mark  number 1, the crack at the very top of your throat
for the times you've had to scurry out of the house
because it would've been too much time and too much noise to put on your shoes

mark numbers 2 to 12, for the number of tragedies you lack to write like a *****, to trick the devil into thinking he's a deity.

mark number 13, the crack at the very base of your throat (although sometimes it feels like it's at the base of your spine) from the brute force of all the words you've had to swallow but never rose in the toilet bowl, amongst all the other things you've purged

and boy,

have you purged your heart out.

what she thought was a family portrait, was a lesson for what happens when you lose one side of a pair of shoes - you can never buy just one again, it comes in a set of two.

what she thought was a stove, was an analogy for the kind of love parents fail to tell - there's nothing more cruel than love, nothing will feel as good as hell.

what she thought were anniversary flowers, were rolled up versions of paper planes telling her mother she now had to use her grandfather's last name, or her mother's maiden name, if only her father had let it stay.

what she thought was his reflection (on a pretty grand mirror showered with lace), was nothing but a crack in the wall, and also the reason why her father never called.

"we'll go home when home is ready to go home."

does it count if i come to your hometown and say i'm here for a vacation or does it seem more like a suicide even though you're four bus stops away and four bus stops away from you is where i'm going to stay four bus stops between what could possibly be a modern tragedy with a lot less poetry away from a cemetery four bus stops away

i'm sorry my hands don't shake the way you expect them to i'm too busy trying to collect the ocean to have a weak grasp on you and i'm sorry that i can't build a road back to you the gravel in my throat has turned into lava and there's not enough dust on the walls to turn that lava into glue and i'm sorry that when i step on glass i cry out for you although i'm pretty sure you were the one who wasn't able to split that wine bottle straight into two but the shards kind of remind me of you and i'm pretty sure somewhere in this apology i said that i'm sorry for loving you

there are diamonds scratching my tongue and they call me "***** mouth"

depression; extra high definition

at the time a polaroid was a mark of friendship
so we decided to go raid a photobooth
but the pictures never captured
they didn't get the time to

because across the street was a fancy new camera shop
with a fancy new cashier
who had pretty, pretty hair
and could actually fit into a polaroid with you

and i was surrounded by the walls of a madhouse
from inside the photobooth
because you entangled the curtain entrance
so i was locked in

i wanted to see nothing
so i stared directly into the camera lenses
hoping the flash would blind me
because apparently you're blinded and happy

but i hit the wrong button
and the flash never came
but there were pictures printed
just of your hands around her waist

i took about 50 copies
and taped them to the lampposts lining abandoned cemeteries
i tossed the receipt into the lake,
i scattered the letters of your name into the rain

he is every single poem about the ocean in the world, and i'm supposed to be looking for some kind of sunshine.

i must admit i am in awe of the way you walk past the immigration office
(or the way you walked out that door, but we musn't dwell on things.)

like you have nothing to hide - like secrets float off your cheek
(it's rather silly how your secrets are much more obvious when you toss and turn underneath my sheets.)

therapists told me to take a journey well into my soul
(they told me to dive, but we both know i'm only capable of unintentionally falling.)

i love watching your hands loosen their grip on the sides of the aeroplane seats
(although remembering you loosen your grip on me isn't quite as pleasant)

they told me to visit my happy place so i threw a dart at the map
(but let's be honest - without you home already feels like a hotel.)

and it amazes me how now with all the rust you've smothered onto my veins, you still expect me to walk peacefully through airport metal detectors.

i lost my faith in magicians when they started pulling blades out of my pockets instead of doves and white rabbits and ribbons shakespeare used in his plays

i lost my faith in teachers when the tests they set grew to be not tests of my math skills but tests of my mental stability and insomniatic abilities

i lost my faith in families when inanimate objects and quixotic creatures shared my grief and forced me to learn about blood versus money as deities

i lost my faith in doctors when they decided prescriptions should be more than just about healing positively

i lost my faith in god(s) when i was offered a rickety ladder right after i prayed for strong feet

i should've listened to my mother
when she was talking to me about omens and premonitions
like how the glass slid off the tabletop that day
and i went out anyway

i should've listened to my mother
when she was talking about lucky numbers and feng shui
like how we met on friday the thirteenth
"mom, you're being cheesy, there's no such thing."

i should've listened to my mother
when she was talking about colours and hell
like how black skies were signs of demons
the ones that aren't quite like the ones in my head.

i should've listened to my mother
when she spoke of trembling hands and death
like how i shouldn't have left an hour earlier that day
because the dishes broke in the sink
and my father decided that wasn't a good enough reason to stay.

(was i the one who stopped time or was that the girl before me?
was i the one who donated a thousand butterflies to your insides or was that the girl before me?)

was i the one who sowed the sun into your eyes or did the girl before me have more skillful hands?

(was i the one who buried your grief, your pain, your hopelessness, or did the girl before me dig deeper?)

  was i the one who swallowed your sadness to the pit of my stomach and kept it there or did the girl
before me swallow an ocean?

(was i the one who made your thoughts come alive in the night or was the girl before me a better playwright than i?)

was i the glittery diamond that caught your eye amongst the rubble or did the girl before
me have a sparklier dress?

(was i the one who healed your aching heart or did the girl before me have more tender hands, a soothing voice and a better elixir?)

was i the one who you wanted to heal so desperately or did the girl before me shatter into more
pieces than you could carry?

(were my arms the place you called "home" or were the girl before me's arms more delicate yet able to hold you closer to her heart?)

was i the one who set your heart on fire or was the girl before me a more reckless arsonist?

(was i the one who placed your head in the clouds or was the girl before me already a haven?)

was i the one who taught you what hell felt like or did the girl before me have the hands
of the devil?

(was i the one who unfolded the meaning of life to you or was the girl before me a better philosopher?)

was i the one who taught you how terrible death is or did the girl before me's suicide note
have more tragic poetry?

(was i the one who made your voice sore from screaming for me to come back to you or was the girl before me more desirable?)

was i the one who made your hands shake or was the girl before me a little less of a hurricane
and more of an earthquake?

(was i the one who shattered your soul on the marble floor or was the girl before me's strength more tempting to give in to?)

was i the one who left bloodstains on your carpet or did the girl before me have lipstick that
was quite a convincing red?

(were you glad your nightmares stopped with me or did you secretly enjoy them because they reminded me of the wild nights you shared with her?)

(G.S. )                                                                                                                                                                                                                    (N.N.)

can i get drunk on your absence is that a legitimate excuse for silly love poems that make me want to turn our bedsheets into a noose is it a legitimate excuse for an i love you

this is neither the parting of seas nor the creation of islands

this is neither a blink nor a fever-induced sleep

this is neither the cry of a lover nor the weep of a sinner and trust me, they're both going to pray at some point.

this is the halfway mark of a poet who's running out of things she can and  cannot say.

empty journals are white flags.

never mistake the spilled blood of a lover in a glass vial to be red wine.

i had the same song on replay as i walked around boston - the same sad song that had you saying goodnight  moon - and i think these lyrics have started to settle in my bloodstream, i'm pretty certain they don't want to leave - you would know how great it feels to call my veins home.

if only i could get on a big  jet  plane on autopilot; i'm pretty sure it's the only thing that can lead me to what i truly call home.  and i'd have that same song blasting throughout the plane.

except i don't think i call anything anywhere home, so i would be on that plane until my teeth and my fingertips turn yellow.

this is a love poem to my favourite black pen

we are all malfunctions waiting to happen so i don't know which is worse - bursting into flames or never sparking.

my left wrist is stinging
and the choir's stopped singing
i'm trying my best not to let these scars rise
because all i've got are butcher knives

and it wouldn't be very nice
to make a mess in someone else's kitchen
i don't know where the rags are i can't
clean up the puddles

puddles are pretty pretty
they're pretty good mirrors
they're pretty unclear
(you can't really see)

and the best part is they
show a more distorted
illusion of me
a version i thought i would never be able to see.

These poisoned days, they're the safest.

Roses aren't always metaphors, you know.
For the ghosts in the walls that write poems about how you sleep.
For the shadows in empty closets that you fear will creep.
For the rivers you've travelled that leave burns on your arms.
For the faces pressed against windows that slip colours into the wind.
For deserted bus stops made of crushed beer tins.
For the bars filled with grannies and trannies and the best kind of sins.
Sometimes they're analogies.
And boy, are they lovely.

i am empty

empty

not blank

not poem-less sheet of notebook paper empty

not missing

not one missing sock from an eight year old's favourite striped pair empty

i am empty

like the space in the glass box where an exhibition in the museum of broken hearts used to be


so

empty

i want to be the red crayon on a policeman's birthday card i want to be the algae in business women's shoes i want to be the rust in my mother's wedding rings i want to be the lace curtains my father sobs into as he breaks down on our hard wooden floor

i have been rambling all these things don't you dare tell me you understand me

Rule 1:

This is depression, not an alien invasion.

Rule 2:

These are disorders, not disabilities.

Rule 3:

These are hallucinations, not possessions.

Rule 4:

This is love, not confrontation.

Rule 5:

This is sadness, and sometimes aggravation.

i am afraid
that my bones will rust
before these buildings do

i am afraid
that my soul will fade
before this ink does

i am afraid
that i will lose my tongue
before the world loses its flavour

i am afraid
you will (not) be there
when the bullet strikes

destination: heartbeat city

there is a moth


on my window
          

                              i  am very


uncomfortable.

there are four kinds of nightmares
that leave us disheveled
that leave us disoriented
that leave us undone

the one kind we all know
happens at night
when we awake in fear
from a terrible sight

the second one is common
and happens in broad daylight
leaves us in cold sweat
from seeing his heart being stolen by someone else

the third is a little scarier
and happens all the time
these are not ghosts
that are scratching at my earlobes

the fourth is my favourite and also the worst
it happens on the brightest and happiest days
it's the envisioning of a fear
that everything will fall apart.
(n.n.)

i heard tires screeching against the gravel in your voice and i'm trying to convince myself those weren't my screams.

When i was a lot younger, my mother taught me to swallow my tears - nobody cares that you’re sad, so you must not care either. And now, you seem to have learnt it by yourself when that is the last thing i want you to do. Do not be like the pristine pond my mother wanted me to be; do not just ripple, make waves. Do not just collect as a cloud, do not even fall lightly as rain; make yourself a hurricane! Be the kind of sunshine so strong people run out of ways to shield their faces. Be seen.

Knowing you, you would interpret the pearl necklace as simply a kind of jewellery that is more often than not passed on as a family heirloom. The stories behind leave deeper scars than you’d think they would. This necklace hold stories within each bead - it in its entirety is a metaphor. A metaphor for the fight between the lust for ignorance and the nirvana of clarity. You are -  wounded on the battlefield - caught in the middle of this fight more than anyone else i know.

"my baby's not sad she has a very colourful journal."

can't find a lipstick dark enough to match my soul

the ocean will be bigger no matter how big you think you are.
the thorns on rose stems will still ***** your skin no matter how thick it is.
the air will still be made up of complex gases no matter how much you love simplicity.
the boy you wrote letters to will crumple them and throw them no matter how many more you write and lock away.

and after a while, all smiles are to me is just a movement of muscles around the cheek and mouth area.

you are the personification of pouring boiling water onto my throat wound.

first they'll tell you about the daughters they "had"
the ones who, at nine, would go straight to bed
the ones who, without fail, would kiss their mothers goodnight
and then you'll comprehend these mothers' plights
(from the gravel in their voices they'll path a road for you to see)
the daughters they're talking about are the ones they never had.
(n.n.)

i've never seen so much red in someone so blue

we make our words so pretty we forget that the beauty comes from saying them for their meaning

we were born with nothing and now we have nothing

lady loveless heard her name being yelled from the bottomless pit of an abandoned well

nooses as rings made from violin strings

you are a flower, so do not treat yourself like the dirt that surrounds it.

we are cheetahs on prowl who let their guard down

maybe what hurts so bad is that we're two broken girls writing about the same boy

and as we fall in love with the words, we forget who is saying them.

and today as we passed by
the little stone steps to our house
(it's no longer a home - just a pitiful dome)
and all the little turns
we had to make just to get there
i realized all of them were left
and i remember thinking quickly
as the turns passed us by
is this why we always fight
because we are always left
and never right
(n.n.)

i wish to sow back the seams of the days that have come undone

she found a note and all it said was "goodbye"