you’re a sick, sick person
my little,
                old
love.

with eyes like ferocious , angry
beetles, you
chew into me and cut out
tiny,
        stinging
                       holes.

if only you knew i wasn’t invincible,
if only you knew
                              you were toxic.

the cement is wet when you bash my head
open,
and
the cement is still wet when it
rains.

prosperity comes in…
prosperity comes…

she comes in...

shades of black and blue,

like bruises
when you hit me and tug on my hair,
and like
apples that ripen and then soften...

love has buried me ,
and i am like an
                           ache.

but
you were fire
and
i was ice —

and there were mountains
in between us,
                         gods
.

so when you buried me ,
i
let myself die ,

and you did not ache.
did not
             even
                      cry.
.

i
dreamt of love
my whole life.

boys, barbies, and all of me :
.
tiny cuts in the system,
tiny wishes
and
perfection

where
i thought love was
creation;

pink cutout cardboard and
subtraction of all
flaws .

but love is just kinetics ,
warmth and
confusion .

love is when it’s
cold
and your cheeks sting and
you look up at the sky
and
you smile ,

knowing
you can dream of love
and still
live.

i.

eyes on fire ,
i lit a match and
watched you burn

i don’t know how long i stayed
sitting down
.

ii.

when angels were still alive ,
did they look at
the clouds ,?

do they remember how they
died
?

iii.

my skin peels in the green grass —
composted , the
fence rots and the sun
shines gold ,

this is what they call
"giving back."

iv.

blue tears leak
like petals down your cheeks .
.

everyone cries with you.
//

i am four
and i learn how to cower:
to put away
my disobedience,
my words,
my innocence,
and look at you like an animal.

i am ten and i know how to cower...
and how to go to school,
and how to live alone,
but by now, i’ve learned to wish
for things greater than mom just
coming home and for you to simply
stop
screaming.

so i turn fourteen, but still you are
evil, and i,
broken…
a doll, that grows but does not extend its
limbs
past the deep end
or grows any new sets of teeth.

i age into fifteen and get broken by someone else...

and then i turn sixteen, as time goes on,
i guess,
and still feel broken, but this time its
different than from when you first
broke me,
and i become harder but happier…
sadder, but sharper when in a
stasis, and
try to heal through watching people have a love
for others...

but i fail, and still become happy,
anyway
and

finally, it is now, and i can say i grow up,
as i will always
continue to grow, and when you come back,
i extend my hand in thinking
it’s finally safe when
you grasp it again...

and break all of my fingers.

it is now,
and i learn how to cower.

blood.

so much blood leaked into
my eyes
as you took apart the
pieces in my head.

i don't know when it started:
but i was four, maybe
five,
the first time i remember
you taking a big chunk out of me:

i was sweet, rosy red,
and stuffed in a dress,
and you were black,
a pale shadow in
dark clothing as you grabbed
my legs when i tried to run....

and did again,
every night
from then on out.

i was
seated on a couch each time,
and
i felt as though
my eye bags
touched the floor
every second and all i really
wanted
was for you not to be angry...

i hate that stupid couch.
i lied so many times.

i threw my past at you,
thinking you'd understand,
because pain is relative, and
i knew you got that much

but whats been thrown at me,
be it punches, or knives, or
you and
your words

i guess i just put more
trust in the thought
that you'd think more like me and
you'd, for once, have sympathy.

you trail blood with you ..
wherever you
go —

leaking from holes i made
inside your
                   chest ,,

so tell me //

why
am i the one crying ,
when i know
i’ll break your heart ?

i pray that you will end me ,
with a knife plunged in my gut —

for
death is better than
any pain
that
i will ever cause
                           you .
                                    .

six feet deep
you have buried me ,
and i bang on the coffin door—

the
little bees outside make honey
while i just try to breathe .
.
.

one day, this grass will grow quite tall,
and i will soak my
aching feet ,

who was it,
                    who told you to hurt me?

who is it, that wants me to
die?

these roses are so beautiful, yet
all of them have
thorns.

im there when you want to
rip out your
hair and scream ,

knees on the floor, your face is
in my hands  .
                          .

there seems to be glass everywhere
you look
and
you're crying ,

you can see it.

i dont know who told you i was dangerous --
but

i can only be so kind .

i want to be loved so bad--

but when does the
future become the present,

and
when will the
crying stop becoming
choking —

how will i forgive you
for wounds
you
did
not
open?

forgive me,
i cannot love you
the way you love
me.

i long to be whole again
.

i know that i was lied to
from your place among each star ,

glorified, i
let you lie—

as you looked right down
your nose -

it is sad,
as
you bit me for a kiss
then grew a
house
inside my heart

how could i ever have let myself
love you
?

you could be such a handsome, loving boy,
and live in a
big,
nice house
if you didn’t insist on treating me like this...

you know?

we could be neighbors, the
two of us, the
kind who smile and wave at each other at eight in
the morning before we drive to work.
.
.

you at the office, and me...
also
at the office.

can you even imagine:
laughing at whatever winter wonderland party
they hold
with no worries,
no secrets,
no walls...

but i have given up,
as you have grown cruel,  
still thinking of me in that mean, wretched way,
despite the fact that you probably say you don't really care...

but you're just that animal,
the one
you turned into for him-- what
do they call them again?

pigs?

i want to touch
your body
like a man in heat —

rub fingers up your legs .
kiss peach butter lips,
and make you
sing,

i wasn’t made to be in love ,
i think .
.
i was made to be
loved :

like a feather, or
a death.

i will run
my entire life.

we bloom in summer.

my jealousy lingers like
hunger does after only
a snack,
even though i know
i'll get my fill,
whether i describe it as
atonement for starving,
or satisfaction
when it comes to my emptiness.

its okay if you
dont love me,
im fine from
the side, only as your
friend, deep in the
depths of
skinny love.
i know im upset,
and i know you
want me happy,
but ****, what would
i give for even
demons to be real,
so i could purchase your love
with mine.

there is relief in
such tragedy,
when you're
not the one
who's
suffering.

I was fire, and he was ice;
yet he preferred cinnamon,
and I myself did mint.

don't cry,
little me...
youll shed your calloused skin
one day,
hatching out of
your candy-wrapper cocoon
of dreams and ribbon in
red,
      white,
               and pink,  
.
.
.

so
give your jaws a rest,

undo your sewn on smile,
with your
skin collapsing on
your cheekbones and
empty eyeholes,
worn,
tired, and d u s t y
.


you will be fine.

i pull down my pants,
underpants,
and then i pull down my skin,

and it seems as though there has been blood stains
there
since forever,

so when i look down and greet each thigh,
i have begun to greet the floor
as well...

in thinking that they would laugh, when
i trim myself in the mirror,
i
make cutting motions and
pretend
to slice open my skin and everyone else
who says i am
not worth it
..

but my curves are warm when they hug me,
and i think
i see a girl hiding
between their folds, in the dark...
lost,
but in her own body.

so when people look at me, i've learned now
to cower,
to put away my teeth, my hair,
my words of indignation,
and
turn into that tiny girl, where
i'm always safe, always small...
always alone.

where i am crucified, but loved,
hungry, but not wanting,  
satiated...

but only for now.

creation builds houses...
brick after brick,
and
she works hard in the face of adversity.

creation builds a house,
and i build a home,
for tiny children... but i cannot keep them
warm.

you don’t believe me, when
i say that
things are not well... but when
have you ever had an answer,
anyway?

all blank-faced, and
angry...

i guess...
i was meant to be alone,
because
creation means building a house.
and
being someone means keeping it
warm.

Don't make me laugh
you
sick
sack of meat-/rotting
in the city's
yellow
sun... don't claim you
were
broken,
by a boy who never
loved
you,
because it's so easy to
see
why.

i tried to die for you —
give my little body up for you :
and for
those
          that i
                   loved

but maybe i didnt love anybody ,
and maybe
                    that’s why i stayed.

they say that pain is always temporary
but i don’t feel
temporary —

and
they say
that you can always
                           heal,

but instead, i guess

i
hurt the ones i loved the most
and then
realized there were people
watching .
.

i would’ve died for you ,
                                         you know ?
hung my body up like a curtain -
a poison crown of thorns .
.

but
maybe god wanted you  
                                         instead.

you have cheated me—
and now i am going to skin you alive .
.

forgotten ,
i am desperate to be swallowed whole
as you look right through me
like a window,

in greens and grays...
i could be rotting,
d y i n g .
.

and i know you would still not see
me whole .
.
.

so ,
am i just a walking corpse
to you ?

my face
merely
unrecognizable flesh?

eyes like little pearls ,
the sky is pink and i can’t even cry ...
and still you are standing
t a l l .
            .
              .

but even invisible,
i know i can still hold a knife and
i can still know
rage.

and you can still pretend that i don’t exist ,
praying
that i never try to **** you.
.

she sits at her kitchen table,
skin pink and eyes
puffy
and looks at the print
of her daughter’s
missing picture on the
side of an empty,
old

milk container .
.
.

mommy,
maybe
pick yourself up ,

daddy never cried like this,

how will you tell him that
you lost yourself
in a bottle of
pills like a note
in a
bottle ,

lost at sea ::

?

when i was little ,
dad handed me a shovel and
he handed me
a dress.

he taught me how to dress myself
and then how to garden ,

to dig each hole
in soft
           flesh and soil.  

ive grown up since,
gotten taller,
and can hold
the shovel by myself ,

so
i dig graves now instead .

ive saved one for dad ,
                               and ive saved one for me.

six feet deep ,
                        it’s a bed with no blankets
and it’s
perfect ,
and
it’s mine —

and
i want to be buried in a dress
i can button
                     all
                         by myself ,

because
dad also handed me a shotgun.

don't
say my name
to get my attention,
thats like acting like i
can't hear without it.

don't
use my name
as an insult, for i hate
it already, and find it
used up in that line of resource.

don't
worship my name
the way you want me to worship
your words, it may be my own,
and it may be who you see me as,
but i can still be just fine
without it.

Little needle face,
With a long pink dress and teeth
Too big for your mouth,
You are but a doll
with a back breaking slouch and
chest made from cotton//

your
Little needle hands
the machine that
stitched yourself
Together, the twine that
holds your heart
In place a
Jagged knot of
Cage and wire.

Little needle girl,
with a button nose and stringy
hair,
Please
***** all your tormentors
The way I could never ***** mine,
And
never grow your body
Back

i remember that day
when the sun was so bright
and the sky was so blue,
and i remember how
we spent that day at the beach,
catching sand *****
and naming them
funny things, and i remember
saying that we could
have them in replace of
children;

its really too bad i cant
even cry now, for
my tears would just
remind me of that day,
since tears are salty like
the ocean, and my heart still
bangs in my chest
like those ***** did
the walls
of my little green pail.

I have been in love, before --
I think
.
.
.

The kind of love where
Your heart
squeezes
in your Chest
and you
Feel like you're exploding
From the inside out and
You cannot hear
Anything,
Anything at all/but them


and it was real--
I tell myself.
My friends tell me.
They told me.

As real as being young could
Be...
The kind of real you get from sobbing and laughing
While your stomach melts your
Heart and your brain fries to
Bits
.
.
.
From their smile..,
Or their frown.
:(


But
I don't remember crying--
Just forgetting
.
.
.

How
one day my lungs were back to
Normal size and
My brain no longer
Screamed...

And (how) they weren't
in the obituary section
of the news.

i cannot hate you,
the way i hate your opinions,
but *******,
you sure are ****** for
someone so emotionless

id write a poem about
my wrath toward
our justice system, but
the only thing my
voice can screech, is
oh my god,
enough will never be enough

i pray justice for antonio martin

i wish i could go back
and savor you;
the sunshine on your face,
as if it were pages of a story,
and the feeling of warmth
like the sun on my back
as i read you like
the comic book you were,
i wish i could start over
so then i could feel
this all
again.

i am a mess of
open wounds and
needles that have
never sewn
shut,

and
sometimes i still find
string and knots in (the) places
where
i tried to tug shut-
but ended up ripping
skin,
instead

where:
there's still
salt
from when i tried to cleanse
myself from you,
but
hurt too much to continue,
and left myself
bleeding,

so i'm still here
healing,
letting my veins cry and
my scabs heal over,
with
my a hole where my
heart should be,
and no band-aids to fix
it.

please, someone, waste
my time; help me
forget my burdens and
responsibilities.

please, someone, for the holidays,
buy me a prince, and
tell him to slay my demons,
like you never would.

please, someone, make my
toes curl, and my fingers numb
with your warmth, that
i hope caresses me like
a lover.

please, someone,
just know that i don't need saving,
but i sure as hell want it.

who was i
to you
?

on that blown up
leather couch
and streaky,
sheet-less
bed,

who was i
if not the person
i explained

and who were you
to
imagine me on
my knees
?

don't forget -
youll love me forever
,

that pretty girl
in gray and
blue
who couldve loved you
back :

and
don't forget -
you killed her.

...and i am suffocating
under the weight of your words

i ask you nicely to
please stop

you laugh and mock me of
my pain

and when i cry
you look to the side,
pretending it wasnt you who hurt me

stop crying, you ask,
but not nicely
and i have to put a bucket
over a barrel of
T
E
A
R
S

they say the pretty girl always hides
her true nature
under the layers of her makeup
and beneath her skin,
yet it sickens me to think
that when beauty can hardly be more
than a label stuck on someone's coat,
all the ones that happen to be,
are sad.

beauty shouldn't hurt.

You are not a walking coffin,
A sinner, murderer,
Or mother to a dead baby;

You are a woman who decided not to have a child,
The woman who took control of her pregnancy and made the right choice for herself,
A woman who was not afraid to deny a huge commitment,
And you are a woman who's not wrong in the choice you made.

I want to be
the
Cruel type of
Beautiful--

with my lips dripping
Blood and my dress
Trailing jewels,
My insecurities hidden between each
Fold of silk, saying
"I can **** if I must//"
but I won't

The kind where
after crying  
my eyes are red-
(Not from sadness
But)
from anger and dissociation,
and people fear what I have not said--
With my  
heart stitches torn open, and ink
Seeping through

and I'll never have to
Apologize.

we were bound by
something more than just
shared guilt,
manipulation,
and a red string,
whether it was love
or pity of the alone,
i could not tell,
but when you were
with me
by my side
it felt like fate.

i hate you,
i think, as you try to shoot me to death.

standing above me with a gun in my face

you feel
rage like undissolved sugar in
warm milk -
and
there’s blood on the floor and
then there’s me
,
                          
                          dying and almost dead,
but
you left my eyes open ,
and i know
you forgot the ****** weapon:

so i’m going to take it with me.

one day ,

i’m going to heal ,
and i’m going to remember —

you took my gun ,
took all my bullets
                                too .

and i still won’t ever shoot back.

the devil’s eyes are blue ,
from when they made him up in heaven ,

but he keeps his girls like toys,
strewn,
             broken
and like dolls, they lay in piles.

you know,
ive always kept my mouth closed ,
and my sharp teeth dulled,
for i have been forced to wear a smile
to cover up each bruise .

so how come,
when
he looks at her like a dog ,
you all just let him bite?

do you think he ever kissed his wife’s wounds?

because
you know, we know that you men all kiss his,
right?

i put the baby in it’s cradle ,
and watch it as
it sleeps ,

you sit and watch tv in the room
two over
and think i love you back .

outside, the
sky fogs blue and the streetlights
shine bright orange —

you never went without a home.

it shows.
.
.

so you say that we are from the people
who buried their dead
with flowers.

and you say that when
the world ends, we will simply learn to fall
apart.

i wonder,
if there will still be love when we convince
ourselves
that everything is still alright.

but how can we love the children that
we lie to…
and how can we trust those who
we forsake…

when you look me in the eyes next time,
or when you look at that spot, right beside
me,

i will remember our dead,
and i will remember
how you never truly meant to leave flowers.

i cried my eyes out for
you:
thick,
         laundry detergent
                              tears,
in sickly smelling blues .
.
.

i will never be the same,
                  i
               sup
               pos
                 e
                  ,
stained in white and red .
.
.
                                    

you know i know who
did
this
to
me,
right?
i can smell it on you .
.
.

my                      love,
do i               sure cry
for        you, my
broken heart,
it aches for you,
but          my love,
my                love is
not                    forever .
.
.

I watch movies about
angry little boys
and angry little girls,
and I cry because I'm jealous
that their spirit
never tired them out
the way mine did to me,
so I've stopped bothering
being mad about the fact
that my anger remains
untouched by true reality.

i might as well just devour you ,
now that you’ve
                           shredded my stomach
and laughed .
                        .

i never would’ve guessed
that
you
would take
a knife to my heart ,
and then rev up an engine —

a chain.

but
im sick of looking at your face ,
sick of
thinking of you ,

                           and
                                  sick of smiling
from my grave.
.

i guess we can say
you stole that from me too .

but
you are proof ,
that
even demons need to eat —

and this one
is very ,
             very
hungry.

i can’t laugh the way i used to laugh.

not for you ...
and not here...

and i can’t create circles just to
run around in
squares, as if i didn’t give you
a piece of me and then
more than all that...

do you remember how we would
watch movies together,
about girls with white hair who would
go swimming
in oceans made of trees?

and do you remember how you
never used to tell me i was wrong,
back when you still understood that it
wasn’t your
place
to fight me...

because...
i remember that.