She plays violin on her wrists
Sinfully beautiful symphonies appear on her skin
Like paper sheets her blood will flow
With eyes determined on the price
She watches the last bit of her soul seep out of her wounds
A lonely sound escapes her lips
The last lonely sound she'll ever make
Now she's in a different place
And replaced the violin for clouds

still was the night
as i sat up in your bed
i tried to be different
i spoke less, i wore less,
my voice became like the fog;
broken and unclear,
i tried to be easier
women aren't loved
if they are difficult
i tore down my walls
so you could climb inside
and rattle me to my very core
you tried to make my body home
you broke my ribs
beating
beaten
renovations to this house of cards
empty hallways with no paintings
a stairwell leading nowhere
my mind is gone
it must have disappeared into clouds
emptiness was the fire that followed me
surrounding me when these nights got cold
you smelled like her
warmed by her love
i burned myself staying quiet
burning
smoking
black walls, soot covered
you do not live somewhere
you're not welcome
why do i welcome you
why do you call me home?
i am difficult, uneasy to love,
different, absent, broken down
a pillar holding this home steady
through the dark and broken hallways
i lurked like your lust for her
the easier, faster lover of you
i shouldn't talk so much
but i do;
the fog makes you unable to see
and my fire has burned through your desires
thickened my skin, beaten your castle down
a creaky structure still stands
easy to fall down
hard to redeem
still there
still

we're here and we're reading
you lost souls, you bleeding
the poets collective dead poets connected
with a near perfected objective
of hearing your prayers when no one else will
while dissecting the layers in your soul or your quill
we're here and we're reading
please keep writing i'm pleading
for whether I'm screaming or weeping
believe that you're the reason I'm breathing

If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.

“why don’t you write a book?”

they’ll expect
a second

if consistency
and money
was consistant
see, I’d write a book

“you should write a book”

poetry is a dying art,
you’ll find a needle
every now and then
but the hay is bound
together with cellphones
and bongs
and unexpected
suicides

no one wants to hear
how sleep deprived you are
because your satin feels
like moth wings
and how your skin
feels like
a burning painting,
why cigarettes kiss
harder and how love
feels like the bottom
of a dinner plate

you’ll find compassion
and understanding
but finding a diamond in
the rough is
only valuable if
you can escape

this is an alphabet of all the people
who have dug holes in me,
and of all the people
who are still digging.

this is a gardening guide
for would-be lovers and pretty faces
who do not even realize
that they are carrying shovels.

this is a weather forecast written
from past experience,
a reminder that winter
is not kind on crops,
no matter how firmly you pack the dirt.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds planted.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds left to die.

A,
i suppose it is fitting that the first letter
is also the first person to show me what it is like
to have seedlings sprouting up from inside you,
the first person to show me just how deep you really have to dig
to make the sting last.
you never came back to water what you planted.

H,
i’d like to say to that i ripped out your roots with my own two hands;
i’d like to give myself some credit in all this.
you don’t look as lovely as you used to.
you say i’ve grown distant.
i’m sorry.

J,
you always feel like being on the verge of something big.
you feel like summer, like a deep purple,
a bath of darkness.
you are everywhere that plants do not grow well.
and i have always felt — and still do feel — 
that that is such a grave injustice.
still, though you cannot speak the word “devotion,”
i beckon for more seeds.

P,
my greatest heartbreak.
heartbreak, though, is but a flesh wound when seen from afar.
and so i thank god for the miles between us.
i can feign forgetfulness when you are far away.
after all, what is a shovel in your hands if those hands cannot reach me?

S,
you are but a bud waiting to bloom.
and yet again i find myself so very afraid of growth.

(a.m.)