im so tired
weary
of cliches
"jet black"
"startling green"
"angry red"
you have thousands of words sleeping on
even the smallest bit of your fingernail,
but you refuse to leave the comfort
of words already said.

stop being afraid to yell into the
murky atmosphere of this spinning world
that you are not a cliche,
you are a burning fire
with insides of
rupturing darkness,
and dripping, drying green,
and soft, whispering red.

you are a poet,
use the tools of creation which the universe
has planted within your palms.

"i bet you're loud in bed."

**** right i am,
i'll make the plaster shake down on your
quaking body
and scream my pleasure so it fills every
empty space in our skin.

i'm not afraid to be a *****
because the only thing
quite as firm and unforgiving as my heart
are my legs.

no cliche flowers,
petals ripped off and stuffed
under our naked bodies.
no sweet nothings whispered
into the deepest crevices of my ears.
no, nothing but
ratty floral couch
under freezing toes,
and silent breathing
-we didnt want to wake up his friends parents-

it didnt hurt,
he moved my body like i was the ocean
tide
pulling in and out
it felt like a mixture of cold
disbelief and riveting
ecstasy.

he didnt even know it was my first time,
and when i told him later, poison almost
visibly dripped down his lips,
but he was quick to **** it back in and sugarcoat
it with honey flavored chapstick.

and i'm not saying i regret it
because it was nice.
but "nice" is not enough for Chandra Lunah Moore.

and afterwards, when he tried to lock me to the small
foam and spring innards
couch
with his soft legs glowing golden with the help of an
off-kilter lamp in the corner,
when my muscles strained against his,
i knew the frightening power of human
desire.
how when he didnt offer a drag from his
cigarette
at all afterwards, just ****** at it needily,
all for himself,
didnt drape his jacket around my
treacherously shivering shoulders
like he had on the walk there,
didnt carry me the rest of the way,
stomping through the snow,
lips bitter after two long drags
off a joint,
he didnt hold me like he did so many times before,
(almost like he believed he was heavier with the weight of my
saved up childhood, like some kind of bank account. life savings,
dragging on his shoulders, making them, sag. skin heavy with my touch.
and i was lighter, without it.
i could walk.
he was obviously carrying the real burden.)
i knew, when he kissed me goodbye and it tasted like
a
wasted night
spent on not getting what he
wanted

i knew he was meaningless and i would
never again settle for
                                     just
                                            nice.

its morning,
not even purple yet,
like a bruise on the snow, blue and pink and black
reflected from the sky and the tempest within
i lie covered in his voice
singing in the sharp winter dawn air, slicing my cheeks with knife-like metaphors,
his words like honey,
how can something be so sweet and yet so
lethal?

good morning*
i screamed to the burning sky
put your drifting fingers in my trembling body
let me *******
and turn me flushed and red like the morning clouds.

because i want something passionate to touch me
and your bare body with scratches of cherry jam
all across it
like the insides of a sweet and sour homemade pie,
steam drifting off its browned lips,
are all i have in mind

i want to walk naked in the cold,
with my ******* like pebbles rising from the
bitter slap of early spring,
legs bearing small braille letters
goosebumps in my golden flesh,
fearless.

are you blind?
i want you to read me with your body.

because i am so much more than this
earthly thing of flapping paper skin,
and bending silverware bones.
so please tear into me like a drill
digging into earth to ****** handfuls of gold
and find
my soul
because it's been waiting,
and i am far from patient.

i put daffodils in my messy hair,
and rub my calloused palms which have
embedded within them the scent of burnt tobacco
like old couches, and charcoal scattered blankets,
and then i pretend that each day doesn't push the sunrise
even farther behind.

my parents drove, and took me away
from school
my mother bore heavy words on her chest,
weighing her down with every wheezing breath she took.
my step-father had something a little vacant in his eye,
barely there but i noticed.

they sat me down and spoke
small, soft, strong words to me
and then

your

grandfather

has

cancer

i sat still, unmoving,
"if it spreads to his lungs, he will have two more
months
to live."

slipping, slipping like mudslides in a rainy season,
air in my throat was stagnant
bones
weren't holding my body properly, what was happening to my
skeletal system?
dripping like
cold rain.

then, i crashed.
speeding, so fast down a freeway,
sliding down the highway,
slippery ice under
and here was the crash.

wet anger tore into my mothers shoulders
as i clenched them
i
screamed  
why do such horrible things
happen to such
kind people

and my mother said
i dont know
with tears of her
own.

our souls we're much too big for our bodies,
it was bursting out the seams of our small limbs.

maybe everything started that one day
in seventh grade when we lied about what movie we were
going to see,
and we put up our hair in brown piles on top of our heads
and squeezed into pants so small we could feel our bones pressing against
the fabric.

when we walked into town,
miles from your house in the dusty summer,
with me dragging my skateboard along,
with the skull on the bottom
and you walking with you long legs slightly in front of me;
drunkards with
swiveling eyes whistled at us from
a green jeep and tried to cajole us into the car,
my small ******* was ****** high into
the sweltering air
"******* YOU MISOGYNISTIC *******,"

we couldn't get into the movie we wanted to,
so we snuck into a different one
filled with snow and dark
and twirling tendrils that reached toward us and
made our stomach crawl.

sometimes i miss the times desperately
when we would pack things into a small cloth
sack
food, knives
we'd trek in the forest for hours and
this one time we broke into somebodies pool, dipped our feet in
then got chased away by their livid dog.

we had left the gun we brought there,
you had two and we liked feeling it cold against our
empty fingers,
so i had to run back and get it.

sometimes i think about how if i had never met you,
my life would be so different.
i would have never smoked my first joint
with you on your trampoline
encased in large, fluffy blankets
under millions of stars that couldn't quite fit in our
eyes all at the same time.

we would have never pranced in
yellow drying grass,
and almost fell into your creek, with
your brother laughing behind.

i'm glad we wrote songs
together even if they were about
blood dripping slowly from our open carcasses;
we weren't the most optimistic kinds of
girls.

we had wills as hard as
hitting iron,
metallic in spurting bloodshed.

we were rebellious,
like other girls we're pretty,

and we fought like warriors should
in small, bland classrooms
with teachers who knew nothing of being hurt.

our voices were strong,
unwavering like something found in the depths of a morning sky.

we raised ourselves well, darling.

"Is it bad that I never made love, no I never did it
But I sure know how to ****"

god i might not know how to
say those three words,
but i'll kiss you against your soft
cotton sheets
and sprawl bare against them,
and make you think it all the same.

"Cause I had some issues, I won't commit
No, not having it"

i'll slink my body
and move my hips around the atmosphere
we'll both be drunk,
slurring on the beat
that my tongue moves to.

"I'll be your bad girl, I'll prove it to you
I can't promise that I'll be good to you"

my mouth is like
nicotine,
you'll never get enough of it.
but baby,
its so self destructive.

i want to learn french,
but i suppose i've learned enough because
cigarette
is a french word isn't it?

i wish i could stretch my bones till i'm a little taller
pull my hair out from my head, make it longer.
in a car with wrinkles of rust from years
driving through mountains of dust and old whiskey bottles,
we'd stuff ourselves and our midsummer, sparkling eyes
and tan skin.
two capricorns, two cancers, two aries
burning in their legal freedom, burning with the glory.

most of us suffered through the stuffed,
cabinet town
together,
like secret cigarettes the smallest amount too large for their
hiding place.

we were vast, our souls fingers outstretched
like morning fog,
wandering and grabbing spread out like
cards,
grasping everything we could find.

our souls fingers were like
a desperate man,
roaring for anything to save him.

i want to be touched by somebody
with burgundy blood on his hands;
red handed
raw palmed
legs strangled in maroon bedsheets.

a murderers kiss must be a rush,
blood exploding from every pore in my
bled out skin,
wounds opening willingly for his searching
hands to make
a sort of house out of my bones.
creating a home for something
wild
who has only ever met closed doors
and distant, fearful faces.
i'd prove i wasn't scared of
the dark eyes,
and hungry lips,

knowing at any moment he could push the
cool lips of a golden .45 caliber revolver
and splatter my ****** through the
wooden bedpost and the
flaking, collapsing drywall.

i've followed thrills ever since i was
in third grade,
convincing a boy to take off his clothes
and show me what "men" are made of
and sneaking behind my mothers
injured back
stealing things i wasn't supposed to know about.
i liked putting myself through the danger,
unknown
it rushed up my legs and
rendered me breathless and craving more.  

i've always wanted to hold
something shaking
and cold
and let them tell me stories
out of their biting teeth
of when when it all started:
they were small and rode their bicycle
so fast they fell and skinned their
soft pink cheeks on the black cement
and went crying to their mother with blood dripping
down
a mixture of tar and red.

i'll tell them there's some place in hell
in the beating, drumming heart of the earth
warm darkness compacted,
where you can buy cigarettes for
50 cents a pack,
and whiskeys in water bottles and skin is naked
guns are loaded to shoot down the moon
and eat it with crunching, crumbly golden crackers.
where there is no sleep
only midnight writing furiously on the stark pages
of a shredded journal
dawn walks down the lively sidewalks where
other sleepless figures of orange peel flavored darkness
and coffee bean stained teeth dance and laugh and touch
in the darkest parts of the invisible morning
sweat intermixed unrecognizably with tears
and people hold their belongings in
the drooping bags under their bright eyes,
where screams of pleasure echo in every
cavern and creaking limb you touch
to the atmosphere
and people make love easier
than they
destroy necks.

i'll whisper
"when you're rotting underground
with your teeth in a
waxen, strained smile with lovers flesh embedded
in your own homely skull,
and your fingers are feasts for writhing worms,

and i'm dancing chaotically as ever in the raging wind,
a desert flower reduced to
bright-eyed dust
thrown lightly into the sinking seeds of a garden
with flowers growing out of my decomposing
echo of a body
like an
articulate oil painting decorating the earth to remind them
of my eternity,
i'll sink all the way through the soil
and follow the heartbeats

i'll meet you there."

i've always wanted to **** a ghost
and now i suppose i've gotten my wish
but i look down and see
your insides exploding
with the wrong kind of transparency.

"do not go gentle into that good night,"
thomas, neruda and bukowski would
hammer our black lungs,
shape the tar into sidewalks,
build a night sky out of the darkness,
abyss,
a garden of stars
out of stale ribs and dry plants.

we'd arrive in New York,
palms sweaty and imprinted
with the spindly rivers of map ink, tattooing our fingers
with the criss cross
of Arizona roads;
our fingernails embedded with the scent of
smoke and wine,
lips tinted vague purple.

our limp wet hair would hang across our foreheads,
plastered
like an attached child

we'd kiss goodbye
dry lips like the desert, cigarette coal burning hot like sand
soft lips, like sunflower blankets
golden lips, like sun filtered brandy
pale lips, the foam of the ocean,
dark lips like evening
bruises.

the thing is,
we've all waged war on ourselves.

we've all been warriors against our
own body,
our own mind,
thoughts.

we've all told ourselves
that the things we create are not good enough,
that our hearts are not strong enough,
that we are so small compared to this sinking earth,
and we could never do anything about it except
scream and scream
from someplace high
until someone hears us,
saves us.

we've all torn
our bodies apart
whether it be with our fingers,
guiding razors, scratches,
adorning our precious skin with
purple bruises,
red slashes.
whether it be with our state of
mind,
shrinking ourselves,
pitying ourselves.
whether it be the
acceptance of heartbreak,
and the un-willingness to let it go.
we try to find salvation
in tiny, bitter pills,
try to find love in our medication.

the thing is,
we've all held battlegrounds within ourselves
and we're still so unkind.

we've been a shelter for ****** genocides
of creativity, and
we've held car crashes
of broken trains of thought,
in our screaming and thrumming mind.

we've held bombs within us,
exploding, shattering inside,
lodging us with
painful reminders of what it is
to be human,
alive.

the thing is,
we're all war veterans,
with both hidden and violent scars
from fighting
the lethal battle that is
raging within.

and that's okay.

just know
that you will win someday.

grey clouds bursting stark,
volcano
ash exploding
crawling
drowning
amber measures of coal black
lungs
back aching,
carrying newborn mornings.

please do not say "i love you"
to me, if you desire to be my lover

i wont be impressed,
and my heart wont flutter.
it's cliche, and overused, and the phrase honestly bores me.

you could lay your kisses on top of me
like dominoes,
and call me the rising sun that tinges the clouds
with peach and crimson.
you could say that i am the fear in your stomach
when you're about to jump off something high,
you could say i was dead roses in the cold of
Marches early snow.
but jesus christ.

please do not say "i love you"
to me, if you desire to be my lover*

cant you be more ******* creative than that?
can anyone be more ******* creative than that?

it's sort of funny how i can bang you like
a frying pan to the head
and *** all your cigarettes
until your pockets are empty
and so is the bed
because

i'll want to know what kissing the
boy who lives next door
with the green eyes
feels like too

the funny thing is,
you think i'm still interested.

i don't fall in love with people who leave me
alone,
frigid, frozen
covered in a 9 o'clock night rain
with a piping cup of peppermint tea in my shaking fingers and
nowhere to walk except home.

you only ever touched me once
and that was centuries ago
when my lungs were new and fresh,
and i didn't come home smelling like ashtrays and stolen lilac
perfume.

i'm not a little girl anymore,
and i dont cry when red lights shine down
and people scream into microphones
with sweat sliding of the sides of their faces
cheeks shiny like stainless steel coffee pots.

i'm not attracted to you,
just like i'm not interested in your friend
that i ******
who tasted like american spirits and greed
because it's not worth looking at boys
who will never, ever satisfy you
or understand even the tips
of your fingernails
and golden brown split ends.

we lay in the fields and on the dry hills
and smoked green out of a purple pipe and you kissed a boy who talked about crystals and rolled down under the stars
i shared my cigarette with soft lips and a strong jawline,
we all drew ourselves together on the hill that overlooked the world;
we we're the tallest, vastest beings ever to live, and the glowing lights that we're stuck like splinters in the palms of the sky we're mere reflections of what was within our glowing skin.

hydrocodone,
its like the ice broke and now i'm
in the depths of the murky swamp.

i am in a morning bleary eyed
slumber, still.

my head is pounding and i can barely move.

its the aftermath of all that euphoria, i suppose;
three little happy pills.

i need a cigarette.

yesterday we smoked 17,
and now we have nothing.

we'd drive long hours, longer than my stretched out hair,
until the air was absent of pines
until we were far over the leering mountains like snaggle teeth,
jutting out, sharp, distantly lavender.
classic rock would blare from the speakers,
almost crunchy in our palms,
like old, dried flowers,
and walls of heat would slam
solid.

our clothes would be in napping, crumpled, piles
and sunlight like gold coins would spill through the
open windows,
resting on our skin like afternoon breath;
light and hungry.

our fingers would be nesting like slender birds
on the doors, leather burning our palms,
hands holding various types of cigarettes,
thumbs periodically ashing
into the screaming, sweating wind.

the summer was a woman
giving birth.

i'd search for a boy with
honey colored hair like tousled, dry
summer grass
and a face of
sculpted
clay,
where creases are made at the edges of his eyes,
the echo of his grin.

he whispers his poetry harshly
with lips like racing animals,
his strong voice sinks into the ocean of
night
like an empty bottle
in a leaky boat.

i'll find where his lips
softly kiss the body of a
cigarette before bed.

then i'll eat some tobacco
and light myself on fire in his
sheets.

take me to the desert
lie me down on the burning shifting sand
dry my skin into creaking sheets
of golden leather
feed my guts to the wolves
bury my bones with the snakes under the land
where no man will ever touch them again.
stretch me out under the heat
hang my intestines
like party streamers
on the spikes of cacti

i wonder what would grow out of my flesh
if you buried me alive.

why the hell does a naked body primarily represent some ****** nature?
a bare body has no ******* thing to do with ***. it is the beauty of freedom. of the lack of care it takes to be one with yourself. it is a bare canvas, ready to be painted upon by a lover, a friend, it is your life,
and every action you do paints something upon that beautiful bare canvas. a body is not meant to be hid, or be shameful of.
for, if you cannot live in your own skin,
how can you ******* live at all?

i don't like nice poetry.
i don't like fancy words,
or tranquil thoughts,
i don't like comfortable or smooth.

i like
R A W

i like poetry that rips you apart from the inside out
shreds your skin,
takes your oxygen and forms it into something else
unbreathable.

i like poetry that leaves you staring,
with watering eyes like whole oceans somehow slipped,
unlocked the bolted door to your retinas late at night
and slept cold, salty and drunk on your bed without an invitation.

somehow the love you made,
sweat staining the soft, greasy thin sheets
meant nothing.
and now the oceans lying beside you,
inside you
salt making you cringe, gag in the safe dark cover of night,
strikes you as positively
irritating;
their breath of tides,
growing small and large with every
step closer they take towards shore.

so you ****** your hands in the swift
raging waters of their
body.
you try to find its warped, used heart,
like a crumpled, empty cigarette package
discarded and wet after a war waging rain;
rippled and streaming in the
transparency of its quaking body.

you seek to rip it out,
and tiptoe to the open window,
vacantly staring at you from across the room,
every inhale it takes
letting more warm, humid air like
dead fishes breath
into the scalding room.

you wish to throw that pulsing,
helpless heart out into the night
listen for a couple of moments
and hear it splatter on the concrete below
the ajar window,
sure that cold,
wet
remains of the ocean floor would be scattered on
the sidewalk in the morning.

but you cant seem to successfully rip it out,
the tendons holding onto the ribs
like wild veins,
stubborn and clingy.
you pull and pull,
aching to tear it from
the body,
but the water around it is too cold so you
jump out of the
waves and weeds of under the sea,
and lie on your back listening to its breath
breathing still in deep sleep,
angry that the tearing on its
heart
didn't make it stir one bit;
just made your hands burning
ice and numb
purple in the dark.

so you satisfy yourself by gently
pressing your lips to its
throat,
sinking your teeth deep below its
vital veins,
stopping the raging rivers in its
soft neck,
pulsating with currents,
glowing with a sliver of silver moonlight passing
through it like a wrenching scar.

you crunch down violently
on its delicate
lifeless passageways
transporting fresh water
to salted sour oceans,
crispy like stringy celery
breaking uneasily in the warm cavern of
your mouth.

then you lie down, fulfilled.
the lack of its vessels
stopping the tide of its breath violently and suddenly,
carotid arteries,
jugular veins
and muscles
spread out,
spurting from its throat,
vast like twisted wings.

you ash your cigarette on the draining
wetness of its tongue,
throw the filter down its decapitated throat
and sit on the white, crusting balcony,
waiting for the rusting sun to rise,
picking sand out from your teeth.

if you only could taste me
now,
my lips would say to yours,
the poetry of
"pancakes with too much butter
slipping off like young men's
clothing"
and
"frigid air before the sun has woken
latched on my teeth like drowning men
holding onto rocks"

you'd ******* dreams
of sneaking out midsummer,
(always my favorite, when nights were merely darker echoes of
the day)
of running down roads with black
feet,
in the disguise of a naked crow.
flying in the heat with a pistol in her black fingers.
that was the first
                      time
                            id
                              ever
                                   dreamed
                                              of
                                                 a
                                                  gun.
i'd swear you'd taste the blood-like twang of fired bullets like shards of metal on my lips, too.

there is something charming seeing his off-kilter lope, down the sidewalks and through the rain. there’s something about his neck. I could recognize it almost anywhere. Something about his mouth, how he forms his words. It’s like a bird at the edge of flight.
a half smile in the sunshine,
eyes as bright as my empty grandmothers vase,
they tear my skin and look inside me,
assure me that I’m not too insane.
I know when I think too much when I’m around myself too often
I start to lose touch with that idea of
reality
that is so monopolized by the needy self-indulged ants,
sitting by the heart of the womb of their comforts coffins.
these people are flighty. They aren’t risky, they’re just flighty. And I need someone who’s not see through,
he’s quite tangible.
is that why I long to feel him constantly,
his skin pulsing softly against my fingertips
the slightest curvature of his very being, I would like to kiss until I am solidity in myself as well
I almost need him
though I don’t want to admit.
when I can be held like that,
Its like something is keeping me from completely losing my head
I know I am not infinite
I know that I could be swept off
like a candle in the wind
at any moment. No we are not boundless. We are very limited, very flawed.
all we have is the moments we’re living, and we’re stuck with an idea for the future. We’re never happy, the grass is greener on the other side, true enough,
but theres something wrong with not seeing life as it is in the moment,
when you’re trying to write a story about it to look back upon in the future.
what if there is no future to sit and look back upon?
whats the other side?
we only have our past for granted, the present a promise, and the future a lie,
because we are not infinite, no, but
He makes me stupid,
He makes me feel like im forever.

my morning dreams,
are scattered and
faint,
like dust in the lazy sunlight,
drifting through the window.

there are pens,
they leave words, on paper,
they dance with the language of art.

there are paintbrushes,
they glide upon canvases
magenta
violet
and sometimes you can make that empty sort of grey-ish blue,
like the one that's reflected upon pale skin when it's just before dawn.

and then there are mouths,
and they paint with warm, slick tongues,
on cold freckled flesh,
and they move up and down spines,
and they adorn throats,
and make marks,
disguised love letters on skin,
like the
purple you see in freezing toes,
and lilacs peeking up from spring snow.

i am actually quite a raging hurricane.
i have things slew precariously on the cluttered floorboards
of my mind,
and i trip on things with throbbing toes
thrown into the caverns
of my hollowed bones
constantly.

i mistake "ie" for "ei" in
words i should know the meaning of,
and find myself gagging on the
knowledge of which way is left and which is right.
i lose myself in the dawn,
and then i have to find my way back home during the mornings
stumbling through the wet grass
and acrid manure
soft, strained yellow rusting on wilted daffodils
left cut on cement after a night of rain.
i have no sense of direction,

and maybe this is why i can't determine
right from wrong.

i have no built in moral,
just an empty piece of new-skinned, unworn brain
where my patience and good deeds lie sleeping.

the only thing i have to soften my
naked sin and lustful greed is love,
coursing inside my arteries
like a raging river of fire,
burning skin where
people touch.
i cook callouses with it,
give the sun something
to envy.

burnt ashes were houses,
and now they lay smothered and leaking
with dripping,
coal
remains.

i'm not a mess,
i'm just a storm.

if you
call yourself cruel,
just imagine
how horrible it would be
when i tear your
jaws out
with my
teeth

i don't even know my own father's birthdate,
and sometimes i still think about
boys who never touched me
with fingers
instead he caressed me
with dark,
star painted
tall trees.

that life is behind me
and if this one is a temporary one,
then i'm not sure which one i'm really living.
is that why reality seems so
fragile?

i wake up when the skies dark eyes
are still asleep.
i walk alone in the cold breeze,
tongue searching for something cool,
freezing to coat my throat
make things less dry.

my eyes droop when people talk to me here,
not passionate enough
i like when people scream
and shout with crumbling lungs,
slanting houses inside of them, falling off-kilter.
i like when eyes are alive,
and skin is burning,
glowing.

i like sweat,
on shaky musicians, red lights outlining their spitting lips with
ferocity.
i like human flaw, when they run into things and don't think;
just let go
let go
i like people who swear a lot,
who let me kiss them and let me feel the
moving dawn
of "****"
in their mouths.

for the first time in a while,
i looked up at the sky,
and emptied my mind.
all i said was
wow
this
is
so
*******
beautiful
to the slowly illuminated sky.
and i almost broke down because for the first time in a while,
i'm seeing the beauty in the simplest things of life.

if "heavy" smokers are defined as smoking 5 cigarettes
a day,
then i will be the heavyweight
champion.

it got cold. it would.

the clouds it seemed, ate the sun. and goosebumps came along with the absence of the warmth,
and you touched them gently,
like my skin was some fragile thing, that you did not want to break.
like you were blind and the bumps on my skin were Braille letters,
and it spelled out a secret only the tips of your fingers knew how to read.

i am a girl of storm, ash, thorns, sunset and fire.

let me kiss you with my lightning tongue,
flickering and fast, shocking.
i'll char you into oblivion with the very wandering fingers of my soul,
like creeping fog.

i'm like the lingering ozone before thunder,
waiting,
i am the churning in your stomach.
i am the very pounding downpour, ripping your skin
like eagerly torn paper envelopes,
searching for something like a soul, an essence.
drowning your small bones in my
watery hands;
is this ***** or rain?
it all burns
almost the same,
to someone skinless and raw.

i am grey-lipped,
like some elaborate Persian ashtray,
sitting on a magenta carpet
stained with innocence and old perfume spills.
i am a
steel rose,
with a red, drunken face
growing within the small torments of
a plastic vase.

i am the thorns that sit uncomfortably in your skin,
i dig deep, scratching at your marrow
with my very own teeth,
trying desperately to find substance in your
emptiness
and vacant human flesh.

i am sunset,
drowning the horizon in one million different
kinds of wine.
my soul lays down sprawling on top of the sighing ocean,
and it disappears as dwindling light for the
thick,
forest trees
strong and rooted like
womens legs.

i am fire,
burning like pine-wood embers,
creating dark holes out of off-white cotton bedsheets,
dotting them like black and sienna burnt constellations.
i am scorching,
dancing,
i am vivid,
flaming.
i am soft.
i am raining.

i am a girl of storm, ash, thorns, sunset and fire.

i need a pack of Marbs, stat.

my stepfather told me to stop smoking so much or I'd get a hole in my throat and I wouldn't be able to sing with my pretty little voice anymore.

i said *******.

i hate being ignored
but i do it to other people,
and
sometimes i just don't want to say anything
and when i do
i guess i say too much.

i'm mean and rude
and nobody want's to talk to me
because if they say something i don't like,
then i'll tell them
right away to stop saying it.

i haven't called my mother
in a while,
and people are telling me what to do.
i want to escape
and jump into freezing water

because when i come out i will
be extremely
numb
and i'll be able to feel the sun a little better

you know what I will do? I will wear short shorts if I want. I will eat until I am comfortably full without worrying about being a pant size any less than I am. I will shave if I want to, I will wear what I like, I will say what I please. I will wear a bra if I want. I will wear crop tops if I want. I respect myself, but that doesn't mean I have to be dressed like a nun. I will think what I please. what I will not do is worry about what societies idea of acceptable is, because I don't give a ****. life is too short to give a **** about going out of your way to impress a blind man. society will always be judging you.
people will always talk.
do what makes YOU happy and don't ******* change yourself for anyone.

i lose everything.
i take naps on winding roads
above mountains
and i even lose my dreams.

sometimes in the shower i pull
violently on
my face,
seeing if i'm real enough,
assuming that it will crumble in my hands
turn into a brown puddle
and drip down the drain.

my mouth feels dry and i
feel aching
where my shoulder meets my arm
and my clavicle is nothing but a stick
covered with a
man of flesh;
my body is making love
and layered upon one another in a
fiery bed of red.

the odd thing,
is i want to smoke
and sleep
and lose some things in my memory.

like  skin  want  lips  night  words  love  soft  just  time  say  sun  hair  summer  know  eyes  morning  crave   burning   tick   way   life   long   old   smoke   moment   body   kiss   people   dark   small   voice   black   cigarette   face   hold   fingers  
ocean   little   breath   mouth   red   need   girl   sky   town   feet   new   stop   cigarettes    make    naked    things    feel   hands  fall  past  bed  tired  cold  filled  *******  softly  vie­  vivre  we'd  walk  dawn  left  air    
look    white   yell    good    thought    head    art    bodies    boy    rain  ­  wine     took    dry    drunk    road    snow    bottles    poetry   untitled  
you'd    light    nice    maybe    tongue    secret    kisses    ­warm    supposed    kissed    remember    touch  future   leaves    leave    music    ice    strong    wild    bones    sin­ging    couch    throat    sleeping    young    scream    
lovely­   mountains    eyed    coffee    golden    purple   inside    cheeks    world    taste    used    came  lungs  day  alive   room   sunlight   different  end  heart  letters  think  kind  open    distant    dancing    hearts    sweet high    knew   tears    blue    mother    water    freedom    wonder    painted    wind  ­  makes    read    told    heat   happy    
afraid    grass   brown  half  late  exactly  raw  large  hanging  whiskey   clothing  flowers  drunken  palms stuffed  there's   tiny    silent    moments    hot    dreams    bit    speak     dance    desire    dust    ready    arms    moon    run   drink    fast    trying    longer    slowly    darkness  
  real

all i ever do
is crave cigarettes and crave you

not suicidal,
i just want to be filled with sand,
and cut open
letting my insides fall from
a poets hand.
please just give me ***** so this day
will end
with empty beds
and things shoveled
out of my head.
i need to get out of this place
it makes my
skin feel
like
lead.

i haven't slept as early as
ten
since when i was small, afraid of the
blinding, groping that would come to life
in the darker parts of night;
unless you count times i've been too intoxicated to stand,
too empty to breathe,
too ****** to speak,
that i close my eyes the second i hit
third base sheets,
hoping oblivion would
take me.
swallow me like one of those pills.

"you're a little bit of a chameleon
you never quite dress the same
you always look a little bit different"

that's because I shift my skin every hour or so
I live on the constant brink of what I could be
French music at 5 a.m.
and tom waits at midnight
Rodriguez in the shower
and silence in the dead
quiet of an October snow fall

I gave up smoking and took up
chocolate pancakes at 2 p.m.
I live naked in my room made of
red fire and velvet

someday if I squeeze into
that domestic skin with a floral dress
and bulging *******
with instant coffee breath
you have to promise to build me a sun roof
the kind that I can watch the mountains turn purple as
the morning shreds itself onto the hills
and

if I squeeze into the skin
that I have already known
one with pressurized headaches
and a complex for falling for
strange men on the roadside
and an obsession for the occult
and cinnamon flavored, spine tingling
gum
a hint of violence
promise that you'll leave right away

if I want to push myself in that shrunken skin
of a small brown
tornado
tell me you won't try to run after as the
debris collects

every day I decide which skin to wrap around my spine
trying in the meantime
to scrub anonymous fingerprints off the majority of them

the fog swallowed the dawn,
the sky is left hungry.

when i die,
i will not be buried,
i will be burned and my body will become
smoke in the vacant skies.

"are you depressed?"

i wipe my eyes of
slow
grogginess,
i pull myself struggling out of a
fluctuating dream state to rest
temporarily in reality.

"what?"

"oh well... wanting to sleep through everything, and never
wanting to do anything is one of the
leading causes of
depression"

thanks i really had no ******* idea

"well i had it all through middle school
so i wouldn't be surprised."

"maybe you should talk to someone about it,"

i packed my things
angrily
loud, in her
echoing teal classroom,
and left quickly.

*she really has no ******* clue

i wanna write

write write write

right until its dripping for more,
until the paper is aching and begging and my burgundy guts
are folded and mangled across that pristine page

i want to be raw and obvious
the world a witness to my pungent feeling,
every wide eye dripping like my letters
are chopped onions
stinging

i want to make the world drone
with the mumblings of my soul

i am bleeding recklessly onto these pages
unable to stop:
punctured and petrified
with this passion, as the ocean recedes
in fear that it will simply steam away.

and then i walk,
naked, wet and bear ***** under
flickering fluorescent streetlamps that have seen
more ***** deeds than my own hands
i am merely a skeleton rattling down moaning alleyways
breath white and stark like skin freshly slapped
against the midnight of my mind.

i will write till i am disrobed, till it has rocked me raw
until the needle just plays static, until i am all shriveled like
dried mango and a lone sun baked chili pepper,
until it has eaten every piece of me, until the giantess of
my words
finds herself picking my own remains out of her teeth,
until i am consumed by this burning
                                                           this desire
                                                                          this raging
                                                                                        WILD FIRE