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

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

we are cheetahs on prowl who let their guard down

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

there is a moth


on my window
          

                              i  am very


uncomfortable.

this is a love poem to my favourite black pen

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

we were born with nothing and now we have nothing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

destination: heartbeat city

These poisoned days, they're the safest.

different promises for the same vows

nooses as rings made from violin strings

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

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

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

watch the coffee drip
drip
       by
           drip

watch the kingdoms feast
on dust of blood that has spilled

watch the rust eat
the limbs of warriors who weep

watch the shadows creep
creep
         and
                creep

when we reminisce about our childhoods
we laugh at the lies
the kind of lies we don't fully regret
but there is one lie that is just too cruel for me to forget
it wasn't curiousity  that killed the cat
it was the hand that trapped it in an airtight bag

do we have to die in order to have lived

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

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

and i yelled at god
to strike me with lightning
show me the lust
of his bittersweet thunder

but he showered me with tea leaves
and that was the greatest blow
for the leaves that rained onto my hair
could be no gentler than my greatest foe
who took you away
six feet under
(and you're there to stay)

(n.n.)

depression; extra high definition

shall we let
the morning glories sing
praises from the hymns
of lovebirds
who once counted the holes in the ground
at the bottom of a hill
(n.n.)

i think of the people who have no homes
they sleep to shiver alone
pretentiously i am just like them
for your arms are home
i am not home
(n.n.)

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

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

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

and so i'll drown myself in words so shallow
to find my bones cracking the ground
because either way
it feels the same
i can't drown in you
(n.n.)

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.

and in your darkness i found my old night light

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.)

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.

Never forget a child's first play
It is a mirror - it is the only gate
So clear to
See love in a child's simple ways
And forget the love for which you pay
(n.n.)

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

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 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.

our kind of love story was
dysfunctional
physical
we pretended it was theatrical
but it certainly had the deception
that shakespeare constantly feared

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.)

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

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

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

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.