under my bed
a collection of things
snippets of ribbon
and tangles of string

old scuffed buttons
teddy bear eyes
shriveled up flowers
left to die

a bird skull i cleaned
with my hands in the sink
old perfume bottles
so shiny and pink

a lost love letter
not addressed to me
shards of glass
spit up by the sea

a lock of my hair
from before it turned dark
a cicada shell
i found in the park

i can't bring myself
to throw them away
even though it's junk
like you always say

i know how it feels
being unwanted and worn
i want nothing to feel
so forgotten and forlorn.

i was little
only three
hiding behind
the cedar tree
she was trying
to beat me
a little child
of only three

that tree is gone
we cut it down
bugs ate it
from root to crown
playing under it
in a princess gown
the memories
can now be found

and every single
time it rains
mushrooms sprout
from its old veins
i wonder if she
still feels pain?
i wonder if
we feel the same?

bike spokes
and chalkdust
and sunsets
and street lights
and
being careful of how you sit
can't show those bruises
can't get mud on my dress
or there will be more
i can't i can't
i'm too scared
the chalk will be thrown out
and the bike will rust
but the laughter remains
just outside my window
but they bound me
like a straitjacket
i'm not insane i promise
do you still want to be my friend?

what is it
about me
that makes people
want to hurt me?
can they smell the blood
like a pack of sharks?
no matter how many times
i sew myself back together
my wounds still weep and wail
"easy prey."
docile as a puppy,
weaker than a fawn,
stupid as a child.

everyone writes about nature
they want to hear the birds
and weave a story like a flower crown
watch the sun as it goes down

but i can't stop writing about houses,
old and tired, new and perfect
the horrible things that they have seen
the sickly air hanging in between

the moon will always be here
and i thank her for that
these places will crumble and mold
and i am thankful for that

one day one day i can be
a flower or a star or a fawn
after i scrub the repeating
repeating memories out of my carpet

spare the rod
and spoil the child
yes i've been spoiled
you weren't mild

as a bruised peach
begins to rot
why wouldn't a child?
have you forgot?

now i have no more
cheeks to turn
what you did
makes my stomach churn

i know god
will condemn me to hell
even a sinner like me
can tell.

but i fear hell
less than i fear you,
it will be better than what
you put me through.

so i am free,
i am unbound
now that i know
i'm going to the ground

i'll take my time
to make you pay
and you will never
forget the day

this fallen angel's
wings were ripped
this little saint's
halo slipped.

hazy in september
third eye in the mirror
you bleed honey
where the mountain wolf bites

i tried to write a song
but the melody ran away
and i don't know
which one of us it was scared of.

next year the apple tree
will blossom again
and we'll hold on 'till then,
we'll hold on 'till then.

hit me
harder
make it
hurt
he told me
suffering
would make me
pure
i want to be pure
i want to be holy
i'm an angel
i'm a child
i'm a doll
and i'm so so so
scared of hell

i wear what you said
like jewelry
sometimes it glimmers
a dark red snarl of pain
sometimes it falls
silver cascading tears
sometimes it chokes
leather and dog teeth
sometimes i pull at it
i try to break it
and rip it away from my skin
but i guess that's just
the situation we're in
because right now
there's someone inside
i want to keep safe

i'm reckless with knives

i've got scarred, ****** knuckles,
but i'm still alive.

i'm reckless with knives

there are bits of me in the soup,
but i'm still alive.

i'm reckless with knives

i keep this one on my nightstand
it was made in nineteen forty five

but (somehow, unfortunately)
i'm still alive.

you
are the reason
my voice shakes when i sing

you
are the reason
i only feel safe in corners

you
are the reason
i talk like a baby doll

you
are the reason
i can walk without making a sound

you
are the reason
i guard my neck while i sleep

you
are the reason
there are teeth in my stomach;
gnawing and gnashing for the next terrible thing to happen.

i can't go a day without thinking of it.

you
make me sick.

there is something special
about the poetry of children,
the art of little girls
half remembered stories
spilling over from a past life
soon to be forgotten
scrawled on lined paper
decorated with stickers
scraps of fabric
and fallen leaves
a grin missing teeth says
"how do you spell angel?"
all innocence, sugary innocence,
but there is none here
this one draws devils
dancing at night
where have you been?
what have they shown you?
why do you already know
a hundred ways to use the colour red,
smashing markers and crayons
until they bleed and scream?

long legs
snow white
lips painted crimson
she glides
like a wind up doll
but was that a twitch?
a creak, a shiver?
it's because dolls
are more beautiful
when bones stick out
with coquettish doe eyes
fluttering, pleading
as snow settles
on her curled hair
and does not melt.

a mug of tea gone cold
kiss marks on a phone screen
a ripped up suicide note
the world keeps turning
does she ever get motion sick?
i wonder, gripping handfuls of dirt
and trying not to fall off the edge
because sometimes living feels like
summer wind in my hair,
sometimes i think
i was buried in a doll dress
and curly pigtails,
smelling of strawberry ice cream.

trauma is not
a beautiful thing
i'm not a bird
with broken wings
not a sick puppy
for you to save
not a white daisy
growing over a grave
i'm rotten inside
down to my core
grabbing handfuls
of guts and gore
pushing it back
under my skin
so you will not see
the condition i'm in

strawberry milk, new ballet slippers, valentine's dances, hair ribbons, flowers in may, cotton candy lip gloss, a stuffed easter bunny, a friendship locket, bubble bath soap, a new church dress, sparkly bike streamers, candy hearts, early sunsets in winter, a white cat's nose, smelling like fresh fruit, innocence,

neverending innocence.

summertime thunderstorm
rock me to sleep like a baby
the pitter-patter of rain
the pitter-patter of sparrow paws
hopping from dream to dream
run, run
until you can fly
this world is made of flowers and honey
but not here, not here
there is nothing here for you

I only want to be alone
I want my wounds open to the bone

I never want to use my mouth
to talk, to laugh, to scream or shout

I want to be quiet, I want to be small
I don't want to be known or remembered at all

I want pink wings and faerie-like grace
I want to be able to hide my face

I want to disappear into the night
I want her to take me with one clean bite

i am
the ghost of a crow
putting myself back together
with trinkets i find
my feathers were stolen
so i use plastic ones in every colour
i picked from a child's art project
thrown out onto the street
and what for eyes?
i take acorns from the park
watching a girl read
in the shade of that mighty tree
lying in the grass in a white sun dress
but is there any scavenged object
i could use for a heart?
so far, i've tried
fresh dandelion flowers, and a lost golden earring
a shiny shell (and how! we're so far from the sea!)
a fox's skull, and the bell from a stray cat's collar
but nothing worked.
maybe i was made to be this empty
maybe what they did to me can never be undone.

i talk, and she listens
how steadily she listens
to every anxious whisper,
every wail of grief

i smile, and i glow
and she glows back
moondust made of fine gray hair
a serene face laced with scars

i never learned
how to sew, or cook
but i can make potions,
and write prayers

and i am nourished with the milk
of the still night sky
and the sugar of stars
ready to be picked like ripe cherries

my heart threatens to overflow with love
but there is no one there to catch it
so instead,
i will put it in used perfume bottles
(this one is faceted! like a diamond!)
and give it out for free
until there is none left for me.

flip yourself over and try again
flip yourself over and try again
flip yourself over and try again
wake up
wake up
wake up
it wasn't real
it wasn't real
in another life, was it real?
flip yourself over and try again

the moths ate holes
in the silk of my hands
your touch falls through them
like black volcanic sand

yesterday's dye still shines on your face
I put it there, in every beloved place
you hated the way my hands on you feel
but to me, this way you will look more real

kalina and glitter and fresh graveyard sand
are finer than jewels when applied by my hand
your skin feels like lace, it is already cold
oh why must you die? why must you grow old?

will you come back when god throws you away?
will the devil take you down to hell to stay?
or will you come back on the wings of a bird?
sing me a folk song, make your voice heard.

there is only one
flickering lightbulb
separating this world
from the next

the struggling light
can only touch
the infinite jars
of red kompot

and the worn rifle
propped against the bricks.
it is dusty.
it has been too peaceful.

a spider hunts
her next meal
but instead finds herself
thrown around in time.

what decade is it, again?
in this dim light,
every photo looks like
it is in black and white.

after the party
dim light
streams through the window
the sun is thinking about rising

the chair you were in
is already cold
it looks so empty
it looks so forlorn

the house still smells unfamiliar
faintly of your scent
faintly of the liquor
still soaking into the tablecloth

the clock in the basement
chimes five times
muffled by
the blanket i am lying in

muffled by the roomful of
discarded wrapping paper
and a plaid scarf
that someone forgot

was it yours?
will you come back to get it?
will it bother you if i slept with it?
will it bother you if i cried into it?

i can only sleep listening
to clips of your voice.
does that scare you?

when you are alive you remember
the taste of dried blood and salty tears
tears you cried in a past life half remembered
soaking the ratty fur of an old stuffed animal
trying to remember
what it feels like to be sung to and held
poems written in sand
and on skin
and in the brain
are lost lost lost forever
photos that watch
and photos that are lost
photos of you that don't look like you
photos of people you forgot the name of
and places you've never been to
photos of people you've never met but you love anyways
photos of him that make you feel
like your heart is going to spill over
blood and glitter coating every surface you touch
don't touch me
don't touch me
don't touch me
i'm unstable
i'm not real
i'm not real
i'm not real

i cant
                                                         tell the
              difference
                                                                                               between
                                               rea
                                                                                      lity
         and dreams
                                                        any more?
                                                                                                    ?

the days of summer's heat
the scent of stale air
dry grass under my feet
wisteria in my hair

the bugs sing out loud
as the sun goes to bed
heavy purple clouds
float around my head

warm august nights
the asters sway like stars
twinkling faerie lights
bind dreams in honey jars

i want to drink the rain
straight from the storm
i want to feel its pain
i want to feel its warmth

the silver scalpel
scrapes
against steel blue veins

sparks
the sickening metallic sound
like a gasp

sparks
the sickening metallic smell
of fresh blood

sleep well,
precious one.
sweet dreams.

have you ever had a dream
so good
that you felt light crashing through the sky
thought you'd wake up when you died
but you didn't?

you can dissolve into chemicals
so sweet
that the devil's face is in your eyes
and your hands are pinned by your side
but you aren't afraid?

you can caress that nightmare
be brave
and wake up feeling like a ray of light
be proud that you survived the night
to fall in love again?

between these
fluffy ears
there is infinite dream space

so come
take a rest
nestled in the grass

under a snowy blanket.
come,
take it slow

leave your worries
to the birds,
and close your eyes.

when the blood
dries from your claws,
you won't even realize that

I can't hear myself breathe
I can't hear my own pulse
all I hear is


.

when you grow up,
what will you be?
I always wished
to be food for the trees

to not have to suffer
for one more night,
but it's been a year
and I guess I'm alright.

my body still moves,
but someone else pulls the strings
my brain is too rotten
to bother with those things.

the roots grow out
from under my eyes.
do the flowers smell nice?
do you love their lies?

to become a puppet,
doesn't it hurt?
not when you are piloted
by mother earth.

she took away the molecules
that made me feel good,
now there is a blank face
under the hood.

the decomposing me
can no longer feel,
and yet I still have
the power to heal.

the power to give,
and give, and give,
is that truly
my reason to live?

sunny daffodil blooms
are still months away,
maybe that's a good thing
if you know what they say.

you can't swallow poison
if there's nothing to eat,
you can't be a victim
if you retreat.

you can't see the cracks
in the mirror that spread
if you stay locked up
within your own head.

rolled down windows
blow cold winter air.
where are we going?
I don't really care.

snow speckled hands
catching the sky,
laughing and singing
and feeling so high.

the radio plays languages
I don't understand
but that doesn't matter
when I'm holding your hand.

I want to get lost
on those foreign roads
I want to be buried
where nobody goes.

what happens when
a hug
turns into hands that grasp
claws that tear
wings that smother
into silence?

what happens when
cotton candy clouds
and imaginary laughter
rot and drip
forming fetid pools
under the eyes?

Bubblegum and mania,
glitter and hate.
The girl in heart shaped glasses
just can’t wait.

Fly you up to heaven
on candy pink wings,
drop you when she gets tired
of you telling her things.

When she’s not feeling high
she takes a trip to hell,
the devil beats her up
and gives her pills to get well.

Brimstone in her left hand
and roses in her right,
settling in with a bottle
of liquor for the night.

Looking for the ones who want
manic pixie dreams,
looking for the one
who will have the sweetest screams.

what happens to thoughts unsaid,
buried deep within god's head
do they feel their restraints grow tight
do they wish they could take flight?

what happens to books unwritten,
songs not sung and poems hidden
do they die a horrible death
with their maker's final breath?

what happens to people unseen
sneaking under midnight's sheen
while they run on soft fox paws
do they sense the waiting jaws?

what happens to the paper trees
when they catch a fiery breeze?
do they know this is the end?
do they know they can't try again?

I wish I could survive
on sunlight alone,
carrying liquid joy
deep into my home.
A crystal of warmth
to dry up my tears,
cooking my brain,
denature my fears.

bleak fields
quivering
under an oppressive wind
trying not to cry
trying not to cry

when it comes
pouring down
when thunder splits the sky
i will watch them die
i will watch them die

the faerie led me
to the blossoming marsh
while I slept
under moonlight's trance

again to the place
where the crickets hum
and the grass is damp
under my bare feet

where the reed grasses grow
to cover your body
and the sparrows lap up your blood
and take it to the sky

it will fall as rain
soaking my hair
sating my roots
under which you lay dreaming

you could burn out tomorrow,
and nobody would ever know.
we're still content to bathe
in your brilliant afterglow

nobody would notice,
and then one day, you'd be gone,
nobody would mourn you,
we'd just find another one.

kisses
soft
as handmade lace
sweet
as sun-warmed honey

forever staining my soul
red
with the bitter aftertaste of kalina

sway
with the trees
swirl
in the breeze

burn
with the sky
ask
the stars why

sing
with the rain
feel
the earth's pain

A crow looked at me
in his eyes I could see
all the wonders of the galaxy.

Reflections of stars,
the earth's weeping scars,
unraveling minds and their memoirs.

Under sacred moonlight,
held in black claws of night,
our deepest desires are clutched tight.

O Crow! What spirit do you hold?
With whose voice do you scold?
Does it still slumber in your pile of gold?

The Old Ones knew you,
and now I will too,
when I die and rise on black wings anew.

take your thumb,
dip it
in your weeping wounds
and smear the gore
on my face.

you have stained
the folk dress
that my grandmother made for me
but I do not care
because I love you.

golden beast
your smile
becomes more like
a snarl
with every
passing day

your eyes
like pools
of acid
shining with gold
dripping
on my face

your claws
sitting
on my chest
when the sun
rises
each day

your fur
smelling
of midnight
dusted by dreams
soaking
with tears

your touch
gentle
like brocade
beckons me
to close my eyes
and sleep

and sleep
and sleep
under your weight
forever

let the memory of me
fade
into the night

forget my voice
forget my touch
heal your scars

you don't need me
anymore.