ACT I
i feel rained on
cracked open
left to bleed
on pure white snow
i feel raw
yet
i am in pain
i am always in pain
i am in so much pain
i cannot tell if it is pain anymore
i am in love

ACT II
is it known that
i would rather bleed
than cry
i have so many secrets
that are not mine
they fill my mouth
fall down my lips
like i've sunk my teeth
into ripened fruit
they are omens
they bite at the skin
on my bones like locust
the blood trickles to my feet
there's so much
there's so much
there's so much
there's so much
im a *******

ACT III
why didn't you try
to replace the rocks
in my chest with flowers
did you know
i was already gone

ACT IV
*** can be sweet
in the back of a car
nervous and tentative
shaking hands against
sweaty palms
moving together
touching
at the same time
we were warm

ACT V
not every living thing
is necessarily alive
i died eight days ago
with my lungs
collapsing
on top of each other
and my nails
digging
into my palms
i shed my skin
like the hair
from last winter
i clawed at the leaches
gnawing at my bones
the hardest part
wasn't dying
it was remembering
that i was ever alive
it was taking a lungful
of air and exhaling
the dust rattling
around in my chest
it was missing the sound
the feeling
of my heart beating
against yours

ACT VI
i once
had someone
with skin
like an angel
she treated me like ****
and smoked far too much
but i guess
i was the one
with the problem
because we broke up
years ago
yet sometimes
i find myself
smoking cigarettes
trying
to taste her again

ACT VII
"please," i begged, my knees scraping the ground, "let me fall out of love."

i haven't washed
my clothes in weeks
i don't touch my hair
i let everything grow
like i am a tree
this is how i know
that im falling apart
slowly
i don't count
the minutes
on the bus
i have no desire
to feel music
i think about
all the goodbyes
i've bid
to different versions
of myself
then i sit in the shower
and i listen to rain
as i attempt
to piece together
my soul again
but the pieces
aren't broken
they're shattered
and i enjoy
each time
i slice my finger
on a shard
my demons have abandoned me
they say im
too
miserable
they'd rather
burn in hell
for all of eternity
than listen
to my cries
so now i sit
at the ocean
and i think of
the rocks
as the bones
crushed by my teeth
then i ask god
"are you afraid of me?"
i am
i know not
what i am capable of
one night
i punched my wall so hard
every poem
i'd ever written
fell out
then my nose
started to bleed
then i walked around
*******
i wrote like
the paper
was my head
and the pen
was loaded
then
i imagined myself
taking my last bath
my last breath
the pieces
floating together
and
growing tall enough
for angels
to climb
like a child
would
like i am a tree
then someone
will brush my hair
wash my clothes
and the only
version of myself
left to say
goodbye
to would have already
left

when i am numb
i remember the poem
you wrote me on my birthday
i'd never felt like anyone cared enough
to write sonnets in my name
poetry from their veins
anyone but you
everyone but you
cried the night i died
sang at the service
buried memories with ashes
from the cigarettes lit
with the same fire
that used to light my soul
now i lay in the dark
and i listen to wind
whisper fragments of
what i think was your name
i still remember
the day you told me
you were leaving
i didn't listen
to the name you called me
only the way you spoke it
like the only way
to get rid of me
was to spit poison
into my mouth
yet somehow
the burn in my throat was better
than the one you left in my chest
it was like coughing up dirt
from the seeds you planted
but forgot to water
forgot to think about
do you think about me
when you're alone
when you can't sleep
when you listen to
your favorite song
i often wonder
if i was one of your vinyls
did you spin me until
the scratches and pops
were too much to bare
until i became
another broken record
i often wonder
if you even remember
as you searched for a fire
to cover the smoke
from the last cigarette
you flicked ashes from
to burry the memory
of not my name
but the way you spoke it

she had colors running through her veins and creativity seeping from her soul
her lips often tasted like paint and broken promises, but her brown eyes held more
she told him, she warned him not to fall in love because she'd just get up and go
and she'd take the pieces with her, of his heart, and leave behind a scene of gore
but he was infatuated with her. maybe it was the way she kissed him at night
when it was insanely quiet and the city was still and there was no one around,
where their warm and wet lips kept them occupied and the stars are the only light,
she'd kiss him slowly but surely their short moans and quiet gasp the only sounds
or maybe it was the way she'd curl her fingers and her toes and grasp at the blankets,
her back arching as she choked on her own moans trying to keep quiet
bottom lip nearly bleeding from the pressure, just his fingers making her this anxious
knowing that if she let go of her bottom lip, her loudest moans could stop a riot
she had angel wings on her back but she preferred the sting of sharpened pitch forks
her hands were rough from years of handling paint brushes and pencil shavings
she told him, no, she begged him not to get attached or fall in love or anything of the sorts
but she had to admit, she did use him to quench and satisfy her deepest cravings

and here i am again
at the intersection
of pedestrian language
& old wives tales
swallowing gum
like 7 year memories
opening umbrellas inside
cause i can't seem get away
from all of this rain
i ******* with my left hand
cause i was told
back in highschool that
"it feels like someone else is doing it"
it gets me wondering
about the difference between
losing you and finding out
that some one else found you
or my sleep
or lack thereof
its starting to tear me apart
i keep having this dream
where you are in
an unfamiliar body of water
trying to wash my poetry
off of your hands
or the one where
something happens in my chest
every time you sit
on someone else's bed
i'm tired of feeling like something you've misplaced
but don't have the heart
to look for anymore
tired of you saying my name
like you're trying to bury it
i'm tired of wondering
if you can tell the difference
between the absence
of my voice & silence
the other day
i almost started sobbing
at work when a woman
asked me about
our equipment
i was explaining how
things come apart
and almost mentioned your name
it made me think
of how you used to say
things like "what would you do
if i showed up on your doorstep
one day?" now, i haunt
the windows in my house
i don't leave for weeks at a time
i sit on the porch like the dog
you didn't shoot behind the shed
the one that refuses to die
until you come home again
i told somebody once, that
you didn't even know
what my voicemail sounded like
i wonder if they thought
it was because you
are so important that i never
let it ring that many times
before picking up
or if you dont know
what it sounds like
because you've never called
you can't be the ****** weapon
and the search party
i'm tired of all the seats
to the ferris wheel in my chest
being empty
tired of your voice
being the one i look for
in abandoned places
that one sound i beg
to bounce back
down vacant hallways
i just seem to stand there
in all of that quiet
like someone looking for a mistake
on an eviction notice
so i guess the hardest part
isn't letting go
it's forgetting
you ever had a grip
in the first place
and since you've been gone
i wonder if when
you pushed yourself away from me
you used your left hand
so it felt like someone else did it