to the humans with the glassy eyes,
i know they've been hurt before
(your eyes,
thrown against the wall,
like a jar filled with rotten marbles)
cauliflower-clouded mind
red-scented sleep
& i pray to God
those pills dissolve in your
sanitized hands.
don't cry when it's over; cry now
i can see milky white
stars in your eyes
and soft pink
bubble gum-flavored clouds
and lazy green rivers
and violent violet nights
and a deep howl in you
when you think you can't go on.
and you burn yourself
with empty looks
and break yourself
by lying down
and **** yourself
by forgetting that the lightning storm
ever came.
flying doesn't always set people free.
remember that.

in this cube
of angular anger
there's a town
made of clouds.
sour wind
sounds like bed sheets,
& indigo solar radiation.
don't explain:
our eyes are the same,
but the depressants seem to be
gooeyer in
your world.
find a way
to create a rubber
convenience store.
(to buy squishy cigarettes)
build glass palaces
so the world can
see you strip down.
your world.

and you'd like that.

There’s broken glass in my foot
clear symmetrical triangles
dangling off my foot
like a dazzling chandelier.
But pain.
like a dragons claw,
like a witches fingernail
cut deep
and the oozing, dripping,
thick scarlet liquid
seeping over the bathroom tiles,
reflects my dazed face.
Where am I?
My pale, white, finger
extends and dips into the
red
and now the lines on my hands are all
red
and my eyes blur with the color
red.
I walk down stairs.
Isn't everything romanticized?
Red flowers,
      red skin,
              red lips,
                            red breath.
But the eyes,
the eyes are red
and I suppose that is
what really impales me.

forget the rain on your skin
and fall asleep
there will be dry days
but not today
don't let your mind wander too
far
stay alive
you're like a broken swan
in the clutch of the moon
and the monsoon
your weeping matches the rain
and your shivers match the
lightning
stay awake
don't let the green blades make you cry
don't your mind wander
too far

lying on my mattress
or floor
staring into the
pure
white ceiling.
Thinking, breathing, wanting to scream.
Everything's perfect.
except for the white ceiling, of course

I'm in the grips of a sleet storm
helpless on a Thursday morning,
walking on a deserted field,
where the boys play some pretty sport.
they say they're in love
but they leave it in winter
so what was the cost to start it?

slowly stepping through the woods
careful not to ***** myself
or tear my skirt
or lose my mind
on those crimson thorns.
In the back of my mind
i hear a siren, it's real
here it comes, there it goes,
silence.

That's the silence of someone calling for help.

I'm in love with the pines
at the edge of the road
not the road itself.
hot headlights search me while zooming by
search through layers of clothing
nod, say "alright"
and they're gone.
If I look back I glare
but that seems to be rude now.

down at the traffic light
i'll cross the street when I want,
but for right now i'll study my
glossy shoes.
there's pieces of sky on them

and there's an old empty house behind me
it's paralyzed and hurt
and people drive by
it uses sparse pines to cover itself
from uncanny stares.
it would like to dissolve,
maybe today
or tomorrow
but right now it's getting dark.

and i'm trying to find my way home

flower girl and jackhammer,
street worker, cigarette lighter,
desolation in death,
exhaustion in life, you can buy your desire for just a
noisy day
nowadays
he shoves and sells
and hustles about
and buries his grimy hand in his
hot pockets
hot hot dusty hell
There's a faceless woman eating helplessness
turn around to see fight
no fight in anyone's eyes
restless and old
and worn, like a worm