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mindless
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
mindless
bitter white pills
stolen from the nurses office
crushed on the rocks,
merciless shores
of my craggy, gnashing teeth.

swallow it down
with purple liquid and
gag at the crude
astringent taste
like a fine powder
of dandelion leaf
burdock root
twisted hell.

floating down the hallway,
words jumbled and crumpled
thrown away paper
lodged in the crevices of my throat,
hacking it out with a nicotine
kissed cough.

i've got four more pills in my pocket,
but i'm craving ten.
Continue reading...
mirror
Lappel du vide Mar 2014
mirror
"how strange it is to be anything
at all"

sometimes i look
at my skin
and wonder why we have
branches growing out of lined palms,
and wonder why
our eyeballs look like galaxies
compacted

and i realize that there is no answer
but to stop thinking about it
and just
live
for ***** sake.
Continue reading...
months ago
Lappel du vide Dec 2013
months ago
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.
Continue reading...
morning. 1
Lappel du vide Jan 2014
morning. 1
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.
Continue reading...
morning. 2
Lappel du vide Jan 2014
morning. 2
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.
found this from a little bit ago.
Continue reading...
morning. 3
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
morning. 3
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.
Continue reading...
morning. 4
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
morning. 4
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.
Continue reading...
morning epiphanies
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
morning epiphanies
you know what i will not do?
i will never, ever pity myself again.

what is there to pity?
i have everything i need;
i have a golden body filled with fulfilled actions,
and nights to live through
to rest my tired head on
some grassy hill when darkness is fading
and know that i have lived another day
and i will live so much more.

i will
take a deep breath,
tilt my chin,
and hold myself with this strength
pirouetting within me.
and i'll feel every one of my emotions like
they are
the early dawn itself,
skimming their bodies above mine,
sinking into my growing,
stretching skin,
lighting fires inside of me,
i'll let them burn inside me like
bonfires on hills with small pieces of paper
shrinking to ashes as black as
the fingers that caress my body
on empty mountain tops.

i will create even more of a woman within myself,
filled with
everything i have ever *******
dreamed to create inside of my whirling
*******, and
erupting heart.

i will walk,
and my steps will shake this earth.

i will never pity myself again,
because i will wake up with
the ******* sun shining out my eyes;
i am everything i have set out to be.

i will not tread lightly upon
my life,
afraid.
i will step with purpose,
i will make my actions
create a masterpiece of life,
i will make being alive an
art.
i will make a dent in this atmosphere,
i will spill, contract, expand, dance, explode
because this is my life,
and i will stop cradling it,
i will grasp it
and
i
will
run.

i am the roaring of motorcycles attacking
cement,
i am paint splattered canvas, sketch grooves in paper
carved in a frenzy,
ink stained palms,
i am the blazing sun, and its wrathful heat.
i am stumbling words, creating
rivers across
sleeping faces,
i am feet racing,
in cold winter air, breath slapped with one thousand
whisking tree branches,
i am a weary spine,
bent over four in the morning pages of sloppy poetry,
heart spilled all over like clumsy sipped coffee,
i am drunken truth,
i am real,
i am whole,
i am.

STOP PITYING YOURSELF
AND BE

ALIVE
e·piph·a·ny  [ih-pif-uh-nee]  
noun, plural e·piph·a·nies.

a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience.
Continue reading...
morphine
Lappel du vide Jan 2014
morphine
my head is ticking
tick tick tick
i wonder if its because the pills i downed
with ice and bathroom water
are making me shake so hard, my brain is trembling
against my skull
concussion
tick tick tick
i can barely hold myself upright at dinner
my eyelids drip onto my plate
and my body aches like a train used it for a
doormat
tick tick tick
maybe its life telling me,
in its own way,
that the time is drawing near,
and these ticks are the distant
footsteps of the end


*tick tick tick
Continue reading...
murderous
Lappel du vide Mar 2014
murderous
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."
ask them to bury you with 50 cents in each of your pockets
Continue reading...
natural disaster
Lappel du vide Mar 2014
natural disaster
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.
some like the burn,
that's why i find myself kissing
only whiskey drinkers
under their thin sheets.
Continue reading...
New York pt. 1
Lappel du vide Jan 2014
New York pt. 1
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.
Continue reading...
New York pt. 2
Lappel du vide Jan 2014
New York pt. 2
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.
Continue reading...
New York pt. 3
Lappel du vide Jan 2014
New York pt. 3
"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.
Continue reading...
New York pt. 4
Lappel du vide Jan 2014
New York pt. 4
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.
Continue reading...
not sad, just a little vacant
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
not sad, just a little vacant
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.
Continue reading...
november longing
Lappel du vide Mar 2014
november longing
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.
Continue reading...
nyquil
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
nyquil
chugging nyquil
with black haired girls
in the bathroom, with my bones shivering in anticipation
and cold,
at the same time
it hit half an hour later,
my hands are covered in charcoal
my thoughts are sinking to the
muddy bottom,
i stare at the space just above the clock for a little,
swaying to the rhythm
"why'd you only call me when you're high?"
well,
i'm not high
but i'm drifting somewhere in between
and i only wish
i could hear your voice.
Continue reading...
patna sahib
Lappel du vide Oct 2017
patna sahib
there were tiny lights visible,
an insomniac city with deep secrets that
we shoved within its busy guts:
that night
on top of concrete,
on top of you
shivering as the concerned wind
raced against our skins, in a hurry to push us back inside
telling us to forget,
but our bones resisted,
the moon and her stars were in cahoots with our desire
mumbling distractedly at the wind to settle;
everything held its breath as all creation watched
as we melted slippery and dripping into one another

something in the middle of the night,
a psychotic urge to talk to you
on the roof
alone
hundreds of feet over a city that we fought with sticks
in the ***** streets and
pushed against wild, raging crowds
sweaty, sticky with marigold petals
stark against the sea of navy blue
like a second skin.

our hearts tangled in one another ribs
a perfect mirror to the Indian electric cables
in the middle of a dusty Delhi alley
webbing and weaving and terribly tangled,
an interwoven mess
but the only thing that works.

there was something hungry inside of me
and it leaped every time I laid my eyes on you
with a twitch of a memory of your
grabbing hands and
the smooth part above your eyebrows
I was craving like a gaping fireplace after
a long summer
ready to blaze and burn and devour you

I stare at your picture
its embalmed in my mind, a soothing
cream for all the burns that I have inflicted upon myself
realizing my fire is not something to take so lightly
Continue reading...
pissed off.
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
*******.
STOP
CALLING
PEOPLE
"MOTHER *******"

DO YOU HAVE ANY RESPECT?

WHY IS "*****" AN INSULT?
WHY DO MEN CALL OTHER MEN "GIRLS"
WHEN THEY ARE "WEAK"?

WEAK?
WEAK YOU SAY?

A WOMAN BIRTHED YOU OUT OF
HER ******* ******* ******
SWEATING AND ******
IN A BATTLEGROUND OF AGONY,
SHE WENT THROUGH HOURS OF THAT PAIN
JUST SO YOU COULD BE CREATED.

do you really have such small respect
for the STRONGEST CREATURES on this earth?

**** IT UP, AND LOOK AT YOUR POSITION IN THIS WORLD.

WOMEN ARE NOT WEAK.

if you really want to test the strength of a *****
why don't you kick a man and a woman's crotch at the same time?

you can guess which one will be crouched
and holding their nether regions, gasping in
agony afterwards.

STOP BEING
SO
*******
IGNORANT,
AND RESPECT
THE *******
BEAUTIFUL WOMEN
IN THIS SPINNING WORLD.
who are "mother *******" anyways?
fathers.
Continue reading...
please remember
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
please remember
i get letters from home,
and girls tell me about the boys with the trench coats
who used to smack my *** and give me free brownies and smoke with me in the forest,
when snow was icily hugging the sleeping earth.
how he acquired a green thumb
and landed his ******, joking *** in jail
by painting "revolution" and "anarchy" on the walls of the
stone white highschool,
sprayed the word "pig" on a cop car.

i was proud,
remembering the time i told him i wanted him to help me
paint Pink Floyd lyrics in front of the library,
below the hill
on the big white canvas
to remind all of the dry-eyed, cardboard-mouthed kids that they're
just another brick in the wall.

i read it and my face glowed
with the fact that
they were revolting,
that the little town i left behind is still on fire
rife and ripe with the deep streaks
of maroon rebellion.

i hear about how
the only boy i've ever truly slept with;
fell asleep with our legs intertwined,
and woke with his soft breath on my neck in the morning,
naked skin growing goosebumps
in our bareness,
how he drew in my darling girl
of sweet chai and small teeth and big eyes and warm heart
like a soft, cozy cup of spicy tea,
how she became lost in his green eyes
and dripping confidence,
overflowing, superfluous
from the bursting vaults he holds inside
his chest, sprouting out along
with trees of light brown hair.

i got angry
i don't want stupid men to touch her,
to taint her
with small lies,
slipping from soft lips,
just enough poison to enchant her.
i'd bite their fingers off
one by one,
and chew their lips out with my
raging teeth
before i let that happen.

sometimes i feel like i need to protect her,
even though i'm the one who
corrupted her in the first place.

i'm the one who taught her that
chain smoking cigarettes in a ditch
during P.E. isn't so bad,
(and it's not, i just dont want her to do it)
who told her that kissing boys half naked in
fall leaves behind apartment complexes,
and letting them take off my clothes in the bushes
getting thorns stuck in my hair,
letting my underwear and skirt scatter forgotten at my feet,
along with his softly murmured "i love you,"
i told her that's normal;
(i want her to kiss who she pleases
but
****
i just dont want them to touch her with their ***** hands.)
who ranted to her that commitment was for people
who didn't want to experience everything they possibly could in life,
for boring ones,
who weren't worthwhile.

i showed her that
self destructive tendencies,
messy, unbrushed hair,
and purple leather jackets,
tie dye skirts
smelling like an ashtray
from smoking Marlboros in the school garden house
with a yellow sun a top it just before class
was just a part of growing into a woman.
(i guess we all have different paths,
but i wont forget her eyes when she looked at me,
i was torn and she was
stitching me up with string made from her
own skin.)
and then i realized what an absolutely
horrible friend i am,
how wretched i had been to you,
when you called me so long ago
and told me in a dry, vacant voice,
you were sad,
you had thought about hurting yourself.
i should have realized what i'd done
i hadn't protected you enough from the
desirous, screaming demon inside me
always craving, aching for more,
never, ever satisfied.

then,
you tell me in a letter
that you understood why i did the things i did,
and that you're learning
its okay to let go and do them too.

and i had to let that sink in.
if that's what i always wanted, then why did panic suddenly take me, light my body on fire?

when i'm away from you, its so simple
to become overprotective,
lashing out my broken jaws and
roaring voice at anything that
dares try to hurt you
erase the truth,
purity,
that you hold so deeply inside you.

i don't want you to kiss manipulative boys,
with dark hair
and let them touch you in a sneaking drunk dreariness
within a winter cave of night,
and i don't want you to touch them back,
and find broken brandy bottles
and their shattered glass
slowly sinking their bodies into your delicate fingers.
i don't want you to be numb, hollowed out,
walking around halls
and open lockers of close-minded
highschools
with bloodshot eyes and unstable hands, shaking and jittering,
high off some good bud after third period,
and adderall just before sixth.
i don't want you to let boys finger
you so
hard
that you practically popped your cherry,
so you sit, hips cramping, and
hurt,
soreness sinking into you,
as he begs you to kiss him
and you refusing,
insisting that he ought to know by now
"you're just another boy
i have too many
to risk kissing you in public."
i cant believe he stayed.

i don't want you to realize,
when you're drunk and stumbling on black asphalt
in the early morning
that you always feel
so ******* empty,
and off-kilter,
like somethings missing,
but whatever you try to fill it with;
gentle *** in plaid sheets,
(or were they plaid boxers?),
burning *****
(was it whiskey?).
broken ashtrays
(i said sorry, but still didn't feel forgiven)
cigarette after cigarette
("you always try to drown yourself in perfume,
but i can always smell it.")
until you get a headache and a groggy voice,
hash smoked out of apple pipes from
cafeterias,
("i'll bury it here, whenever you want to ****, just dig it up.")
visits to the school therapist
("you're bright, you know that."
how many kids have you not told that to?)
hits from your mother
("i don't regret it, like you probably don't regret the cigarettes."
"WHY DON'T YOU JUST ******* EAT THEM IF YOU WANT
THAT POISON INSIDE YOU SO MUCH."),
call slips from the attendance office
(i pinned up all my detention slips on my walls,
white flags flying
far from surrender)
same record playing,
(Vincent, Don McLean)
blood dripping down to the brown
towel you set out
to catch your slipping fears,
as they bled out of you in crimson rivers
and made a savage battleground below you;
feeling like you will never fill that empty,
tar-like black
hole
burnt inside you.

i don't want it to happen.

i want to protect you fiercely like
a mother lion,
and keep you in the safe haven of my echoing
den,

but then i think of what i'd do if you were next me
laying on your silk sheets,
looking out the glassy windows
reflecting the sky,
i know without a ******* ******* doubt in my mind,
i'd light my eyes up with a mischievous grin,
glance at your paintings
(they always inspired me)
and march to your parents bar.
(why did they keep it downstairs when they knew you had friends like me?)
i'd insist we'd have to drink at least a little,
swerve our vision till the music
caresses us,
and then i'd take a bit of everything and i'd watch you
as the liquid slid down your throat,
then i'd say i was proud of you.

but really, i want you to know that
you'll grow up when your ready,
you're so precious, but so strong
and i just need you to remember who you really are.
you're inspiration,
paintings made out of dots,
you take care of me when i'm falling apart
and horrible
and yelling.
there cant be two of us
drunken,
screaming for cupcakes in the middle
of a brightly lit grocery store,
please don't change just because
other people are doing it.
you're so strong,
be strong.

god i'm so ******* contradictory.

i just love you so much.
i don't want you to hurt
i don't want you to lose things
like i have,
to greedy boys fingers,
i don't want you bearing the pain,
(it'll be gone by the second time anyways)
i'd do anything to stop it.

but if you really want it,

some things are just so inescapable.
to Anabella Funk.
Continue reading...
Plutonium, Terbium, Uranium.
Lappel du vide Mar 2014
Plutonium, Terbium, Uranium.
do you ever start chinking away
breaking, cracking the stone, hard mineral, steel cold
barrier of your heart
so it'd be impossible for someone else
to do it for you?

white wine pungent, soft
clinking glass against an empty chasm
sunlight
hard wood draped in sleeping veneer.

cascading drapes against
violet
         dark
                 stagnant bruised skin left alone and slowly freezing over.
smoke leaking through whispering
dry lips chapped with desert words
lack of moisture creating canyons
hidden inside desperate mouths.

it's breaking like a frozen over
ashy, navy, drowning lake.
my own fault,
i always start breaking my own heart.
my own form of life insurance.

it's fogged over like a magnifying glass,
cracking across the two foot surface because
the strangled fish can't breathe under all
the permafrost and ice.

i'm waiting impatiently for summer;
i hate this cold.
Continue reading...
polar opposites
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
polar opposites
she was the kind of person,
who didn't leave me in disgust when i was yelling
and loud
obnoxiously drunk.
she'd watch me mix different types of liquors in my mouth
from her own papas cabinet,
and we'd put the acrid mixtures
in Grateful Dead shot glasses,
and i'd turn up the music
until her mother would come downstairs, and we'd frantically hide the bottles
beneath peach bedsheets, and satin pillowcases,
and pretend i wasn't swaying like the ocean tide in five inch
stilettos.

sometimes i'll laugh
at the time when we were so small
that rooms seemed to swallow us whole,
doorways were caverns,
and glasses of water were lakes.

we'd jump on the bed,
and one time her mother came downstairs,
so mid-jump we pretended to fall asleep;
it didn't work very well.

she's the person who would make me watermelon juice, and bring me almonds
when my head was being kicked
over and over by a hangover,
she's the one who would latch frightfully
and laughing
onto my windblown clothing,
as i drove us full speed down the mountain,
ignoring her screaming of the speed limit.
i knew she loved it.

she's the one who i watched the stars with,
on warm concrete,
talking about what was up there,
in that vast abyss of
emptiness,
devoid of life,
nothing but spinning galaxies
and foreign stars.

we would get into fights;
i smoked too much,
she needed to loosen up more.
i didn't think before i spoke,
she thought too much about things.
i blurted out hurtful words too often,
she was too nice.
we argued with sweaty hands on school buses,
and we'd go swimming naked in frigid water,
angrily treading the river currents
to opposite sides of the beach.

i remember when i kissed a boy
for the first time at her house,
and she was snickering at us
watching from a window,
as we slow-danced
as the sun murdered the sky with burgundy, and we tripped on each others feet.
small, hasty kiss.
he looked longingly at me
over a campfire later,
(i never kissed him again)
she and i fell asleep with smoke in our clothing.
bonfire smoke
turned to cigarette smoke.

she'd scold me for destroying packs
when i had whooping cough.
she'd hide the chocolate in her cabinets,
because she knew i'd eat it all if i got my hands on it.

i'd watch her as she would
look into the eye of a camera,
or glide a brush latched with paint on its short hair,
onto a canvas;
her skin would glow like there were a million suns
tucked beneath it,
her face would open
like a wildflower blossoming in mid-summer,
as she drove her passion
into creating things she was destined to make.

she'd make me do my homework,
i'd make her take a shot.

she'd think about things, smart and calculating,
i'd throw myself into danger, flinging my limbs into the unknown.

she taught me to breathe in,
i taught her to exhale.

polar opposites.
Continue reading...
prince of spirits and vodka
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
prince of spirits and *****
i remember all summer whenever i saw you
i couldn't help my mind wander,
lost in forests of thoughts like
what your skin would feel like with my breath
creating steam on it,
cooing soft words under it.

i remember when we smoked cigarettes by the creek,
cool water slapping our feet
like
angry mothers.
i wanted to take off your clothing
right then and there and latch onto you,
drown you in the angry waters of my desire.

i remember the first time
i touched you,
it was our skin lit up in green light,
and your mouth was filled with tobacco
and your skin whispered
as the park bench creaked
below us.
my lips were swollen
and slightly red
a whole hour after.

i like when you get angry,
and the emotions run across your face like a
faucet, dripping water.

if that's the case,
i want to be soaked.
shower me,
and use your mouth.

all i've been thinking about
since dawn is
will you have grown your hair? if you did, would
you let me run my fingers through it, as you
lay your warm face on my pulsing stomach,
like you sometimes do?
when i come back, will you still have that
small bit of scruff like chopped down trees,
with the trunks still attached
on the dark soil?
will you still hold my waist
moving me up and down like the rhythm of your breath,
rising in your chest like bread?

i'll feed my lips to yours,
you can eat them whole.
i want you to bathe me,
and devour me
all at the same time.
Continue reading...
procrastination ramblings
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
procrastination ramblings
my grandmother sent me
seven thongs
a lacy, midnight blue bra
in the mail,
and i wrote this poem in
shaking, shivering hands
over my psychology homework.

i told this jokingly to the
pure faces of the girls in my dorm;
reflecting off glass like warm,
steamed milk before bed.
"what's a thog?"
they asked.
"it's 'thong'.. you dont know what that is?"
no, it shook their heads like seizures.
"its a type of undie. they make your *****
look nice,"
i told them.
i got a laugh and a face full of mixed expressions.
whatever.

please peel off my layers like a summer orange,
eat the zest.
put on your favorite dainty pair,
black lace or white satiny
polka dots?
they all look good in bed.
pull them up my legs
and warm me up because these
walls are concrete
and all i've been is cold, cold
my toes are freezing.
started as just kind of a brain spill, but i sorta like it.
Continue reading...
ranting
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
ranting
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.
Continue reading...
revolt
Lappel du vide Oct 2017
revolt
greasy fingers, (that mornings flat bread) mismatched socks (that morning's rush) and a habit of
sleeping in class
actually a habit of drooling over textbooks
and then finding them again as little dried up lakes.
my education was the ****** Dead Sea

we were constantly looking for a chance to misbehave
to valiantly deny any order received like
small picket fences, stubborn and straight,
and I never knew when to shut up.
it got us to suspension from English,
and dangling our bare and smelly feet over
the brick wall that separated us and
everything else
(except not the dust.
the dust is always everywhere.)

I remember smelling like
my sweat and his *** and my insides
and feeling like I held the best secret in my *****
and every time we glowed like two small mandarines
orange and bright in the afternoon sun
after we ran back from the abandoned bathrooms on
the tallest floor
(studying of course)

I love the way he looks left and right
out of the dark corners of his light eyes
his eyes follows his heart
(always, the tendons of the eyes do not have the ability
to differentiate lies from reality for these men)

his hand on the small of my back
his hand tracing patterns on my
navy leggings
as I push away his hand under the stern nose of the
bulbous and vulture-like librarian

(I stole almost 25 books last semester)

I remember when I tiptoed in very fast on that last day of May
with a laundry bag
full of literature that I didn't even read most of
she just smiled and said what a good girl;
and I walked back outside in the sweltering heat
and walked on those
burning bricks
back home.
will I ever find my way back home,
I wonder
Continue reading...
roof tiles are deceiving
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
roof tiles are deceiving
when you lost your virginity,
i remembered you were slightly glowing
a halter neck dress under a fluorescent
light.
i didn't have any clothes on, just a brown blanket,
and your brother's
anger could almost be tasted drifting in the air
like snapping crocodiles.
what we really needed was more alcohol,
but our vaults we're empty,
so we settled with three embers burning brightly in the deepening night
and the boy upstairs struggled to find his pants.
Continue reading...
see through
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
see through
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.
Continue reading...
selfless
Lappel du vide Jan 2014
selfless
the smallest things make me want to sink to my
knees and scream;

my mothers shiny new black boots,
she's treating herself okay,
she never thinks
about herself,
she's done something about it for once.
Continue reading...
skin
Lappel du vide Jan 2014
skin
naked skin,
sun-baked brown and sunkissed freckles, and ***** white, an olive from overseas.
we traipsed down the road, the never-ending black of concrete.
we yelled. we screamed like there were marching bands in the cages
of our ribs.
we drew in smoke and our instruments played the music
of lit tobacco
“you're a hurricane”
one of the best things ive ever been called

cut skin,
as blackberries slapped our legs,
leaving marks of red and purple,
as we ran through secret forests,
our laughs rising into the sunshine,
filtering through the leaves,
like chiming bells in an empty sky
we started a fire, dancing as earthy smoke
slithered on our skin.
we lit cigarettes in the flames.

icy skin,
as we stumbled,
springs bubbling inside us,
down the brown, mud painted hills,
and cried in wonder as we saw a treasure in the thicket of trees;
a frozen lake staring us straight in the eyes like an
antarctic cyclopes,
daring us to take a step closer.
first, tentative,
then we went rawly, crashing through the undergrowth
like small houses,
headfirst onto the ice,
with all our skin for its one eye to see,
our clothes in a mountain,
and our vulnerable bodies free
on the cold surface of a
secret winter in the middle of a
sun coated town.

warm skin,
as we raced down asphalt mountains,
like goosebumps on the skin of the earth.
we ran like tigers and cougars and cats and
lions,
roaring in the afternoon sun
as we embraced the completion,
of a four piece puzzle of our
youth.
warm,
as throat burning brandy from the womb of my couch,
and burning pain
as we poked holes into our skins,
red tattoos of a flamelike
trilogy.

red skin,
as blood dripped down through the
cracks of the Balcony,
as we painted the walls with it,
laughing squeezed between every
long drag of our cigarettes,
burning like two new stars in the
oncoming night,
tattoos and shapes appearing on our skin
faster than bruises
showing a young girl the ways of our corruption was almost as
fun as learning them
ourselves.

goosebump skin,
as we sank into reality again,
halfway in,
other half still shaking
hearts beating fast
i trembled
as i screamed across at a cat eyed girl
i was too shaking to fight like this,
and you are too lovely to cry like that,
and my dear sunshine,
your blue hair is almost as soft
as your voice floating in the
after dusk darkness
assuring that things would be
alright.

tired skin, as we lay on my sheets,
and kissed one anothers soft cheeks,
tired skin as we dragged our drugged up
skin
all the way home,
in a careless sack.

yes,
maybe “three ****** up girls”
one tall, soft words,
one kneeling on the pavement,
one shaking like an
earthquake,
but thats what makes it like
dawn,
beautiful.

wouldnt you rather be a tornado of impulsive decisions
raw twilight words
whiskey ridden breath like summer
air
sunset tears
and icy skin painted with shivers?

alive skin.
Continue reading...
something.
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
something.
there is something waiting,
prowling
and
slightly hopeless within me.

i seek to find it
so i can slowly
destroy
it.
Continue reading...
stop being so afraid.
Lappel du vide Jan 2014
stop being so afraid.
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.
Continue reading...
Stop The World I Wanna Get Off With You
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
Stop The World I Wanna Get Off With You
this song reminds me
of blasting it from small speakers,
smoking cigarettes and flicking the ashes into pristine snow,
making it soft,
dripping,
grey.

dancing in the sunlight filtering through the trees,
prisms of light touching me,
caressing my body,
moving my hips to the beat of it,
a short haired girl, and a brown haired boy rolling they're eyes
at my addiction to it.  

"we've places to go
we've people to see"

it reminds me of running down roads
vacant of any other people
flinging loud voices from high rooms,
floral.

it reminds me of a long haired girl,
dipping our naked bodies into
bathwater,
shower dripping down.

it reminds me
of the sunset,
how the world for a few moments
was in eternal dusk,
weary, tarnished clouds
croaking their tired gears,
coughing violently from tainted lungs.

i miss bare-feet on roads,
i miss sharing spirits on the
small parts of sidewalks;
hidden.

drowning in
lilac perfume,
playing hide and seek with our mothers,

we can hide

but we'll always be found.
Continue reading...
stupid starbucks girls.
Lappel du vide Jan 2014
stupid starbucks girls.
"granday"

its not a *******
twang,
like a rubber band loosened up,
you're like a white sheet
with absolutely no
wrinkles no
lint no
culture.

its not a droop of letters,
like the syllables are carrying old bathwater
on hunched spines;

you sound like dusty paper
left on the shelf too long.

its
"grande"
poner un verano en tus palabras.
put some summer into your words.

fill your mouth with mid-august sweat
and belt it out like a pistol,
bullets ripping the fabric of blue
sky.
you are a flame in snow,
your tongue is supposed to be dancing on the top of your mouth
when you say it,

"grande"
roll your 'r's like you would to tamales in
corn flour,
like you would your body in mud
carpeting every inch of your soul in dark, crusted
veneer,
stuck between your toes.

your tongue is supposed to be ***.
exotic chocolate,
french rain.

your tongue is supposed to be like a wild motorboat upon
the raging ocean,
hitting the 'r's with savage animosity
                                                    "g­-rrrrrrrr-ande"
none of these
"grandays"
words like plummeting wrinkles
under tired eyes, your lips like dead fish floating
shallow and flaccid
in lukewarm
soup.
like rotting fruit left out too long,  
squashed, useless, a waste.

do not fill your mouth with
mierda,
****
poner un verano en tus palabras.
put some summer into your words.
Continue reading...
surgical gloves
Lappel du vide Oct 2017
surgical gloves
my hands have been cold for a while,
no fire making me sweat
no heat making me writhe
and I stopped writing,
I stopped that engraving of my pen
for a man.
his purity swallowed what I felt
was all of me
and there I was
scraping at my insides trying to make something,
shape something out of my nostalgia
for the burning in my throat and my cold sunrise toes
where the ****
WAS I
where is that force behind me
that I felt destroyed all other things
where is that tenacity to be completely rough and raw
dripping
dripping
drip
I was swallowed by that man
and my love for his ****** soul
so I put careful gloves
on my ***** fingers
and he never knew

the soil in my nails

as I slowly extracted his heart
in a maneuver to revive my
passion
Continue reading...
swallowed
Lappel du vide Nov 2017
swallowed
"you are a character"
that's what he said to me before we fell in love

as I put old beach glass from Anamarie Island against his eyelashes
two infant pieces in front of each eye
and you've got glasses that can see into the past.
a yellow, buttery vision,
soft
blurred
simple
just like I always dreamed the world to be.

on a plane to thailand,
he told me
"thats why I'd like to travel someday--
because of you"
we were pretzels, trying to find a position to sleep
intertwined and drooling,
stared at.

and after brushing sand off of our relatively dry bodies
licking our salty lips with hungry tongues
he told me
"everything about you is special"
and we spent Christmas in the sea
watching as the sun got swallowed by the
relentless tide, feeling the current
push and push us closer
but our heads resist

I remember swearing to myself not to sink into his
arms and feel alright there
but every brush of his hand against
my leg, under the surface of the sea
dissolved my barricades
like a popsicle in July.

and now
I am afraid of the comfort
feeling like
it is pulling the character.
Continue reading...
Terrapin Station
Lappel du vide Mar 2014
Terrapin Station
jerry's voice weaves a net
to catch my drunken skin,
sagging and dancing against
his cherry pie voice
warm and sweet in the dark of
the 7:17 dawn,
sun still sleeping behind a tall mountain range.

it makes me ache for open hearted
companions
barefeet wet from dew and black from distance
fearless,
unapologetic as they scream their throats out
raw splattering on the gasping earth from
the heaven high rooftops.

flowers poked through the pores
of ocean flavored skin,
peeling from laying too long
in the morning-faced
sun.

i wonder why people feel
so ancient, when their skin is still so young.
we've built this generation in the
imprisonment of fear,
the shrill avoidance of beauty,
we've forgotten what it feels to be living
free and loving
true,
and that's why you see so many young bones
crumble when their lives have just
begun.
Continue reading...
texture
Lappel du vide Nov 2017
texture
run a finger down my throat, i dare you
it would be searing like mid-august pavement in california
when you try to walk with naked feet and
my guts feel like a frying pan
each of my insides are steaming

if i moaned, i'd fog all of the windows one by one
thats why when i feel passionate
when i touch myself in this tiny apartment
with legs as long as lady bugs, and a patience that wears as thin
as nylons in spring--
i shut my mouth.

bumps and bruises run across my vision
red scales like slick snakes and
a rumbling like pebbles after rain that when
you crunch on them, it sounds like a series of
small bones,
cracking
there is a certain sourness to my teeth:
dinner was pickles from the jar
johanna gave them to me after i dumped my
cigarettes into a flower vase.

"its an art project"
really its a self care project so my lungs don't have to
pop out burnt from the toaster.

DING!
Continue reading...
the graveyard of the sky ocean.
Lappel du vide Dec 2013
the graveyard of the sky ocean.
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.
Continue reading...
the walls are moving
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
the walls are moving
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?
Continue reading...
tides make me restless
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
tides make me restless
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.
Continue reading...
to a mysterious poet boy.
Lappel du vide Jan 2014
to a mysterious poet boy.
***.
i wish we could have made that word into friction,
and droplets of ocean streaming off our bodies.

i've always thought that maybe something could grow
like a plant
between us,
plant its roots through our faces.
i always imagined that one harsh summer, sweaty
blanket night, after open mic,
we'd run the streets barefoot,
and you'd sing tom waits in your
rusty voice, like a garden pail
left out for a couple springs.

and you'd take me somewhere frightening and strange,
where i've never been, even though
my feet roam this tiny town even when my eyes are
sleeping.
then i'd tell you
that
heaven is a foreign concept to me,
and you'd whisper
that there is nothing realer than this earth,
and you would say it with passion, with a bite and a kick in it,
like good hot sauce;
your lips moving harsh and fast against
my stretched neck,
its skin begging for the weight of your kisses.

and then we'd recite poetry with our bodies
under a summer moon,
like an empty plate,
with august skin peeling off our bones,
leaving us raw and intertwined,
a knot of ferocious dreams, and thin
crunchy book pages.

words whispered loudly into the sweet
sweat of the dark,
your hands playing me like a violin
my body singing with your touch.

four cigarettes after;
two for our mouths,
and the others for our hungry hearts.
Continue reading...
to: my dear fruits and queens. from: Rookie
Lappel du vide Jan 2014
to: my dear fruits and queens. from: Rookie
i no longer have
clementine
the tangle-haired capricorn woman
made of fire and ice, skin like drunken showers,
when she smokes, its like she breathes in
dawn
for the first time.
no
cherry,
with soft skin like cream
off fresh milk.
when she smokes
dimples drown in her cheeks
and the smoke swims out
like dancers in the breeze.
no more
veronica,
soft voice, shaky like daisies in the wind,
spring grass,
when she smokes its a gesture of allure,
she invites a kiss with an
edge
     of a
          tobacco
                     scream.
je t'aime,
my wild creatures,
i will rage against the cold grip of authority
with the kicking feet
you know i have
until
we can rule over our little
smoldering town
and walk on
coals once
more.
Continue reading...
Untitled
Lappel du vide Oct 2017
Untitled
I write what I want because
****
what I write doesn't have to be
right
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Lappel du vide Feb 2014
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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.
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Lappel du vide Dec 2013
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i'd never thought that I would lose my virginity on a small couch in my friends living room.
but then again.
i'm not one to think about things, just rush into them like a stubborn headed hammer, breaking things along the way.
id never thought that I would run out of the house with purple, naked feet crushing the ice underneath me like small bones, in the middle of a black December silence.
and it was nice seeing a 2 am silhouette at the end of my road, cigarette in hand like always, your breath a steady stream of white, drowning me in an ocean of nicotine.
and I was high and you were drunk,
and I slipped and kissed your wine tinted lips,
and our skin made a forest fire, as we tangled ourselves in the crackle of a wood burning stove,
and the silent tread of snow on the sleeping town.
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Lappel du vide Dec 2013
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it's back.
I thought it was gone,
                but no it's back.
it took me only a couple of agonizing moments to remember that when you touch yourself like that, it leaves scars that you can't erase.
                 my mother sat there by the kitchen counter, dumbfounded like I had just slapped her across the face,
I wanted to yell and scream
I T S N O T Y OU R F A U LT
but it's not true is it?
that's the only reason is shower with the door locked, and I guide my lovers hands away from my thighs.
that's why I like kissing people in the dark,
so they don't see my past on my skin, rather than hearing it come from my mouth.
so my old friend is back.
                                           i wonder how long she'll stay this time.
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Lappel du vide Dec 2013
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sometimes I wonder about how many poems were possibly written about us,
and how we'll never get to read them.
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Lappel du vide Dec 2013
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i crave you
i crave you like a cigarette, to press my lips softly upon you and **** out your insides with one flick of my tongue,
to breathe you in and watch you dance about lazily in the sunlight,
i crave you like whiskey,
the kind that when you sip it, in a large bed with soft blankets, next to a girl that’s like an angel compared to myself
the devil,
it burns your throat and lights you on fire,
blowing up your stomach in one thousand different explosions of flames,
but i’d rather be on fire with you.
i crave you like i crave paper,
the soft, porcelain face, the dark dance of my pen gliding upon its silky body,
words twisting and twirling,
i crave you like midnight writing when the moon is out
and the air is soft and thick,
and the neighborhood is asleep and everything is white noise
but the scratching of pens and crickets singing in the east,
quiet under the rising sun.
i crave your skin on mine
friction and fire,
your lips on mine
smoky, drunk,
i crave you like freedom on a summer night.
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