all the thoughts. Watching tv and reading for their comfort, trying to look ahead.

she breaks
boys
accidentally,
easily;
like
she breaks
the spines
of
books.

I am a ******-obsessed freak. I am a violent-craving ****. I am a drunk-tryna quit, I’m a lying-******’ *****. I’m a taken-cheating mess, I’m a speed-owned shell. I am a crazy-raging ease. I’m a selfish little *****. I’m a drifting-airhead ****. I’m a full-on sack of ****. I am a rotten-pussied tease, I am an all-day-lazy dude. I’m a fowl-mouthed lady, I’m a streaking stripping girl. I’m a pushy-fast-paced date, I’m a no-date kinda gal.

i did not know you
as the kind of man
to see
bleeding holes
and sing loudly
of defeat

without the sound of rain she is lazy. without the taste of *****, she's

awkward. without a tan, too pale; without a page to turn,

lonely. without a song to hear she is calm. with no party, she is her

own. without a shower, she's disgusting. without blindness, she's

cute in those glasses. without food she looks like she should eat,

and with no lover,

she is sort of lost. without a smile, she seems depressed. without

kissing she is ***** and with no bra she is a ****. without laughter

she is bored. without the ability to remember, she is thankful, as well

as naive. without the ocean she is suffocated, with no future she is

trapped. and without hope, she is most hopeful; without herself, she

is a shell.

does it happen in silence, with no one noticing until the time is up, or does it happen so loudly all other worldly sounds drown out?

does it go quickly? or slow enough to hurt for years?

does it leave behind hints of its sweetness, between the pages of books, woven in with the sheets, slipping through the saddest of dreams?

when love leaves, who does it leave behind?

inside the house
right on the couch.
lips apart
and a stone-cold heart.
replaying the kiss
from a face
i can't miss.

the freeway was loud, screaming below their feet, truck drivers at 80 and up, the west coast late night norm. higher decibels made them feel more properly hidden taking bumps from the bag, and she sniffed in and thought of how she wasn't expecting this night, but she was lonely, hopeful, a wreck. he sniffed harder and he tugged down on his hat, realizing just how unprepared he was for the way she looked at him.

chocolate chip cookies
2% milk
and a pint of smirnoff.
must be good
to be me
right now.


crates full of clothes
blank walls, naked nails
living with a ghost.
must be tough
your life
unwinding this way.

On hot nights


he dreams of me


Holding his heart


in my hands

there are boys
whose names
i don't remember.

not because
i can't,
only because
i don't.

there are boys
whose names
i can't forget.

not because
i don't,
only because
i can't.

when i was lost

you taught the trees

to speak

so they could guide me

until

the sun

came up

there is
a           mess
about her,

fluttering
towards  open

    space.


writhing

below pale
skin,

refusing to sit

so structurally,
so secured

in flesh.


wildly
           bending
and      swelling,


becoming

the
           savage


she so calmly
swears

isn’t there.











*-MJS

Swallow swallow swallow swallow

**** **** ****.

Come *** come ***

**** **** ****.

A black truck parked backwards with its cocky ******* wheels makes me *****.
Makes me scared, takes me there.
Brick,
rough on hands,
the violent shaking,
sounds of a plastic grocery bag ripped away.

Who knew,
years later,
I'd be spending my free time in this place?

Memories I try to forget
but know deeply
I'll always need to hold.

In love with these visions, like, "Thank you wet nurse,
I still cry for you!"

Just when, exactly, and why,
did my eyes begin to see the past? When did life
start spinning down the *******?

I'll tell you when
and exactly
why.

It was hail. And because I wore sweat pants. On April 14th. And because of those cigarettes, stupid god ****** cigarettes. And definitely plastic bags, ones that end up killing unsuspecting innocent sea creatures while they're swimming through the waves.

There’s a fan but no air

There’s books but no words

A someone but no consciousness

A comfy bed but no sleep

One box of tissues.

Plus half a box for being ugly.

Two bottles of Tito’s
A1) Totally dry
A2) About 1/3 left.

Three is that there’s too much of everything so I’m not gonna count anymore.

There was a scarf over his open eyes and her stomach seemed emptier than the icky yellow walls of her new apartment. A bottle being kicked outside echoed glassy sharp sounds, hard against cement, and it was probably 11:47 am. Staying awake for 48 hours was harder than she remembered, but not harder than she realized. It was the same for staying faithful, although, that wasn’t really true.

Joy

is hard to define

So don’t.

I cleaned today and un-tied a simpson’s themed scarf, a belt, and a checkered shoelace. I had to cut the shoelace with scissors though because the knot was too tight. When there isn’t rope, other long things we keep around the house, like these, become rope, and are used to hold my legs or wrists in place, usually both.
I organized my nightstand drawer and sorted pills by color and size. There were some really, really, small purple ones that fell out of a broken bottle. There were three gigantic ones that my doctor told me to finish, “even if it didn’t feel like I had an ear infection anymore.”
I washed my sheets for the first time in weeks and when I carried them down the stairs I could smell their stink. I get sweaty in my sleep even though the nightmares tapered off months ago. At 3:07 last night we woke up because we thought I wet the bed, which I do from time to time, so it's hard to tell the difference.

I am sweating in drops and he must be sticking to the couch. I bite his chest and his fingers feel like a dance on the back of my neck. Our mouths touch one another-- like soft, like protection; like sharp, like *******. We're still for minutes but my eyes are sprinting through his whole life eighty times over. This is a very big feeling. I think this is what it means to make love.

when he kissed me it felt like a plea. i could taste the ginger in my throat. when i kissed back it looked like a mountain. A certainly steep one i once hiked in oregon.

My chest is a hollow drum with skin
pulled over the top
trying to pass as alive.
It’s so loud
it makes the bugs
crawl back into the floor.

My nails are excerpts
that recall short spans of calm.
Breaking so often
that the only stuff left to bite
is bone.

My mouth is an independent
inborn system.
Swallowing
and ******* up the clues
to my own life.

My cup is the real Holy Grail
filled high with *****.
And for now
it’s enough.

Yes, yes, I can hear what you're saying. You keep talking, even when I burrow under my covers like an animal. Even when I close into myself like a bloodroot plant.

I'm sick of ******* smiling when all I want to do is rip up this carpet and dig a hole through the wood and the brick and the dirt and climb in and hide.

Would you let me be, let me rest where my deepest degrading voices are hushed? Your words would finally be gone and I'd be buried with dirt in my lungs, but it would feel better than being back there.

Five minutes would come and you'd snap from the loneliness and its awful cry. You'd shovel until your knuckles bled. You'd pull me out of my ***** nirvana and sit me up, and your eyes would look soft but I know your lips would not be. You'd do all this just to wake me up and shake me and tell me it was All My Fault. You'd hold my mouth open while you spat down my throat. You'd scream new songs for me to sing.

The skin near my eyes would burn from the salt and I would swallow your sounds. There'd be a kiss or we'd ****, or maybe you'd play with my hair while saying you loved me. But the whole time I'd be wishing my soul had stayed in the ground, covered in dirt, defeated and in the dark.

In the morning
There was blood in the bed.
I thought maybe it was a dream
But then you're awake
and the sun is bright through the blinds
and your heart is still shouting his name.
I wish I could say it wasn't real.
I wish it didn't hurt today,
Saying I love you.
But truth is a starved dog
Just off its chains.
Can't ******* wait
To sink its teeth
Into anything that thrives.
It's gonna clench its jaw
Until you're blue,
Right when you thought you knew everything.
And you'll be left
Sleeping with eyes open
Because you were wrong
To think
You had it so good.

white delight is a hard train seat, a ***** shirt, and used dishes in the sink. it is hot water in a dark tub; the animal in your arms; the empty bottles over there. white delight is pure and quick but also slow. it shows up late and stays, most times, too long. white delight is the taste of bleeding lips; it is the sound of a voice whispering a name. white delight is a family's past and a greeting's future. it is the feeling of hands on skin in bed. it is the twang in the truck; the distance of cities; the beating heart of every lover ever loved.

Admiring the past
Belonging to the bottle
Cowering behind written word
Down my throat you go
Enough to make them gag
Feeling lonely, new, and lost
Growing in reverse
Hoping for rebirth
Inside, I am hollow
Just waiting to be filled
Killing myself slowly, but it feels so warm
Let love find me here
Maybe someone new
None other than him, even now
Only that gapped smile, with me on this couch
Pulling me back
Questioning mistakes
Recovery     can     be slow
Still, I wake up every day
Talk to me, I dare you
Until wasted eyes are shut
Vows I took, I broke, 100 times again
Ways I want to forget
X amount of times I've tried
You will grow, please know you can be more

i found your bicycle key,

iron black rusted

heavier than ones I own,

a nice weight to my frame

i was going to toss it,

along with other older things


of
                                                           ­           here


but it looked at me through stain,

like the way i saw you leave

i'm not sad yet,

i know i will be

so i’ll keep it around my neck,

the part you said


tastes sweetest in your mouth

White line, bare bridge, small talk, smoke.
Two nights, bloodshot, park bench,
toast. Dead girls, dead rose, swing set, laugh.
Our clothes, this day, street kids, trash.
Bed time, still strung, sit still,
move. Your arm, my mouth, my goal,
proved.  

Inhale, late bar, clear ****, down. Breathe out,
too much, cut’s blood, brown.
Thigh highs, hide thighs, bad mood, ***.
Taught tongues, dark room, light sleep,
none. No sound, turned down,
sharp teeth, moan.
Long lies, said truth, ropes tied,
known.



**This piece is a mimic exercise based on Saeed Jones' poem, Thralldom II, from his book, "Prelude to Bruise."

I had a friend once say in passing conversation that the best writing is spawned from the love making of heavy drug use and light sleep. Light as in none, none as in absolute zero. I guess I got it then, but I think I’m getting closer to it now.






- 2014

I am the deflating doll in the back of the closet. I sit, stuffed under mops and ***** buckets, right next to their secret infidelities.
I belong to the community; my plastic, airy skeleton is marked with many fingerprints; my froze-open mouth knows the shapes to fold to, going along with each individual's perfect kiss.
If I were real I’d leave this life behind. I’d find a mate and we’d sit in sunlight every day. But tonight I’m still a doll, an object made to please, and now another boy is knocking at my door.

It pulls me
by the leash
we bought together
some years ago.

Which cuts into
my neck’s thin skin--
            Too tight!
yanking me down alleys,
up cement stairs,
through humid, hot-boy bars.

Even when I see blood
running
down
the cloth,
I refuse to fight back.

That city
trained me
not to disobey.

When I return to bed
on the other side of the world,
there’s lots of sweat
and wonderfully violent dreams
that feel as familiar
as waving goodbye.

Which,
ironically--
           sigh,
my city and I
are incapable of doing.