To the crushing of bones
when you implode;
my stubborn skull
was no match for the concrete.

I flew face first-
now I am ground into dirt,
or the dirt is ground into me
wherever I’m bleeding.


I can’t clean these wounds sober.
this girl?
you won't know her.

my jaw is popping-
is there any chance of that stopping soon?
The moon is closing in on the sun,
threatening to collide
and I've grown wearing of hiding in the night.
I'd just like some
medical attention.

My knees,
my knees...
I forgot to mention they're all ******;
I don't have the money to call off
for a few days.

can I sleep on my face?
my pain is evidence of my shame-
these wounds just my physical disgrace.

I'll regain coherency
at a quarter till three
with a swollen, puffy face
and vinegar in my veins.

just add it to the list
of blundering strains
maybe some time in the future
I’ll be able to worry about it again.

it never ends.

my new lamp, shattered
my clean sheets
dirtied and tattered.

my left ear is buzzing-
everything has gone fuzzy
and my head is numb and
throbbing.

maybe I’ll sleep well tonight,
and my nightmares will find me
without any fight left
in my dried out bones
and pseudo studio home.

c.m.
draft/original: 8.5.14
posted: 1.7.15
revision/edit: 1.8.15

Let the wind take me like smoke
And every other over used metaphor
You’re a bore
No I am
I don’t know where I stand
Where we stand
We used to hold hands
Not anymore.
I’m in the bathroom hiding
Biding our time
Lets rewind
You’re always on my mind
Its inevitable that I’ll fall into my old ways
I’ll start littering again
And slithering around with suburban ****.
I haven’t become anything.
I’m just coming undone.
C.m.

8.3.14

Poison running through my veins, your blood.
Running through me, like water from rivers.

Given to me as a forced gift.
But I have no choice, the choice was yours.

A blessing? More like a curse.
My choices aren't my choices.
My eyes, aren't my eyes.
My face, a mere reflection of your own.

My friends are my family, not you.
But my life is my life, mot yours.
"She's what you have to look foward to" they say.

They fail to notice, that I am not you.
I am ME.

I do not act like you acted,
I act like ME.

Despite the similarities,
we are strangers.

But you've done one thing right.
You've given my friends, someone
who genuinely cares about them.

Just one more thing you failed to do.

On a little hill amid fertile fields lies a small cemetery,
a Jewish cemetery behind a rusty gate, hidden by shrubs,
abandoned and forgotten. Neither the sound of prayer
nor the voice of lamentation is heard there
for the dead praise not the Lord.
Only the voices of our children ring out, seeking graves
   and cheering
each time they find one--like mushrooms in the forest, like
   wild strawberries.
Here's another grave! There's the name of my mother's
mothers, and a name from the last century. And here's a name,
and there! And as I was about to brush the moss from the name--
Look! an open hand engraved on the tombstone, the grave
   of a kohen,
his fingers splayed in a spasm of holiness and blessing,
and here's a grave concealed by a thicket of berries
that has to be brushed aside like a shock of hair
from the face of a beautiful beloved woman.

Metal permeated into her skin
Needles containing ink poked her
She moaned in pain.

It was the only way she could forget him.