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
want to sit
so still
so still
that the vines curl around me
like a hug

i
want to sleep
so deep
so deep
to be awoken by
the curiosity of bees

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.

I lock onto you like an enzyme,
to catalyze your rage, and force you to bind.
Allowing your own vitriol to dissolve you,
reduce you to nothing but a stain.

A harmless puddle of organic matter,
once an angel,
now straining through my fingers,
harmlessly trickling down the drain.

It is where people like you belong.

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.

i've got
intrusive thoughts
classic psych ward
grippy socks

put me
down to dream
floating on
quetiapine

angel wings
paper white
too close to the sun
they'll catch alight

too close to the dark
they'll drag me down
like the time
i tried to drown

because either i'm
feeling high
or else
i want to die

that's why i'm here
in the locked room
pacing up
and down the gloom

the warden says
its time for bed
trust me it will be
good for your head

i close my eyes
and dream of you
all the struggles
we've been through

yes i know
i'm insane
but i have you
to share my pain

petrichor
fall-smell
apple crisp air with
fanged wind
halo sun
prismatic dew
children
golden honey locust
leaf rain
skipping rope
mushroom
cricket-call
fading
last rose bloom
frost
sugared grass
wilted petals
death.

Your skin
paper thin
peels away
when I touch
like a brush
there is sludge
pooled underneath
the residue
of thinking through
the theories
of deities
and karma
arising
from leaving me
alone in peace
to slowly rot
eyes turned inwards
collapsing
egg
rosebud
samsara
beats
like a drum
the unending thrum
of human hearts
and the earth
resonating
repeating
growing restless.

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.

I wish I was your Ophelia
so you could cradle your head in my lap
and tell me not to fall
tell me the meaning of it all
because these bitter lies have meaning
when spoken by your voice.

I am but a nymph
flowing violently on the river
so tell me how you feel
and help me know I'm real
because at the end, there is nothing
and I want to know if I'm there yet.

But what is the point of waiting?
Why not make it happen now?
Why not trade a few more hours of pitiful dreams
for gentle oblivion?

Hold my hand as we spiral down together,
with flowers in our hair and a song in our hearts
until I wake up,
and there is dark, and cold
it was nothing but a fantasy for a fool drenched in gold.
You chose to exist, though I screamed, you resist,

now I must spend my eternity alone.

God operates like a factory,
hammering reality out of nothingness,
passing it along the assembly lines
where it piles up at the end
and eventually falls
and falls
through beautiful layers of abyss
dancing, twirling on the way down
with no wings to cushion its fall.

But sometimes, he makes a mistake,
a small manufacturing error,
clogging up the system with its imperfections
it holds on tightly
and desperately
only to be crushed at the end
and be recycled back into nothingness
where it will never fall victim to entropy
and burn out, like everything else.

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.

Bittersweet nightshade drips from your lips
I want to be coated in your poison spit.
My dead skin is datura white,
two mad dreamers dancing through the night.
I can feel your trembling claws
swaying with the foxglove’s paws.
Cut me open and I’ll bleed sap,
strength of the yew fighting back.

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.

from the cradle
to the grave
i was born
to be your slave

even though
i run away
i'll never forget
the things you say

even when
you drop dead
your voice will be
inside my head

just like a leash
around my neck
i am still
a nervous wreck

when you don't tell me
what to do
i still look up
searching for you

even when
you go to hell
heralded by
the church bell

your prints will be
all over my soul
the way abuse
takes its toll

You are an angel.
A bit like a bird, but less free.
A bird can fly and sing wherever she pleases,
but an angel's hands are bound in red ribbon,
constantly paranoid,
constantly pulled
this way and that
to ensure she never falls
off the straight and narrow path
losing her halo,
bruising and tearing her wings.

At night, one can hear her sing
attracting the attention of a bird
whose powerful talons may untangle the ribbon
and set her free.
But she dismisses her with a smile,
knowing that the one who has power over her
has thousands of eyes, watching her
every second of the day
every second of the night
constantly
always
from the eternal in between.

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?

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.

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.

To get at the marrow,
crack open the bones.
The screams of the conquered
"We want to go home."
Flying like birds
let out of the cage
right into monstrous
black jaws of rage.
Insatiable hunger
for an insatiable mind
maybe next time
they will be more kind.
Not to provoke
the slumbering beast,
not to awaken
the unholy feast.

I am one with
the lovely velvet darkness
that covers my light
from those who wish to ***** it out.

And I am one with the moon,
who sends me sweet messages
when a voice
would have me caught.

And I am one with the violets,
picked by a lonely girl
arranged into a bouquet
and then thrown away.

We were too scared to stay.

bite down,
hold on
to this swirling world
with all your might

once you find your home
never let it out of sight.

in an instant,
god's golden hands
can ***** out
that feeble light.

once you find yourself,
never let them out of sight.

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

(and you were the muse.)

Your alabaster skin - one with the keys of the piano-
pouring out your heart in your saccharine voice.

Through my eyes, it was dreamlike light- echoes of the moon floating through the water
like blurry images of hands intertwined.

My heart clenches every time I picture you
because you have replaced my blood with honey.
The sweet ache coats my veins and spreads throughout my body.

How I wish I could lay you under the shade
of the grand willow tree on a gentle midsummer night
watching the stars and fireflies- sometimes unable to tell them apart-
and braiding violets into your golden hair.

Every action deliberate,
every thought dripping with poetry
coating my skin like fresh morning dew.

Every time you look at me
I feel a little less real.
No matter how I try
I cannot stop you from
dismantling me, pulling me apart
piece by delicate piece.

I prayed to the old gods
and they promised me that when I die,
I will be born again as a raven
so I can scavenge the pieces back,
because it only takes a day to harm
but it takes multiple lifetimes to heal.

i bent down
to look at a pink sea shell
and the ocean devoured me whole
with a roar,
and a snap
of crushing blue jaws.
but i only stayed a moment.
she spit me out
because i tasted
like bitter bile
and melancholy
and said
come again some day
when you're happy;
come again some day
to die.

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

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?

My dreams floated into the sky
and then fell down into eternity,
like snow falling into the sea,
making her shiver at the horror of it all.

Half forgotten reveries swirl through my mind
and stars burst on my skin,
extinguished by the wind and the water
as I try to forget and remember at the same time

Maybe someone else will be there
to catch those fell fantasies in their hands
as they stream from the moon and into the sea
and she will shiver as my thoughts seep into her blood

Falling backwards into the sky,
We both have the same revelation.
No matter how lucid we are-
Nothing we do matters because we’re all going to die.

In both our moments of clarity,
We wept for the achievements of all of humanity,
To be erased with one stroke of wings,
Extinguished with one mighty claw’s swipe.

Falling into the sky like lanterns
Are our collective hopes, dreams and fears.
But mine has gone dark.
The gentle moon and the dying sea no longer sing of oblivion.

pink princess gowns
                                                           ­ mud                        lace barrettes
                           bird corpses
                                                         ­       cherry candy
                       dried blood
                                          tea parties                  fabric fairy wings
         the therapist's office
                  spoiled milk                                           secret bruises
                         church bells
wooden spoons                                            jump rope
                                       bathroom scales
                                                          ­    lily of the valley smell
                rough hands
                                             january
    fourteen                                             ­                metal belt buckles
       teddy bears                 closets
                                            glitter pens in a diary                
autumn leaves
                                  rage
                   ­                               sugared raspberries
          grandma's apron
                                                        pur­ple nail polish
                                                          ­                               report cards
                        old cassettes
                                                       ­        cedar trees
flip phones
                                         kitchen knives

I sit by the window on a Saturday morning
with nothing but a cup of tea in my hand.
I was too late to watch the sunrise, so instead
I watch the way the flowers blow in the wind
painting streaks in the canvas of the sky.
The incessant scratching of a coin against a lottery ticket burrows into my mind.
My inner voice shouts over it, just to remain in control
filling up my head, pushing out my thoughts and threatening to explode
but perhaps it is too late.
The scratching already comes from within.
It reminds me of the time I scratched my arms raw
after my mother told me
no boys would like me if I kept hurting myself.
Just like the time my mother told me
that I could never make it as a poet.

I redirect my attention to the window
trying to focus on what I want to see
(is that what they tell you to do in therapy?)
Unfortunately,
I had already wrung every drop of poetry
Out of this humble garden.
Back in the kitchen, my mother stands up,
and I notice the scratching has stopped.
Instead, the sharp and familiar sound of ripping paper fills the air.
I am reminded of all the poems I had ripped to shreds to start anew
as she curses and throws the ticket in the trash,
dramatically slamming the door.
A selfish part of me is happy that she didn’t win.
Because I know that if she did, she wouldn’t hesitate
to do the same to our lives.

Relocating us to a place
where flowers and fountains are found in rows
like fresh cuts on an arm
and not in haphazard paint splatters
like stars in the sky, or freckles on a face.
A grand white mansion,
elegant as a mausoleum,
where the sound of scratching
and early morning yelling
and late night sobbing
would echo through the empty rooms
bouncing from wall to wall
until the house threatens to fall apart.
Or else, we would be on a plane,
to some far off destination,
Sitting all in one row and
shielding our phones from each other,
thinking how much better it would be
to sit amongst strangers.

oak roots dream
under soft snow
black bear purrs
in her den
the buck chase ends
i'll just rest my legs...
white pine sways
mighty sleepwalker
goodnight! goodnight!
calls the westward sun
that dream, that dream
echoes, dances
chasing its tail
green aurora
watches over us all

these flowers
were not grown with love
I fed them with blood
and now they hang from the ceiling,
glistening red with dew.

the glass is scuffed.
there was a bear here, last night.
she tried to break in
but I shot her,
and she unraveled

into millions of pieces
of colourful silk.
someone created this beast.
someone gave her a name.
and I ended her life.

No wonder this one turned out violent.
If you take an innocent child
and hit her, and scream at her,
you drown the angel within
and the rusalka rises from the mud.
No wonder this one turned out wrong.
But of course, it isn’t your fault.
Maybe it was the school. Maybe it was the friends.
Maybe it was the TV and the internet.
Conveniently, it was not the poisonous ideas
about total obedience, and angelic femininity,
and a special place below
for people who do not fall in line
to march to their death.
No, we were never angels.
Never had wings that could save us.
But at some point, we were human.
Now, we are aliens,
peacefully drifting through space
until something greater stirs the heart.
And with Jupiter’s wrath in my wings,
I rise.
Now see,
my teeth shining with blood and gold
and hate.
I hope you are afraid.

Little dragonfly, how is it that
your wings are sharp enough to cut through glass
with questions like
What would happen if I let go?
What would happen if I jumped?
What would happen is I chopped up her body into tiny little pieces
and fed them slowly to starving dogs?

Don’t you know that
you are the reason my hands tremble when I pick up a knife
you scream with glee, beckoning me to take action.
Just one cut wouldn’t hurt.
Just one stab in her back wouldn’t hurt.
Just one taste of the blood pooling in your hand
would solve all your problems.
...
But you don’t really want to do that, right?

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

I love how
the hot water cascades over me
burning my skin,
reddening my old scars.
I want to hurt again.

I love how
my tears spiral down the drain
and spiral into the sea.
Oh, will the sirens pity me
as much as I do?

I love how
I can walk between worlds
as an entity, scrolling through time,
turning eternities into seconds.
I have the eyes of god.

Until I am curled up like a baby,
lying on the hard tile
and shivering in the falling cold.
Only rage illuminates
my empty soul.

I love how
I can wander endlessly
and end up in the same pathetic place,
the same alluring fantasy
of making you suffer forever.

i want to be
a mad artiste
i don't want to
contain the beast

with pills and trips
to the ward
i want my voice
to be heard

either be famous
for my art
or be famous
for breaking hearts

cut off an ear
use blood for ink
a starry sky
in tulip pink

when my death
shows up on tv
teenage girls say
i wish that was me

Drifting from the sky like an angel’s feather
is a snowflake, that gently lands on my skin
And I think to myself-
what did that angel do to get kicked out of heaven?

Did he struggle as he fell? Thrashing with rage and indignation?
Or did he simply let go and allow himself to drift towards oblivion?
Or maybe, it was neither.
Maybe he chose to leave.

The small shock of cold brings me back to reality.
It is brilliant, almost too brilliant against my numb body.
I want it to stop so I can go back to feeling nothing.
It would be better for my tired brain that way.

I tried to tell a story once, but I realized quickly
That nobody was listening, that nobody cared
and that made me lose my mind entirely
because it made me feel so small.

In that moment, I watched my reality fall apart.
I saw a corpse. And two figures,
too cowardly to go separate ways,
but too cowardly to stay.

Too cowardly to listen- but how is it so?
When the words keep falling, falling, falling
onto ears that choose to be deaf,
onto skin that chooses to be numb.

And like the angel, I fall. This time on my own accord.
But was it really? Or did someone kick me out without me knowing?
But without wings to catch me, instead of falling
I mindlessly circle the singularity.

I tried to tell a story once, but then I realized I was
actually flying under the sea.
And nobody was there to watch and be proud
that I had achieved something I thought impossible.

So then why even try?
Each word, each snowflake, each feather
Is a reminder that I am in fact, still alive
and it leaves me to ruminate on a choice.

A choice I am too afraid to make.
After all, I was never allowed to choose
even the most insignificant things.
So why should I be able to now?

red blossoms
on my wrists
rose scented
rosary beads
cannot protect me
halo light
only exposes
my sins
for god
to feast on
peeling my
festering heart
like a mandarin orange,
sinking his teeth
deep deep deep
into the black core
once there was
something pure there,
once i was clean
but i have been
ruined
i'm never
getting it back
no matter how
many crosses
hang above
my bed
no matter how much
holy water
rests dried
on my head

i write sad poems
but the truth is,
sadness is nothing like poetry
and mental illness is nothing like the movies
there is no beauty to be found here
no elegance in self destruction
no metaphor in depression
no art in this love
and they all leave once they see that
they can't heal me, nothing can
and there is nothing pretty
about the things i do
so don't look back
go somewhere else
be happy.

That night, you would have found me,
sitting in a tree and watching the fireworks
from the city in slow motion,
opening themselves like lilies,
framing the night with sparks,
fanning into the darkness their sweet perfume.

My nadir, reflected in your eyes,
I see the light of the full moon.
Rippling like silk,
soft to the touch like velvet.
What creatures lurk beneath those waves?
What jaws will close around my curious hand?

I want to reach up to touch the stars
even though they would burn me.
I want the universe to sing me to sleep
with a deafening radiant voice.

But all I got was fistfuls of shadows,
seeping from between my fingers like thick congealed blood
All I got was velveteen silence
coating my brain like a fine layer of silt

And I found myself falling.
Until my thousand opened eyes could no longer see the stars.
Except for the ones that were falling with me
illuminating our collective descent
in all shades of sickly green and blue

And I found myself changing.
as we learned to breathe in the murk
and breathe out dreams.
As we shed our wings
and learned to swim.

As we went down,
down,
down,
spiraling into the abyss.

But oh, isn’t it beautiful?

something
about the water
just the right temperature
the earth dreams and
proteins coalesce
life, out of unlife
i dip my big toe in
a trilobite comes up to bite it
from the sun touched silt
poor thing, i think, stroking its back
poor thing to be unmoored in time
poor thing, suffocated because the earth
changed her mind, tried again,
words erased on a page,
skittering legs going still,
belly up,
silt bed,
sand grave,
dark sleep without dreams

i cannot dream
when enrobed by concrete
crumbling, desecrated
and peeling walls
kids used to play
past dark
bikes whizzing under street lights
but doors opened to us
and swallowed us whole
with teeth of televisions
and saliva of anxiety
sour, putrid, reeking
it still blows over my face to this day.

i crack a window.
and it is noon
i am six years old
watching the field,
(i can hold it in my little hand
like a ripe, green grape)
sway under the weight of
imaginary children's footsteps
and beloved animal paws
i am ten years old
and i listen
but it is still
except for the drone
cars and cicadas, on and on and on and on
my world holds its breath
until it becomes dizzy

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've killed dozens
does, rabbits and hares
but i've never
caught myself a bear
they're crafty and clever
too strong to subdue
without special tactics
and i know a few
should i gain her trust
using a disguise?
should i gaze into
her frost tipped eyes?
run my hands
through her white fur?
listen to her gentle
relaxed purr?
now she's trapped
in my cruel snare
crying, distraught,
but i don't care
i could end it all
with a shot to the head
but i always loved
when they struggled and bled

Despite being impaled on the long blade of time
I still hold your jaw in a vice grip.
Crack me, like the sun does the ice and I will
split.
Into millions of manic fragments, clinging tightly to the last vestiges of shadow.
But you have not defeated me.
I slowly put myself back together so that next time
my wrath will be stronger, my grip will be tighter.
My wings are held together with stitches and scabs,
but they are stronger than yours, artificially pure.
Though you rise like an arc of solar corona
to burn me once again,
all I must do is wait
and wait
and wait
Because when entropy takes over, your heat will be snuffed out
And you will realize what it feels like to live without the flames that fuel you.