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Sep 2017 · 108
MOLDY PEACH
MJ Sep 2017
If my ******'s rotten


Then your **** is Father Time








*- so there
Aug 2017 · 152
In the Mood for Stripping
MJ Aug 2017
Do you wish to see my body?
I will gladly strip
Each piece of clothing
No censorship


Do you care to see my insides?
I can really hack
Peeling back my skin
Can be your new soundtrack
Aug 2017 · 125
a nightmare
MJ Aug 2017
On hot nights


he dreams of me


Holding his heart


in my hands
Aug 2017 · 123
Boys
MJ Aug 2017
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.
Aug 2017 · 287
(RESULTS MAY VARY)
MJ Aug 2017
courage

&  terror

burn

below

her fiery

flesh.
Aug 2017 · 1.1k
partner
MJ Aug 2017
when i was lost

you taught the trees

to speak

so they could guide me

until

the sun

came up
Aug 2017 · 4.4k
Beneath
MJ Aug 2017
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
May 2017 · 241
Life
MJ May 2017
Swallow swallow swallow swallow

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

Come *** come ***

**** **** ****.
May 2017 · 332
Pisces Baby
MJ May 2017
Listen, and I'll tell you a story. Listen, and maybe you'll put it together; that puzzle you see when you look in the mirror. I swear, you were once beautiful and good. I swear, you need to know what happened.

Probably in 1991 your parents made love or ****** or whatever they were doing, however they felt, and you were born the next year in March. Childhood was so easy and kind, because your family had stable amounts of money and they loved you, even when you acted badly.

When you were 15 a boy, who will remain unnamed, turned you sick-in-love for the first and worst time, and kissed you, then promptly took your virginity. That was the few of many ***** steps you'd take with him. And later you'd take more on your own.

You moved to Chicago your sophomore year because you were lucky enough to go to college, and there you were happy, and there you were not.

One day a man dragged you by the throat into a garage, which is where he pulled off your pants and put himself inside you. You were 22 when this happened, and it swallowed you whole, not ******* you out for another three years.

You wanted to become a kind of writer, but for unknown reasons you served other people drinks and food at an overly-priced pub, 14 minutes within walking distance from where you slept. It suits me, you used to think.

And there were lots of days and nights you had to remind yourself to breathe, but there were lots of dreams and nightmares that told you hold your breath.
May 2017 · 213
Places VS Faces
MJ May 2017
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.
Apr 2017 · 240
zero gravity
MJ Apr 2017
There’s a fan but no air

There’s books but no words

A someone but no consciousness

A comfy bed but no sleep
Apr 2017 · 184
Untitled
MJ Apr 2017
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.
Apr 2017 · 216
equivocator
MJ Apr 2017
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.
Apr 2017 · 271
04182017
MJ Apr 2017
Joy

is hard to define

So don’t.
Apr 2017 · 500
Day of Chores
MJ Apr 2017
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.
unfinished.
Apr 2017 · 188
Untitled
MJ Apr 2017
A violent dance
of destructive passion
it's all within
so hard to hold the bliss in
**** it though,
let's go get wasted
Hopefully I can
show you how soft
my taste is

I laughed so hard
my heart is racing
keep going, going
there is no pacing
She's so close, so close
I need some spacing

It's over now,
it's come and gone
My life still,
it stumbles on
It's Always darkest
Before the dawn
Written by Tyson Smith, published by me.
MJ Mar 2017
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.
Mar 2017 · 210
closing shifts
MJ Mar 2017
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.
MJ Mar 2017
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.
MJ Feb 2017
Yes, yes, I can hear what you're saying. You keep talking, even when I burrow under my covers like a rabbit. Even when I close into myself like a bloodroot plant. After my cheeks are welting and puffing like a sad person's face.

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: LONELINESS
and it's awful cry. You'd shovel until knuckles bled. You'd pull me out of my ***** nirvana and sit me up, and your eyes would look soft but I'd 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. (they always get hit because they asked for it.) You'd hold my mouth open while you spat down my throat. You'd scream new songs for me to swallow.  

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, deaf and defeated and dark.
Jan 2017 · 253
Resting Eyes
MJ Jan 2017
I won't ever have those hips or *******
but I'll forever have these scars.

9? 60? 23?
You were there when I quit counting,
all the times I tried to throw away the pills.

I taped my eyes closed as we kissed,
you promised me you'd shut yours too.

Well somehow it worked.

Both of us were blind to the taste and shade of blood
and one day, you loved me

the same day I realized
you were staring the whole time.
Dec 2016 · 379
Dog Fight
MJ Dec 2016
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.
Dec 2016 · 222
Part One
MJ Dec 2016
There’s a girl who wears a white dress. She’s not really a girl any more; she just likes to be called that. “Girl.” She likes the way it makes her sound less responsible for the pain she’s caused and the things she regrets. Girl has worn the same dress since the innocent age of 15. The fabric used to be as white as hour-old cotton, blooming under hot sun and some rain, but the years of Girl’s life didn’t show mercy on the dress, and it’s now the shade of smokers' teeth with scattered splotches of colored stains all over, like spilled paints. When she stands in the mirror, she sees the stains, and sometimes feels ashamed. Girl remembers where and when each was made, even the oldest of them all. The first stain she ever got was red. It was also the first day she wore the dress; it was the day she first was ******. Another patch, down low, is made from dirt and salt and blood, and Girl certainly knows, and never forgets, that it was born the day baby was not.
Dec 2016 · 200
A Feeling
MJ Dec 2016
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.
This piece is an imitation of Mary Ruefle's untitled piece in her book, "My Private Property."
Nov 2016 · 258
Z
MJ Nov 2016
Z
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
Oct 2016 · 433
Like Strawberries For Blood
MJ Oct 2016
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
Sep 2016 · 245
Love, Cake (2012)
MJ Sep 2016
Licking the pride from your mouth
you say you wish
I’d drive off a cliff

Your beautiful voice
choking up such
hideous words
they dig into my skin like needles
every day

Have a good life
spending all your time
in your mother’s company

When will you realize
you can’t have your cake
and **** it, too?
Sep 2016 · 859
The Art of Togetherness
MJ Sep 2016
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."
This piece is a mimic exercise based on Saeed Jones' poem, Thralldom II, from his book, "Prelude to Bruise."
Sep 2016 · 210
when chris began to write
MJ Sep 2016
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
Sep 2016 · 259
Waitress
MJ Sep 2016
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.
Sep 2016 · 206
Four Days in Chicago
MJ Sep 2016
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.
Aug 2016 · 166
E y e s
MJ Aug 2016
like ones

I wished to see

meeting mine

through my face
down my spine

they never did
no matter
the shape
I made

so those before
they watched me fade

I glow now
when ours get stuck

his are the ones

open me up!
Jul 2016 · 378
Geranium Birth
MJ Jul 2016
Usually I write when I am sad; for that is my inspiration, like your writings about death, and that’s it: the secret to writing is depression, sadness, loss, pain-- isn’t it?--and you make me want to write, but I can’t because I haven’t been sad, I’ve been content in this healing process, while the scar on my right cheekbone fades from swollen red to flat cherry, my mind fades from paranoid-obsessed to tranquil-normal, and you are a large part of that softening.

I want to write about us and you and this new chapter of my life, but between our little dates and tear-filled laughs, I can’t seem to find the time, and I’m so thankful for that and you and me, and my strength and your understanding, like yesterday, when we laid like hibernating caterpillars in our floor-bed cocoon, watching the full season of that show, followed by another movie, and yet, more television, and then slipped into bed, where I'd hoped you’d take my clothes off, and you did, in the dark, in my ***** cat-**** blankets, you lifted my Alex Grey shirt off and kissed me, pushed my left knee far away and it slid across the white sheet with a sound that made me want you more, your touches were, as always, so soft, as was the way you licked my bottom lip like candy.

I love that you do things that I am too shy to do, I’ve never had this before and I love the way I can make you laugh until you cry, and of course, your hair and big color shifting eyes and soft lips, and your slender fingers and the way they pluck delicately while your voice is quiet, giving me chills, which is why I am saying I am not sad, I am not feeling pain, I am feeling the lust and joy of healing and normalcy, I am feeling you and me and us and my new life outside of what I had known, just two months ago.
MJ Jul 2016
In winter
I push out my tongue
And catch snowflakes

When I am lonely
I push out my tongue
And catch true love
Jul 2016 · 541
Cooking My Dinner
MJ Jul 2016
My old crow
dislikes truth or dare
because he’s scared of both.

My pirate
drinks old crow
because it’s cheap and smooth.

My chef
eats my *****
as often as he cooks.

My new friend
knows me more
than I can admit.

My roommate
has eyes that stretch
from 29 years of sleep.

My coworker
kisses my hand
in daylight on the streets.

And my lover
is now my love
because he grows too quick.
Jul 2016 · 182
Pillows For Screaming
MJ Jul 2016
You can't act weak.

You can't show that your life
feels
utterly
unfamiliar.

Because then
they'll be the ones

lying awake at night


biting their nails


quietly crying


into the down

trying
to not look weak.
Jul 2016 · 548
Quick Like Bamboo
MJ Jul 2016
He pointed at trees
telling me their names
so I looked at him
like I saw
the future.



He puts his fingers
between
gum
and
lip
all the way down the throat.



His hands rubbed
my dead heart
pulsed
the sides and now
it sings
like it's in the
******* opera.
May 2016 · 311
In April
MJ May 2016
I gave up
on hopes of sleep

In April

I threw away my name,
buried it in the alley

In April

I spread my limbs real thin

In April

I kissed bodies far from my own,
******* and thighs and hair,
reached for them all like
the used smiles on my lips

In April

I think I was a robot

In April

My eyes were dry
so I collected people's tears,
caught them in a bowl
and splashed them on my cheeks
when they asked me
why








*This piece is a mimic of Ruth Madievsky's poem, 'One Spring.'
May 2016 · 205
Changes
MJ May 2016
I ride the backs of rumbling bikes
and drink ***** in my bed.
Or play the same dumb songs
so I can speak the past.
I change my yellow hair
to red
in moments that sit still.
And I sometimes enjoy acid
in the tall grass
holding blue wolves.
I rip apart the drawing
because it stares too long
and tape it back together
but he never comes.
Apr 2016 · 492
Bicycle Day
MJ Apr 2016
I tried to fill my holes with the appendages of others' bodies and at the time it was unclear but nothing was working. nothing. holes were still holy as ever-- just more noisy. loud. like one of those naked embarrassed stuttering confusion howls. and it was all a sound we all made together as I forced our jaws open just to watch them kiss and move. just to see my own civility get lost among the skins.
Apr 2016 · 281
Road House
MJ Apr 2016
If I could visit us
on repeat, I would:

In the shower
and you’d tell me I look cute with wet hair

On your leather couch
and you’d bring me breakfast

Spreading out our arms
in the middle of the floor

Tied in your bedsheets
in the corner of the room

That same joke over
and over and over and over
Mar 2016 · 241
Purposeless Inspiration
MJ Mar 2016
I trace films and films, ***** straight
loose change on the nightstand
Friends smoking on the cold back deck,
some sticks to pass the time
When the music played so loud
at all those torn up parties
You were a new-found curse
We were a good song until we stuck

Still from this far side
I try to breathe,
and let go of that love
Reaching for feeling
I buried deep
way back and greeting death
Well we’ve come this far,
why can’t we rest

We saw butterflies and real evil
and the bareness of bodies
But once you jump off of that daunting cliff,
you just never come back up
I’m sure that there was more
to our overstayed goodbye
It was just too much
We hoped to drown, still swimming up

And from that far end
you try to leave,
to pick up this whole mess
And all those good ways you looked at me,
they’ve rightly been reset
And I’m still trapped here
So you go ahead




*Imitating "Gold Mine Gutted," Bright Eyes
Mar 2016 · 191
KAPOW
MJ Mar 2016
I don't really think

I keep in mind

just how much

you broke my heart
MJ Mar 2016
The one that has pulled me
out of the sea
has pulled me to see
that others are still capable
of loving me

Not that he is there
or that I am here
just that it can be done

I remember
day by day with him
how to open my mouth
and taste fun

Pleasure, sorrow, truth
the teeth through a real smile

Oh, god
how it's been a while


*For the guy whose bed I ****** in
Mar 2016 · 160
now & wine
MJ Mar 2016
letting
go
doesn't
stop
*******

until
there's
someone
to
grab
onto
Mar 2016 · 191
Natural Remedies
MJ Mar 2016
like pouring honey
over your scrapes
that girl
will clean the wounds we left.

and while all i want to do
is laugh
i dont.

because
to say the least

it stings.

it's like youre pouring *****
over the scrapes
you happily watch
her slice.
MJ Mar 2016
I liked biting his perfect skin.
I liked being able to look at the purple and red marks and the feelings they induced.
The feeling that he was mine.
That I had damaged him that way.
Mar 2016 · 207
Spring
MJ Mar 2016
With all the grace
I can carry
from the insides of my heart
I will try
opening my hands
as I feel the distance grow.

For you,
for me.

One finger at a time,
slowly
and still
unsurely,
the tight dark grip
will lift

like the daffodils
in Washington Park
up the hill
in warm Spring.

With all the courage
I can find
from the deepest parts of me
I will try
sitting still
as I watch you float away.

For me,
for you.

Out my open arms.
Feb 2016 · 392
When I Try to Close My Eyes
MJ Feb 2016
on what is now
i guess
a sunday,

i miss you. truly. painfully.
i wonder if you miss me
or if chicago has birthed
enough girls
to keep you
entertained
or maybe
interested

maybe
what i miss
has been dead
for quite.
some.
time.

about a year.
and a half. maybe
more?

and still,
through drawn-out-
annoyingly-long days,
which feel empty
without your presence

i miss you;
your shedding brown
on my shower walls,
twisted in the brushes,
static to my white sheets.

warmth
god that warmth.
i'm telling you
it's hard
to come by.

and jesus christ
your eyes;
so green,
and grey,
and blue,
like two planets i studied
through a telescope
that i never figured out
how to read.

i miss your like-hands
on my shoulder blades at night,
their grip on the
(to me)
terrifying
ground-shifting
bus ride
in the mornings.

and

i don't remember
your kiss,
but i bet anything
i miss that too.
Feb 2016 · 435
BODY
MJ Feb 2016
I have used you as a weapon,
and I have used you as a gift

For retribution,
for adoration

To give pleasure,
or bring pain

Behind a ***** dumpster,
the back seat of a dark green car,
on the loose lid of their old washing machine,
the crusty crack of an overused couch.

In several steaming showers,
and in several sultry beds,
bouncing on a trampoline,
lying pants-less on prickers in the woods.

****** up in a festival tent,
the floor of a motorcycle trailer,
under covers of a comfy bed,
in a white-walled hotel room.

To bring pain,
or give pleasure

For adoration,
for retribution

I have used you as a gift,
and I have used you as a weapon
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