she awoke
in the duskiest night
in the ever-shrinking
embrace of the light
tore at the metal,
that blameless steel
(winced as her teeth forgot to feel)
nails meet gums, and gums won't heal
nail beds make contact with rubber and blood;
veins escape skin, then unleash to flood
fingertips betray goosebumps
and you call this love?

one morning
mama had
a nasty surprise
her sweet little angel
was filled up with lies
lash to lids,
blood covered her eyes

and all that remained of her braces
were flies.

day negative nine hundred and something:
Sally starts with aspirin. (She has done the math- 37 if you're lucky, 43 to be safe. And 50, just in case.) She falls asleep after 35. When she opens her eyes, it is dark and nauseous. Sally stares glumly as the glowing numbers flit on her alarm clock. 17 hours, maybe 18. ****.

day zero:
She is alone in the parking lot. She checks the time on the radio, glances at the back entrance of the BevMo building. Sally cranks the volume **** clockwise, and reaches into the backseat. Unscrews the bottle, swallows two, hesitates-- swallows two more. Her throat is tight, bone-dry. Zipping up the outer pocket of the ancient leather pack is uncharacteristically tricky. The driver's side door opens, and she smiles.

day one:
The battery light on her ****** flip-phone blinks red, in sync with the beeping of the EKG machine. She wonders if the read-out will show her disappointment. Sally's father sits motionless in the corner of the tiny room. Sleep will not come, though not for lack of trying. She glares at the ceiling. Tangled up in tubes, wires, and needles, Sally counts the ugly, white tiles. Again, she has failed.

day two:
Her parents' blue Volkswagen follows the McCormick ambulance. Sally looks awkwardly at the chiseled EMT stationed next to her. He smiles, offering comfort. It is staunchly refused. Later, the paramedics will roll her through the triple-locked doors, still strapped to the stretcher, where a room full of hollow teenagers will stare her down. They will appear as empty as she feels. Nurses will make jokes, and Sally will quickly understand that she must pretend to laugh. She will look them in the eyes and lie through teeth just out of braces, telling herself, "at least I tried."

day four:
Sally waves goodbye to the boy who tried to drink drain cleaner, carefully avoiding the the gaze of the boy who followed her into her room the night before. (She tried to tell, but no one listened.) After sloshing through mountains of concerned texts, emails, and phone messages she stops for an impromptu celebratory dinner on the way home. Sally has learned only to redefine and reinforce the *******. "I'm fine."

day seven:
The new medication has stolen her concentration. She chucks it. She can no longer sit still, begs her parents to teach her how to drive. She learns that the Volkswagen is far less austere from the inside, though the front bumper will be forever tinged with nostalgia.

day fourteen:
She attends the first court-mandated therapy session. Not that bad. The truth is hard… but deception second-nature.

day fifty-nine:
Sally no longer sleeps. Her mind is a city at night and her thoughts are technicolor billboards, all screaming the same message: 'You put me in the hospital and you never even called.'

day three hundred and forty-eight:
She practices tying nooses with a shoelace in the dark.

day three hundred and sixty-four:
She hangs herself in the bathroom in the middle of the night. Third time's a charm…
Right?

day three hundred and sixty-five:
Sally awakens on the cold floor. Again, she is surrounded by tiles.
Those white ******* tiles. Her neck bruised, a broken shoelace trails to the floor. Quietly, she resigns herself to life.
There is nothing left to ****.


s.h.

the fist-shaped hole in the wall
the apologies that followed
the bruised and bleeding knuckles
the bathroom littered with plaster wrappers
the sink sizzling with hydrogen peroxide
the empty box of painkillers
the wedding ring thrown to the floor
the little girl who watched through the keyhole


s.h.

cognitive dissonance
destroyed our innocence
like spirits, it spat at us
like scabs, it picked at us
licked our scars and tickled us
****** with us, ash to dust
40% misery, 60% lust
the marrow in these bones
has begun to rust
but truth is not
the same as trust
and hearts like ours
were meant for disgust

the fist-shaped hole in the wall
the apologies that followed
the bruised and bleeding knuckles
the bathroom littered with plaster wrappers
the sink sizzling with hydrogen peroxide
the empty box of painkillers
the wedding ring thrown to the floor
the little girl who watched through the keyhole


s.h.

impact


paint myself with
pastels
so you can’t see the scars

the neon realities hide under my skin
but
they don’t quite blend in

technicolor veins trace
apologies
across my skin like lace

and the sight of my
face leaves something in your
mouth, a bitter
taste

the put-together people who
haunt the daylight like
ghosts
they don’t know. they don’t
know

they have such an impact and they don’t even
know

you had such an impact
and you
don’t even know.

choo choo trains
and little toasters
have more strength
and determination
than my entire 19
years on this
planet
have.

little girl with big dreams,
ambition bursting through the seams.
dark chocolate easter egg eyes
cautious whispers, quiet lies

she's a shadow girl, shrouded in grief
from her lips to the tip of her tongue to her teeth.
stucco soul, hardwood heart,
lips together, legs apart.

caught fast in this steel trap,
surrendering to the acid's attack.
she's addicted, obsessive,
it's intrinsic, embedded.

despair, denial, a child reviled
a dark heart of secrets as deep as the nile.
a poisonous princess, a toxic traitor;
three drinks later and she's
south of the equator.


s.h.

in her lipstick silence, she aches for violence
she will root for kindness, but preaches blindness
deaf, dumb, lean, mean - the whitest teeth you've ever seen -
keeps her nails sharp to make you bleed
she broke her first heart at the age of fourteen
and you could buy her flowers, but she'd rather have the seeds
the roots never show through her bleach-blonde helmet
if you saw the grey, she'd **** you, i bet
but she always lies, it's no surprise-
she is far from what she seems
she is lost and broken dreams

she is the cardboard cut-out queen



s.h.

There is a woman in Europe who drinks coffee at midnight. She has purple hair, but once upon a time, it was brown and she cut it under the table in first grade and let another girl get in trouble for it. She never said a word, let the guilt eat through her bones at night for weeks.
There is a woman in Ireland who is afraid to drive on the left side of the road, although she once ruled the California freeways in her blue pumpkin-turned-purple carriage. With a negative sense of direction and a never ending supply of menthols, she got lost so many times that she had no choice but to be found.
There is a woman in Galway whose skin is laced with ancient spiderweb scars. Years ago, they were angry, open tubes of crimson paint that children had stomped on when no one was looking. But everything fades, even acrylic paints and ancient pains.
There is a girl in Kinvara who is practically a professional at destroying nice things. She tried her hardest to make something beautiful but she was never much use at creation; better at cremation. Burning, bleeding, bruising-- these are her areas of expertise. She has learned to stop hiding from her secrets and her sins and her skin, that it is okay to be made up of matchsticks. She washes her hands too often, but that's okay, right? There are worse things a girl can do. At least, that's what they tell her…
But she's had enough of the poison they've been trying to sell her.


s.h.

the doctors say
i'm not okay
that it's a miracle
i met today
but i take my pills
every night
i sleep and i dream
i wake and i fight
maybe i'm a mess of lights
of leather too tight but
i do alright.

the dog catchers
dangle bones
in front of my cage
but i won't bite.

my skin's a battlefield
my soldiers won't yield
and time has worn holes
in my steel-woven shields.

yet every day, i lace up my shoes
i outfit my army, though i know it will lose
i eat my dinner, i brush my teeth
and i try my hardest
to fall asleep


s.h.

more scars than stories,
more guts than glory.
thanks to the reaper's trusty scythe
we carved ourselves a counterfeit life.

cold like the winter, strong like the rain,
stickin' out the summer, we smile through the pain.
so dish it out, i can take it
and if i can't, i can fake it.

don't you move, or i'll pull this trigger;
i may not be fast, but you're small and i'm bigger.
if you can't do it, it can't be done.
i won't change for anyone.


s.h.

while chewing on ice
can shatter porcelain veneers,
the human collarbone can
withstand 8 lbs of force before
breaking.

she sits in a cupboard,
forgotten
like wedding china -
(every once in a while, someone
will take her out, turn her over;
though they may shed a tear,
they’ve never known her) -
all oversized saucer eyes
and teacup fingertips;
too tired
to tell you lies.

delicate and fine,
the cracks in her bones
spell out the stories
of such a lonely
lifetime;
chipped paint and faded flowers
insist upon eternity
as an ancient
antique.

she is a teapot
that cannot even
keep your tea hot

held by too much superglue
to hold any justifiable value.
her handles broken, her lids long-gone

she commands no sentimentality
abandoned long ago
to this dusty
unreality.

more scars than stories,
more guts than glory.
thanks to the reaper's trusty scythe
we carved ourselves a counterfeit life.

cold like the winter, strong like the rain,
stickin' out the summer, we smile through the pain.
so dish it out, i can take it
and if i can't, i can fake it.

don't you move, or i'll pull this trigger;
i may not be fast, but you're small and i'm bigger.
if you can't do it, it can't be done.
i won't change for anyone.


s.h.

little girl with big dreams,
ambition bursting through the seams.
dark chocolate easter egg eyes
cautious whispers, quiet lies

she's a shadow girl, shrouded in grief
from her lips to the tip of her tongue to her teeth.
stucco soul, hardwood heart,
lips together, legs apart.

caught fast in this steel trap,
surrendering to the acid's attack.
she's addicted, obsessive,
it's intrinsic, embedded.

despair, denial, a child reviled
a dark heart of secrets as deep as the nile.
a poisonous princess, a toxic traitor;
three drinks later and she's
south of the equator.


s.h.

I. ending. leaving. over(done). no more. we are dissolved and curtailed. goodbye and i’m not sorry.

II. crying. aching. shaking. breaking. waking up to missing you. i still need you and i’m not sorry.

III. breathing. bracing. hardening. bitter. i hate you and i’m not sorry.

IV. softening. sighing. sweeter, easier. throw you away. i need to do this and i’m not sorry.

V. forgetting. glaring omissions in memory; neglected. don’t think about it. finally concluded - i forgot your birthday and i’m not sorry.

soot, steam, broken beams
the moon gives off its sickly sheen
Mars and the stars
might make a good team,
but lightyears and time warps are not what they seem

badly behaved scars are finally burning out of fashion;
this sunset-stained skin is just a distraction.
if space is a vacuum,
and devoid of passion,
if violence is golden and we pray for inaction.
then the love you couldn't feel
for the things you had to steal
just wasn't right, and wasn't real.

so bow to the stillness, surrender and kneel;
pretend the darkness if not nipping at your heels,
pretend that you are made
of molten gold and liquid steal.
for your lashes are ashen, your cheeks are charred.
your footprints are formed from embers and tar.
your framented fingertips are immutably marred.

and she never intended
for it to turn out this way -
for her rotten heart to seethe with decay -
and if you ask her politely, all she will say
is that she did her best
to keep the twilight at bay.

We burn bridges, we build walls;
We drive too fast in shiny cars.
I am silent, not at peace;
Your broken eyes scream ‘pretty please.’

I crossed the street & didn’t look;
You read me like a picture book.
I’m an anxious, exhausted insomniac,
Who needs you like an addict needs crack.

But if you close your eyes, it tastes the same;
I see your face- do you hear my name?

the doctors say
i'm not okay
that it's a miracle
i met today
but i take my pills
every night
i sleep and i dream
i wake and i fight
maybe i'm a mess of lights
of leather too tight but
i do alright.

the dog catchers
dangle bones
in front of my cage
but i won't bite.

my skin's a battlefield
my soldiers won't yield
and time has worn holes
in my steel-woven shields.

yet every day, i lace up my shoes
i outfit my army, though i know it will lose
i eat my dinner, i brush my teeth
and i try my hardest
to fall asleep


s.h.

in a
gas station
in santa barbara

you can think and
wonder
about the world

in a house,
on a mountain you can
down
a bottle of pills

in an
apartment in
any city, any state
you can
chase beer with
wine
and follow with a chaser of
scotch and *****

in any
country in this
godforsaken world, you can
slit your wrists and
hope to bleed to
death.

and it won't make a difference.

my thoughts rarely listen to me;
often unruly,
they spout wings,
they break things,
alight on clouds like lofty kings.

they circle your windows, day and night.
they keep you in mind when you are out of my sight.
if i let them take me,
they will soar again across this ocean
no whistling winds to shake me.

when i let these notions wander,
i hear your moans like thunder.
they take me to midnight, to Malibu,
to purple cars, to stars, to ragged breaths--
and to you.

the whites of your eyes
could light up these skies;
but i ache to follow my mind as it flies,
i ache to diminish this distance.
though it's nothing compared to the scope of your sighs.

when my mind wanders
(as it's been known to do)
five thousand and eighty seven miles
shrinks to just a few.

the bathtub was clean
(though hair plugged the drain)
the pills were scattered,
the bottles the same
the mirror was smashed,
and blood on the floor
a chair was wedged against the door
her mouth was open,
but her eyes were closed
and this image stays with her
wherever she goes.


s.h.

did you cry?

i want to hear everything.
tell me your secrets, pull up the source of your pain- did you cry when he hit you? the weight of his words, did it crush your shoulders? tell me how your tears fell in pools around my broken wrists. i want to hear it all, i want to know how you felt, how you hurt. i want to feel for you again.

make me cry. break me. rip me into little pieces & rub me in broken glass.

did you cry?

it’s a different kind of
high
but it’s just as heady.
it’s a different kind of
lie,
but it’s just as
heavy.

they raised you with their shame,
and then they left you with the blame.
you're suicidal, sentimental,
unbelievably temperamental

but i liked your razorblades better than mine-
that shiny steel was just divine.

warped plastic, stretched-out elastic -
all this destruction is ******* fantastic -
and it might just be time to do something drastic.

and then you crashed and i burned,
your stomach twisted and my guts churned.

my body is sore, my mind is aching,
my eyes are tired, but i am ready for more;
i am prepared for the taking.

i'm not screaming or crying,
but i'm sick, i'm sad,
and i'm dying.
and i’m ready and willing, and
i’ll go whenever i’m told,
just say the word, just
make the
cut

the beads of blood swell as you stare at them

death by a hundred thousand little cuts.
death by wind, by fire and ice.
death by life.

you cut yourself into heaps of tiny pieces
and hope there will be nothing left, but
there always is.


s.h.