Some of the days seem so short And some so dreadfully long All depending on the time I spend At night under an ill-begotten sun Love, though deep, strangled at the hem My life, my being ripe at the core Completely sin, dyed, and then Washed up on white marble shores And while I find myself astray from the path Walking the ragged mountainscape I simply walk some more at last I seem to have found my escape
Who decided just because I have, well... Certain bits That it means I should wear a skirt? Or a dress? I mean what does it matter? Why aren’t we just all the same? I don’t want to choose Because getting it wrong Means doing again...
May my words touch you in ways you have never conceived. Taking your breath away, until you can barely breathe. Give you everything you want and things you forgot you need. If not a full thought, let me place just a seed, You are what you are, and even more of what you read. So do as you may with these words, enjoy as you proceed. My pleasure is yours and together, this cycle we feed.
To start your mornings with blood on your hands smearing across pages is incriminating and inspiring And you must know if you were to slice open my veins would also spill black fountain ink If you were to sever my tongue my hands would speak for me Go ahead and gouge my eyes I can still see And when I die I desire to be cut as a cadaver All the words visible under paper-white skin so they will know, too. I do not aspire to be a skeleton with brittle bones I want blood to pour with every pinprick of a pilot pen pressed on a page But blood makes people squirm Blood makes people gag so I intend to leave this world with a crime scene behind me. Let them shake and shudder for they know not the life they’ve lost They live in fear of papercuts and I carve myself open again and again And I will continue to until I bleed out and my ink dries up If it sounds violent it’s because it has to be The world could use a few more bloodstains Makes it more uncomfortable Makes it more interesting.
I feel breathless at any speck of thought —an idea— crossing my mind. I am restlessly wishing for something, prying for crumbs, and my mind is slowly sinking. Breathing words for oxygen, concepts for nutrients. I am a starving girl in a desert of words.