i'm a siren.
i'm not the sound of the ambulance, rushing to save you
i'm not going to sweep you off your feet, onto a stretcher
i'm not going to give you mouth to mouth beyond late night swatches of my lipstick on your lips
i'm not the iv drip filling your veins, or your heart
i make your heart flutter but i'm not your defibrillator
and with the electric shock comes burn marks on your chest, mimicking the burn marks i left on you
and i'm sorry that i'm a siren.

in your backyard
slaying dragons
with a twig for a sword
the worst pain i knew:
   a splinter.
in my driveway
playing hopscotch,
hide-and-seek, tag-you're-it
the worst pain i knew:
   a scraped knee
in our own rooms
in our own beds
texting other people
the worst pain i know:
   missing you

n.d.

you extra fry in the bottom of the bag you sleeping in on a tuesday morning you good hair day you all night drinking with no hangover you warm towel straight from the dryer you new friend in the back of a new york taxi cab you misinterpreted abstract art you lost concert ticket you frost bitten fingertip you half dranken water bottle you misspelled word you unwanted bouquet on valentines day you deadline yesterday you uncashed check you college rejection you cannibalistic praying mantis you paper cut from an envelope  you coup de tat you cat got your tongue you swallowed words you split lip you straggly strand of split ends you broken vase you five missed calls you broken necklace clasp you half hearted apology

to some
spring cleaning
may be about donating the shirt
you haven't worn since 7th grade
or dusting every single picture frame
or scrubbing the tile
or sweeping and vacuuming
that's not my spring cleaning
my spring cleaning
is about changing the way i've been
ever since the 7th grade
and changing every single thing about me
or creating the persona i want to be
or removing and restarting
that's my spring cleaning

n.d.

maybe it's the fact i've been living in garbage, surrounded by rotting food and ***** laundry, because i can't find the energy to get out of bed, because i've been to depressed to anything but eat and feel sorry for myself and stew in not only my own sweat and dirt but my suicidal thoughts.

maybe it's the yellowing teeth because of the countless cigarettes i smoked to get the approval i craved of my boyfriend--sorry, EX boyfriend--who dumped me for seeking acceptance from his friends because it reeked of narcissism, because i was acting out of low self esteem and desire for validation.

maybe from the early signs of gum disease because of the substance abuse i was groomed to believe was the new vogue, or because blacking out every night is what freshman do and not a concerning coping mechanism i was using to hide a bigger issue.

maybe it's a result of the judgmental looks and comments on my worth from men and women alike because of my self medication in the form of intimacy and ****** attention--the ease at which i could be led to bed: through a lazy, slurred compliment and promises of a ride home in the morning (and not to mention means of keeping my mind off of my trauma.) or how after spending my last $10 at the bar i would consistently rely on my ability to give a peep show of the same body that was violated a year ago for a free shot of tequila that burned all the way down and a grimy slice of lime.

or maybe it's because despite it being over 365...366...367...too many ******* days since his filthy hands and body introduced itself to mine uninvited, despite not 1 but 2 police reports, despite 5...6...7...endless calls with victims advocates, despite 1...2...who knows how many failed semesters, despite 1 too many failed suicide attempts....

i was still *****.

your name is so beautiful
it's written on my walls
and on my wrist
and my thighs
and it's always on the tip of my tongue
written in my fogged up mirror after a shower
doodled on my notebook
under favorite contacts in my phone
title of my poems--even the really dumb ones
password to all my logins
etched into my brain
and engraved into my soul

not blue, not green
o, nothing loud
not pink, not red
gray
mo·not·o·nous
simple, relaxing
the color of rain clouds
and sleeping in
on a tuesday morning
and the cool breeze
of a lake in january
and the smell of pavement
after it rains

n.d.

People say that high school is the best days of your life.
Some days, they're wrong. Some days, you hope that nothing in your life is worse of an experience than high school. You assume that you're in a trough of life--not close to a peak, by far.
Other days, they're right. Sometimes, it seems like nothing will compare to the feeling of friday night lights, or being surrounded by your entire school, all full of pride. Sometimes you're riding the wave.
I'm starting to think that high school is somewhere in the middle between the worst and the best days of one's life. It's not the best nor the worst, it just is the days. There are the ups--when it's going good, it's immeasurable; and the downs--when it is bad, it can feel like your world is collapsing.
I think that high school is full of experiences that you will never have the opportunity to experience again, and I don't know whether to smile or cry at that fact.

spring cleaning: to some, it may be about
donating the shirt you haven’t worn since
7th grade and since 9th has been worn out
or rinsing the floors of any footprints.
Or scrubbing the tile of any grout
or dusting every single picture frame--
that’s not my spring cleaning. mine is about
changing who i am despite my same name.
it’s about changing the way i’ve been since
7th grade, it is about showering
and scrubbing off all the shame i can rinse
off of me like filth. it’s me worrying
that i will never again find healing
again and again. that’s my spring cleaning.

i'm more scarred than my wrist

whispers of sweet nothings in her ear
kind words with air being blown
breath, moist and warm
lingers on her collarbone

soft tongue caress
the warm flesh of her clavicle
and cool fingers undress
removing the last article
  of clothing

mouth meets salty sweat, and
lips trace her silhouette

dip my pen tip into my subconscious
using my imagination like ink
i write chicken scratch on my paper--
stupid, meaningless little words;
simply an insufficient medium for these thoughts i have

petals and leave in autumn
snowflakes in the wintertime
rain in the spring season
in summer, rays of sunshine.
me for you.

my hand lifts instinctively
almost with a mind of its own
to rub my clavicle and
to brush my collarbone

my knees push together
making sure, checking again
that in fact my thighs don't touch
making me look down and smile, then

my breaths become deeper and longer
my fingers strumming my ribs like guitar strings
being able to play them like keys
is one of my favorite things

my stomach is concave
the hunger feels good
things, I'm, looking better
like I thought I would


my weight is double digits
and im light and fragile
i want to get lower
I won't stop for a while

i'm usually good with words
and putting together sentences
in an attempt
to create a sensation similar
to looking up at the stars
just to see them looking back at you.
i'm often good with words
and writing paragraphs
and stories
of happier days
and lives that are better than the one that i'm living.
i'm typically good with words
i could string together plenty of sentences
about why we'd be good together
but it's to the point
where no words can describe
the high i get from being around you.
you've taken my vocabulary and shuffled my letters
and stole all the xs and os
and replaced them with my longing to steal all your xs.

the day your lips greeted mine
the time my fist grazed your chest
the instances where my tears rolled off my cheeks
the lies rolled off my tongue
the infidelity
the abuse
the dependency

i fancy
the thought of diving
into a slumber
like diving into a pool
with soft pillows
and fresh sheets rippling.
and much like swimming
and wading
sometimes i wish i could stay here
forever
but we know that'd drown me
and that'd feel
just like how it feels
when i wake up
and my reality can't even compare
to sleep.

n.d.

heartache after heartache
i wind up with you and
headache after headache i
will always forgive
and after every heartbreak
i never seem to learn

n.d.

and i've showered four times today
    already
and i wish i knew why
i cannot scrub off shame
and disgust
and all other filth
like i would if it were dirt.

n.d.