he smokes paper. he snorts sugar. he injects needles
into his veins and disappointment onto his hips. he laughs
loudly and talks softly and throws money away onto girls
who pretend they are women and dance for love. when he
sells rocks to the fallen angels on the playground, he pretends
they are dreams. the first time his mother found it in his sock
drawer she told her to throw it out. the second time she told
him to give her some. his smile is the biggest drug his
girlfriend's ever seen and she is in love with a boy
who serves requiem for a dream.
what a nightmare.

(h.l.)

call it fate. call it destiny. whatever it is, the traces of his finger tips
stain my body like a temporary tattoo that won't ever fade,
the sound of his voice still sends shivers down my spine and i
cannot deny that in this moment, we are beautiful. the sky
is low the smoke is blinding i am coughing
because i have lost my inhaler somewhere in my bag but we
are beautiful. he says that he doesn't need anyone to survive and i
do not respond because the words are lost to him anyway, i
cannot try to reignite a fire that has already been put out but i can
continue to get burned off of second hand cigarettes that have been
accidentally lit. when i told you i was clean you didn't believe me.
when you told me you were through with her i didn't believe you.
faith is a five letter word that is non-existent and useless in our
relationship. we binge drink we chain smoke we laugh loudly and try
to pretend that happiness is attainable through joints as big as
king kong's fingers. if your mother were here she'd smile and look
the other way. if mine were her she'd pretend she didn't know
my name. we're so ****** up babe, the other day you told me that
the worst thing in the world was to be dead, said that i brought
you back to life. you could call it fate, call it destiny, call it whatever
you want; i call it resurrection.

(h.l.)

my limbs are broken and beaten and battered and my body
has been used as a wall you punch to release anger time and time
again. my mother says i wear too much makeup and it makes her
cough when i'm around, i do not bother saying what i think--
that if she saw me without makeup she would feel much worse
you apologize after, every time you say it will be the last and i just nod
numbly and pretend it is true because that is what you need,
you need me to tell you that you aren't a monster that you will get
better that this is just a phase even though it isn't
your friends ask me why i haven't left you yet, they aren't fooled by
your terrible excuses of me accidentally falling down the stairs,
and i tell them that i stay because if i don't then who will love me?
you with all your flaws still tell me i'm pretty even when i say something
wrong and you kiss the wounds you inflicted with lips so soft
i wonder if what happened before was just a sick, twisted nightmare
because how can someone as sweet as cheap wine hurt me?
but then i look into your eyes and behind the love you have for me
there is a bitter resentment towards yourself and i am reminded yet
again what you are capable of. then again, it's not as if i won't be reminded
the next time something bad happens.

(h.l.)

I hate my hips. I hate how the friction between my thighs makes
me feel I hate how the fat on my stomach goes outwards and not inwards.
those are the worst days. the ones when my skinny-fat-gangly body
is an odyssey all on it's own and my mother's home cooked meals
become saturated oceans of salt in my stomach and make me become
this uncontrollable monster that eats everything without mercy
and ravages my refrigerator until my self pity becomes obvious
in the mirror as my skinny-fat hips become more apparent and
until I am left by myself, surrounded by tears that taste like fries
that are much too salty and chicken that tastes all too much like diabetes.
I hate my hips. I hate how they don't move to the familiar beat of the
Spanish songs that always play in my house I hate how they are
not big enough to grab people's attention but not small enough
to please my ideals of beauty. my hips remind me that I am an outsider
in my own culture, a family where you see the women's *** before
you see her face and they remind me that I am not socially acceptable.
I hate my hips. I hate my face. I hate how my forehead is large enough
to be a canvas for the world and how my eyebrows are as
transparent as a Dominican ocean I hate how my nose stretches
when I grin and how my ears stick out like something someone
didn't mean to place. I hate my face. I hate how when people look at me,
they do not see the shape of my lips or my cheek bones or anything
I love about myself all they see is a girl with hips too small and
with a forehead to large and with everything wrong. I hate how I look.
being confident is not an option being happy is only a facade
and when my father tells me I am beautiful it takes everything
in me to not tell him to stop lying. insecurity is not something you
simply get over or something you can hide it is the small voice
in your head that tells you that you are a mistake it marches all over
your mind and sets your self-esteem to ashes. whenever I wake up in
the morning there is a pressing weight on my chest and the feeling
that I should live alone because all people will ever see is my
appearance and whenever I brush my teeth I try my hardest to
avoid the mirror but when I do look in the mirror and I see
my reflection the bitter resentment towards who I am strikes me
so hard that it slaps me into reality. I am me. There is nothing I can change
about my bone structure or the large canvas on my face and I will have
to live like this every day until I die.
*how can insecurity not be a problem?

i'm searching for something that i can't reach

she sleeps irregularly. she cries and breathes all at the same time
but does not make a sound. her face falls apart every morning when
she realizes she is still alive. the anger coursing through the blood
vessels in her body is not caused by anything, it comes rapidly and
mockingly. she counts to ten and holds the air inside her lungs and
hopes to any being listening that her nose stops working so that the
air inside her can expand and then eventually diminsh so that she
can tear herself apart all over again. she eats unhealthy. stuffing salty
fries and refrigerated microwaved chicken down her throat and forcing
the urge to throw it all out down to her skeleton so that the food
remains in her body, making bumps in her stomach and sticking
out of her ribs like unwanted monsters. she likes being ugly. she likes
that no one ever notices her and when they do they don't say a
word she likes that her own body betrays her and punishes her eyes
when she wakes up in the morning and realizes she is still alive.
she is a phantom. she is a ghost. she is a whisper. knowing her will not
be an adventure it will be a maze filled with poisoned leaves and razor
sharp rocks. her smothering brown eyes will captivate you and
undo every single knot in your body and make you feel like gravity
does not exist. but she will not be pretty. she will never be beautiful.
touching her will be like trying to collect shards of glass off of the floor
from a bottle of wine that you accidentally dropped. she will not
love you. she will not love herself. she will only convince you that she is
happy being a mess, a disaster and you will have no
choice but to believe her because your love is short lived and
only exists when she feels worthless and lonely enough to want
your company. you know this. she knows this. neither of you will
say it. the truth is an ancient phonebook neither of you have
ever heard of. *she is not a hurricane, there is no eye in her

(h.l.)