People are utterly filthy.
Rags besmirched black and undertone red in blood, and ****,
and tears, and thrown up alcohol bought cheaper than a
***** on Seventh.
Oh, tell me about it.
I saw a dead person once.
Grime under fingernails and teeth carved in gingivitis--
filth of a body really; but still I cry for this begotten soul
until my own hands grow
disheveled in the hue of
Women are always sobbing.
My good friend with fishnet tights cries and
cries when the bottle breaks and
glass becomes embedded in those brown
fingertips of hers.
What is worse?
The stench of rotting flesh mixed with Persian White
dripping from a needle three years defective,
or the scent of sobbing women soaked
lily-livered in sweat.
With an honest tongue, politely I exclaim:
I’d rather sit with the flesh of the dead man whose filth is rotting
away with the mist of dawn,
then the crying pupils of thou who breathe in
white wind from the heavens
and exhale clouds coated thick
in a thousand vile songs.
My mother loves me like she loves the
rain when it pours and
curl ‘round their suppor-
-ting bones mercilessly.
And the pebble in her shoe
that makes blistering wounds;
She loves me like she loves my
Lack of Drive.
Determining how much the woman
is but a test untaken.
As without the rain
green drys black.
she only shows
When I press broken fingernails deep inside the
fleshy surface that is an anemic palm,
I am reminded-
I am real.
This is real.
Fourteen years old.
I remember the first time I got high
like it was yesterday,
but I can’t for the life of me
remember who am I.
Close-set eyes like brown almond paste-
(no my eyes are blue.)
This ****** body stripped of sin
only to mess it up again.
But I'm fine-
Everyone says so.
Fine like the wind in summer
blowing round and round cotton fairies.
And I press broken nails sharp like glass
into frail skin
if only to feel something.
But it never lasts long enough
Every time the sirens scream,
the blood in my hands grows colder the usual.
My chest aches in such a way I must hold myself
back from clutching it.
I breathe steadily- or as steadily as I can
as to not create a fit of panic.
But it’s terrifying.
Send a prayer to anyone whose
willing to listen and it goes:
Heavy brown eyes and a glinting smile saying hello
in a way that makes me want to cry tears of
Memories- innocent and pure with the wind in your hair.
And the siren continues to wail.
Being terrified that those firetrucks and ambulances are for the dangerous people you know and love.
Tall ones are the best.
Don’t cry when they don’t
talk to you- don’t cry when they do.
Read 10 minutes ago
Pretend you're asleep.
I’m asleep I’m asleep I’m-
too tired to see you today, but soon.
Read 6 minutes ago
-I wouldn’t I swear I like you
a lot I would never even think to-
(Tell him- tell him I’m down.)
Seen 20 minutes ago
“Don’t drink the water after schools out;
it’ll make you live forever.”
Love is like a dream
where everyone wakes up melancholy;
only lasting a small while.
I miss your face.
I can’t feel my hands.
They're tingling and,
my feet are sinking
into the carpet.
Red and scratchy carpet that spins over
But my heart is smiling.
it has been a good day
I used to have this dream about white umbrellas with red dots and red umbrellas with white dots, and there was a beach with nice sand-- the soft kind that doesn’t feel scratchy on bare thighs.
Maybe a blue woven blanket and a transit radio with rusted edges. But there were never any people.
Except for me.
I was there walking along the too soft sand- barefoot and jubilant.
The waves crashed horizontally- you could see them, but came quickly to the realization that you would never feel them- they only traveled left and right.
And the sun and clouds and very much blue sky would be extremely beautiful-- until a sort of smoke like thought would enter your head. The thought
none of this is real.
I used to have a lot of dreams. But now I’m not so sure when I dream- when exactly I stop dreaming.
It’s like someone pushed a pause button on my ability to sense reality as it is.
It’s a terrible tribulation to attempt to hold focus- my head is a daydream.
Like I'm living in an upside down daydream where nothing is real, yet my actions do in fact have consequences.
Like I am nothing more than a person made up by another mind sent to play poker on the 50" flat screen you just had to buy.
My head is attached to my body but my mind is not. And this body-- my body- is not actually so.
Every memory is disfigured and foggy and seems to make no real connection.
Who am I?
I don’t know and I don’t think I’ll ever know again.
It’s too complex a thought.
Am I saying I like something because I like it- do I truly enjoy it?
Or am I just saying so-
I mean, what do I really like?
Who is this person behind my eyes?
I’m not sure anymore.
Is this actually a poem?