I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.

And it's okay
if you flinch
every time he moves
his hands too fast

because in another time,
you were just
defending yourself,
and that is all right.

And it's okay
if you still skip class
every once
in awhile

because in another time,
that was the only time
you could catch a break,
and that is all right.

And it's okay
If you stay up all night-
making friends with
your bedroom walls

because in another time,
sleeping meant dreaming,
and all you really wanted
was reality,
and that is all right.

It will all be okay
in the end.

I want my lungs to refuse oxygen
I want blood to stop flowing through my veins
I want my heart to stop beating

I want my body to be motionless
I want my body to say goodbye
I want my body to decompose

I want to leave this world
I want to no longer hear
I want to no longer have a voice

I want to hold a gun in my mouth
I want to pull the trigger
*I want to **** myself

Tonight, I want to sleep with you.
I don't mean I want to have ***. I don't even mean I want to make love.
I just want to crawl into bed with you and sleep.
I want you to keep me cozy, and wake me if I have nightmares.
I often do.
In turn I'll whisper soft sweet fantasied promises into your ear, and then tickle you until you cry from laughter so the mood doesn't get too heavy.
I want to forget about yesterday, let today fade away, and ignore tomorrow. I just want you, your steady breathing, the beat of your heart, and the snowflakes out the window.
I want your cobalt eyes to be the last thing I see each night.
And I want to pretend we can last forever.

Above, the sun laughed.
It mocked us, the intensity of it
bore down on us
melting us
from the inside out.
I could feel it gaze into my soul,
and as it did,
I felt my soul begin to die.
It melted down to a sort of liquid gold,
and could it have been bottled I would have in an instant,
and then sold it for something
useful
or
worthy.
There is
no
place for a
soul
in this world.
My soul began to boil, then bubbled over
and began to flow out my
mouth and
eyes and
ears and
nose,
pouring out of any open spot in my body.
It dripped over my cheeks and
dribbled out my mouth, then
flowed like molasses down
my shoulders and
chest,
and like honey down
my legs and
over my feet.
Once it hit the ground I heard it sizzle out of existence,
and I looked up,
feeling a new and sickening weightlessness.
My companions were crouched on the ground,
howling like madmen
and trying to lap up with their tongues
the last little bubbles of their souls
as they were absorbed by the rough desert sand.
In the younger ones I could see their souls
fizzing
in their eyes, and they gulped anxiously
in a futile effort to keep them inside.
I stared up at the sun as it continued to
laugh,
and I wished for the moon, and
the ability to cry.

A name, a name
What be in a name?
Forsooth, more than I had attended.
Montague hath borne me, yet unto Capulet tombs do I bestow myself.
This pestilence of a name, oh!
What sorrow has it brought Romeo!
Yet I do not beshrew my name this wicked Fate.
My Juliet, mine own love,
could Death have yet to claim thee?
Thine cheeks, rosy as summer
thine skin, warm as sunlight.
Could thee truly indeed be Death's paramour?
Would not it sur-prise me, for thine beauty is oft coveted.
'Twas not fault of mine nor fault of yours that hath led us to such accursed Fate;
'twas fault of our blood, flowing in hatred; marry for many a year.
Long did Montague carry coals from the lips of thine cousins, and Capulet from mine.
Alas, to reminisce does one no good.
I shall tarry not long, my love!
Bitter apothecary, thou bringeth me upward to St. Peter;
to the glimmering gates of the Promised Land where mine Juliet awaits!
...But behold how her eyes flutter; my heart stutters in reproach.
But fight can I not!
I succumb to the arms of Death.
Follow on my heels, dear Juliet.

When I was younger,
I was told "Your teenage years will be the best years of your life."
Well then,
****.
Can I turn around?
And grow young,
Instead of grow old?

When I was younger,
I imagined my teen years as parties,
And sneaking out late to see the boy that my parents hated.
I imagined being the prettiest,
And most popular girl in the school.
I imagined everything but this.

As a teen,
If this is the best years that I'll get,
Then let me be done now.

Because as a teen,
There's drama,
And ***.
Drugs,
And suicide.

Nobody ever mentioned that...

Nobody ever told me that I might not grow up to be normal.
That instead of sneaking out to see the boy that my parents hated,
I would be sneaking out to see a girl,
That my parents had no clue about.
Nobody told me about these feelings I would have,
The feelings I hate more and more by the day.
Nobody ever told me that I'd get addicted to a thin piece of metal.

My teen years didn't turn out how I thought they'd be.

Instead of parties,
I stay at home,
Alone,
In my room,
Because I hate everyone.

Instead of being the prettiest,
And most popular girl in the school,
I'm the ugly,
Emo one,
That everyone hates.

Nobody ever told me my teen years would be filled with hate.
Hate about everything that makes me up.
They hate me because I'm fat,
Because I'm gay,
And frankly,
Because I'm smarter than them.

People just told me that my teen years would be the best I would ever live,
Well that's just great.

I sit on the small, linoleum square that makes up the bottom
of my shower.
The water is hot,
120 degrees or so,
and I press my face against the cool glass
of the sliding door.
My music is playing but I can't hear it
the light is flickering but I can't see it
the water is scalding but I can't feel it.
I hear only the water falling from the shower head
see only the mist on the glass
feel only the wasting away of my heart and sanity.
And this is me,
baring my soul before you,
for nobody knows how much this is hurting me.
And as I watch the water swirl past my legs
and down the drain,
I wish I could go down the drain
with it.

You know just what to say, just how to look at me, to tear me to pieces.
I feel like it's a gift you possess.
An exceedingly rare one. Nobody else has ever made me flame up inside just with a simple look,
a simple touch on the wrist.

On those days when I hate my very existence,
when I doubt that I should be the one at your side,
you have only to draw me near.

Even with your tender words of love,
promising that I am the most,
the best,
the greatest,
my self-hatred burns me up inside until it shows on my face.

You kiss it away and tell me sweetly to prepare for my destruction.
And I come willingly, for destruction is a beautiful word when sitting upon your lips.