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Johnny Zhivago Aug 2013
Spanish influenza
walking pneumonia
icepick headache
common cold
whooping cough
Diabetes
anorexia
getting old

flat foot
bad back
heel spur
heart attack
spasticus
autisticus
tongue tied
amb(i)dextrous

my weakness
is my forte
my sickness is  my skill
my illness
is my realness
it makes my life a thrill


Trying to fight this
bronchitis
gangrene
runny nose
frostbite
tooth decay
hat hair
broken bones

bed bound
shell-shocked
flea ridden
sinusitis
cholera
dropsy
eliphantitis
out-all-nightis

wom­b fever
winter fever
black water fever
remitting fever
ship fever
jail fever
camp fever
or schizophrenia

scarlet fever
tuberculosis
American plague
rock n roll
Wheezing
Paralysed
Got gas
In both holes

rabies
scabies
rickets
and SARS
man flu
bird flu
swine flew
from Mars

multiple sclerosis
tennis elbow-sis
stomach ulcers
and leukaemia
night blindness
hypothermia
lung cancer
sickle-cell anaemia

French pox
Lockjaw
Polio
Gout
Nostalgia
Dropsy
Knocked right
Out

Stuttering
Bellyacher
Anti-social
Leprosy
Sleep walker
Sleep talker
Absent minded
OCD

Tourettes, ****
Pyromania
tonsillitis
Conjunctivitis
Food poisoned!
Warted over
My Psoriasis
(Will I survive this?)

Measles
Malaria
Meningitis
Migraine
Scrum-pox
Worm fit
Water on
the brain

apparitions
seeing things
rattly chest
bad breath
la duzi
tormentation
inflammation
black death

measles
malaria
migrane
mumps
leprosy
lice and
leg bone
lumps

kleptomania
bubonic plague
black *****
feeling ****
bone shave
falling sickness
wanna stop
just cant quit

Huntington's and
Parkingson's and
Hare-lipped
Hay fever
Typhoid fever
Glandular fever
Night fever
And Hysteria

intellectual
dyslexia
dysfunctional
family
cancer crab
stillborn twin
bad blood
epilepsy

Parking spot
disabilities
all the wounds in
all the militaries
pity thee with
lost agility
lost babes or
infertility

ear infection
starvation
Hepatitis
E to A
smallpox
chicken pox
cow pox
what a day

tuberculosis
stuttering
panic stricken
star struck
scurvy
shingles
headless chicken
bad luck


paranoid
in the void
premature
*******
stomach ulcers
feeble pulses
chronicled
*******

autistic
gallstones
double-jointe­d
wrists and knees
consumption
bad digestion
quinsy palsy
ticks and fleas

amnesia
typhus
amnesia
heart failure
radiation
cholera
amnesia
bad behaviour

Hypochondriac?
By gosh, no!
Poorly are ye?
‘Fraid so.


nostalgia
        suffer me
wanderlust
suffer me
insomnia
suffer me
loneliness
let me be



god
complex
mother
complex
father
complex
ego
complex

­

its complicated
im superior
its complicated
im inferior
its complicated
im a short man
got ingrown hairs
got a bad tan



im suffering
ocd
im suffering
obesity
im suffering
jealousy
xenophobia
and nosebleeds



stokholm
syndrome
toxic shock
syndrome
got it down
syndrome
irritable bowel
syndrome

yellow nail
syndrome
stevens-johnson
syndrome
restless leg
syndrome
shoulder-hand
syndrome

lambert-eaton
syndrome
mi­ddle-lobe
syndrome
mobius
syndrome
pickwickian
syndrome

post rubella
syndrome
riley day
syndrome
straight back
syndrome
ulysess
syndrome



alcoholics
we are prone
drug addicts
we are prone
mind benders
we are prone
fortune spenders
we are prone



My illness, my illness
My illness is my realness

*Pick it up
Tide it over
Fight it off or
Cave in

Save it
Suffer it
Pass it on
When its Raining

bleed him
restrain him
shave his
head

he went from being
quite well
to being quite
dead.
unfinished but did you bother to the end?
Cyril Blythe Aug 2012
I assured myself again that I was completely alone. Gingerly, I sat on the corner of her popcorn-and-perfume-scented bed and allow my tingling fingers to reach out and open that sacred journal again to page one. I never really understood it but maybe if I read it one more time. “Things I Wish I Never Knew:

1. People are selfish almost always.

2. Shaking hands does matter. ******.

3. Wine hangovers are miserable.

4. Puppies **** behind things ‘cause they feel guilty; you wont find it until it smells.

5. Friends really do come and go.

6. Neti Pots absolutely **** and bring you nosebleeds NOT relief.

7. Attraction and love are different. REMEMBER THIS ABOVE ALL.

8. Joy is clicking add to dictionary in Microsoft word.

9. If you can make it through Taco Bell kisses, morning breath will be a breeze.

10. Be jovial, it’s a choice and a side effect of living in daily adventure.

11. Make sure that your family knows…” I pause because I think I hear footsteps padding up the fourteen red-carpeted steps to her bedroom. I know I can’t move, the old wood floor in this crumbling house will definitely creak and give me away, so I just sit on the edge of the bed at full attention.

        “…No, ma’am, everything’s basically back to normal again, we’re getting the locks changed on Saturday. I’ll tell her you send your love.” The footsteps and voice were at the top of the stairs and I saw a shadow fall across the dusty floor in front of the white wooden door. I know it’s my neighbor Annie because she lives here. We grew up together. “Yes, ma’am, I love you too. I’ll try to make her call you soon. Bye.” Her phone beeped to signal the end of the conversation followed by a loud sigh. I peered from the bed into the hall and saw her sitting on the floor. Annie is a pretty girl. All the girls who live here are. We used to go to school together until my grades got too bad and I started my special school. We used to play in her front yard with her sister, Kelly. One time I kissed Kelly, but we were only seven. She is my only kiss. They both leave for most of the year now to go to college but come home for Christmas break. I will never go to college, but that’s ok.

        I felt my pants vibrating and the theme song to the TV show Who Wants to be a Millionaire was somehow blaring from somewhere around my crotch. Before I could silence it, the shadow at the door became a tangible whirlwind of brown hair, sharp screams, and clawing grabbing fingers as she tried to wrench the ratty Moleskin journal from my fingers.

        “******, Cyril, I thought I heard someone in here. You give it back and get out of this house. You can’t, like, break into other people houses like this. This is just not what normal people do. Can’t your father control you?” At this point we’re both standing in the middle of the bedroom. I’m confused so I just dangle the journal in the air above her grasp. “It’s not yours and you know that. I know you at least understand that, right? Right, Cyril? What the hell would you do if Kelly had been showering or changing. Oh my god, ew, do NOT answer that.”

        “Ow,” I yelp as she scratches at my forearm to retrieve the precious journal. “Your claws are sharp, Annie, I have more scratches from you than I do Jimmy-cat and Jimmy-cat is mean, mean but fluffy… and he purrs but you don’t purr. Is that because you don’t like me?” I lower my arm and Annie snatches the Moleskine out of my fumbling fingers, avoiding eye contact at all costs. I hate it when people do that. I notice it, but they don’t think I do.

            “Cyril, get out.” Her right hand is now securely around the Moleskine and the other is shaking, pointed towards the doorway. “Now.”

            This is always the worst part. I walk out of Kelly’s forbidden bedroom: head hung as I creak down the fourteen red, carpeted stairs and make my way to the front door. It’s always quiet and I don’t like the quiet so whenever it’s quiet I count. I am good at counting. …Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…silence.

        I turn to her, “Annie, I’m sorry…”

            “Out.” She opens the front door and points me to my apartment, directly across the street. Its autumn now and the leaves and cold rustle down the street and I crouch deeper into my black coat as I step outside.

            “So maybe I’ll come over tomorrow?” I turn as I start down the steps, hopeful to have conjured up a smile from Annie, but all I see is the flash of brunette hair disappearing behind another thick, white wooden door.

            “Get off our property before I call the cops, you creep!”

            That’s what I’ve always been to these pretty girls: a creep. I don’t really understand what the word means, but I’m pretty sure from the way they say it that it’s not nice. Pops always tells me that I’m different because it’s better to be different. I don’t understand why Annie and Kelly don’t think it’s better that I’m different too.

            I decide to walk to Captain D’s and tell Earl hi because it’s Friday and that’s what I do on Fridays. Earl owns Captain D’s and has forever. Earl is my friend. Earl and Jimmy-cat at Captain D’s that I feed my left over fish are my friends. At least I think they are. I named the cat Jimmy-cat because Pops says mom used to listen to a man named Jimmy Buffett before she left us. I don’t remember those days.

            I turn the corner knowing Captain D’s is just 560 steps ahead and that to get back home I go 910 steps back and I’ll be at my front door. Counting is one thing I am good at; even the tests they used to make me take at the doctor’s office said so. I am good at numbers. Seven is my favorite number.

            I walk into Captain D’s and, like normal, its just Earl inside. He makes me two Fish-Filet sandwiches and we go stand outside. We usually don’t talk much, but I like that . I sit on the crunchy curb, put on my hood because the wind and leaves have made my ears sting. I unwrap the greasy paper on my first sandwich and Earl pulls out his red Marbolo’s and sits beside me lighting up his first cigarette.

            “Why do you smoke, Earl?” I ask him every Friday and he always responds the same way.

            “Eh. Why do the fish swim Cyril? Why do the Eagles and Crows fly? You know we don’t know why Women like shoes so much.”

I never really understand what he means but it makes me giggle and before we know it we’re both laughing. I’m pretty sure this is what friendship is. I lick the wrapper to get all the tarter sauce off and start on my second sandwich. Earl starts his second cigarette.

            “Where’s that alley cat you got trained up, boy? Go get ‘em and I’ll cook him his own fish patty.”

            He means Jimmy-cat. I wipe my fingers on my jeans, tear off a piece of the damp fish from my sandwich, and walk towards white picket fence that Earl built around the dumpster where Jimmy-cat lives. Jimmy-cat has a good life; he can eat anything in the green dumpster he wants and he is safe behind the big white fence. I don’t like the smell but maybe cats like eating and smelling the furry tarter sauce that clings on the sides of the dumpster. As I pull the lever to open Jimmy Cat’s home, I think it smells even worse than normal. After jiggling the latch a while, it clicks, and I swing the door open to Jimmy-cat’s house. It definitely smells worse. I step up one step and crunch on leaves and squish cold fries as I circle the dumpster. “Jimmy-Jimmy-Jimmy-cat, where-oh-where-oh-where ya at?” I stop as I enter the back right corner, I see Jimmy-cat but I don’t understand what is happening. I don’t understand what is wrong. He is covered in ketchup, maybe? But if that’s true what are the little white thingssss crawling around his stomach and why are they covered in ketchup and mayonnaise too? He is mewling and I’m scared. I smell fish. Fish and furry tarter sauce, one, two, three, four, my feet are crunching on the cold fries and leaves again, I know I’m at the door without even turning around.

            “Boy, what you doin’ in there?”

            “Earl?” …One…two… “Earl, can you help me? Earl, I, I don’t understand. I don’t like it.” …Three…four…five… “Jimmy-cat needs a bath, Earl, and something is eating his stomach.” …Six…seven…silence. Earl’s hand fells like a dead fish on my shoulder as he walks me back up to Jimmy-cats home.

            “Stay here, Cyril. Just gimme’a sec to see what’s happening.” Earl disappears into the leaves and fries and fur.

            eight…nine…ten

eleven…twelve…

            thi­rteen…

fourteen…

            silence.





            “Boy? Come back here now. C’mon.” Earl’s voice echoed around the green corners and I followed. One…two…three…four…five…six…seven I stand above Earl and I know the ketchup and mayonnaise and Jimmy-cat eating monsters are just on the other side of his crouched over body.

            “Well don’t be shy, come look.” Earl stands and I see his work apron covered in the ketchup and mayonnaise but beyond that in a bed of Fish-filet wrappers is Jimmy-cat and all the stomach eating monsters mewling at his stomach, as I get close I think they look kinda like little Jimmy-cats. I push my hood off my head as I lean over closer and that’s when it hit me, “Kittens! Jimmy-cat had kittens, Earl!”

            “I think Jimmy-cat may be more of a Jasmine-cat or Jennifer-cat.”

            I laid down the piece of fish I brought and Jimmy-Cat looks up into my eyes and I swear he was happy to see me.  I looked up at Earl and he was happy to see me too. I sat down in the mess of wrappers and fries and mold and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Andrew T Jul 2016
Backstory: A Memoir

For Vicki

By AT

5

While I was downstairs, folding laundry in the basement, I heard my sister Vicki stomping upstairs to the room that used to be mine, slamming the door, and locking it shut.

I was a ****** older brother. And Vicki learned that action from me.
Then, I heard more footsteps. Louder stomping. And I knew, with certainty, it was Mom coming after her.

I'm not an omniscient narrator, so I don't know what Vicki does when the door is locked.

But I do imagine she is reading. Vicki’s been using her Kindle that Mom got her for Christmas. She adores Gillian Flynn and Suzanne Collins. She's starting to get into Philip Pullman which is swagger. I remember reading His Dark Materials when I was in elementary school.

The Golden Compass ***** you into that world, like during June when you're hitting a bowl for the first time and you're 17, late at night on Bethany beach with your childhood best friend, and the surf is curling against your toes, and the smoke is trailing away from the cherry, and you begin to realize that life isn't all about living in NOVA forever, because the world is more than NOVA, because life is bigger than this hole, that to some people believe is whole, and that's fine, that's fine because many of our parents came here from other small towns, and they wanted to do what we wanted to do, which is to pack up our stuff into the trunk of our presumably Asian branded car, and drive, drive, until they reach a destination that doesn't remind them of the good memories and the bad memories, until memory is mixed in with nostalgia, and nostalgia is mixed in with the past.

Maybe I'm dwelling on backstory, maybe you don't need to hear the backstory.

But I think you do.

Life isn't an eternity,
what I'm telling you is already known, known since there was a spider crawling up the staircase and your dad took the heel of his black dress shoe and dug his heel into that bug. And maybe I'm buggin’, but that bugged me, and now I'm trying to be healthier eating carrots like Bugs. Kale, red onions, and quinoa, as well. Because I want to be there for my sister, Vicki my sister. All we got is a wrapped up box made from God, Mohammad, and Buddha.

Soon, I heard Vicki’s door handle being cranked down and up, up and down.

Mom raised her voice from a quiet storm to a deafening concerto.  
Then, there was silence, followed by a door slamming shut.

Welcome to our life.
Later on that night, Vicki sped out of our cul-de-sac in her silver Honda Accord—a gift from Mom to keep her rooted in Nova—and even from the front porch of my house, I felt a distance from her that was deep and immovable.

I sank deeper into my lawn chair and lit a jack, but instead of inhaling like I usually did, I held it out in front of me and watched the smoke billow out from the cherry.

I always smoked jacks when she was not there, because I didn’t want her to see me knowingly do this to myself, even as I was making huge changes to my life. It’s the one vice I have left, and it’s terrible for me, but I don’t know if she understands that I know both things. Maybe instead of caring about what jacks do to my body, I should care about what she thinks about what I’m doing to myself. This should be obvious to me, but sometimes things aren’t that obvious.

4

As we grew older Vicki and I forged a dialogue, an understanding. She confided in me and I confided in her, sharing secrets, details about our lives that were personal and private, as if we were two CIA agents working together to defeat a totalitarian government—our tiger mom.

But seriously our mom was and still is swagger as ****—rocks Michael Kors and flannel Pajama pants (If I told you that last article of clothing she'd probably pinch my cheek and call me a chipmunk. Don't worry I'm fine with a moderation of self-deprecation).

The other day Mom talked to me about Vicki and explained that she was upset and irritated with Vicki because of her attitude. I thought that was interesting, because I used to have the same exact attitude when I was my sister’s age and I got away with a lot more ****, being that I'm a guy and the first-born. I understood why she would shut the front door, exit our red brick bungalow, and speed away in her Honda Accord, going towards Clarendon, or Adams Morgan, spending her time with her extensive circle of friends on the weekdays and weekends.

Because being inside our house, life could get suffocating and depressing.
Our Grandparents live with us. Grandpa had a stroke and is trying to recover. Grandma has Alzheimer’s and agitates my mom for rides to a Vietnamese Church. Besides the caretakers, Mom, Dad, Vicki, and I are the only ones taking care of my grandparents.

Mom told me that she believes that Vicki uses the house as a hotel. Mom didn't remind me of a landlord, and I believe that Vicki doesn’t see her as that either.

I didn't believe Vicki was doing anything necessarily wrong.

She had her own life.

I had my own life.

Dad had his own life.

Mom had her own life.

I understood why she wanted to go out and party and hang out with her friends. Maybe she was like me when I was 21 and perceived living at home as a prison, wanting to have autonomy and freedom from Mom because she was attempting to make me conform to her controlled system with restraints. But as Vicki and I both grow older I believe that we see Mom not as an authority figure; but, just as Mom.

Vicky and Mom clash and clash and clash with each other, more than the Archer Queens of The Hero Troops clash with the witches of the Dark Elixir Troops.

They act like they were from different clans, but they're both on the same side in reality.

The apple does not fall far from the tree. And in this case the tree wants to hang onto the apple on the tip of its rough, and yet leafy bough.
Because the tree is rooted in experience and has been around for much longer than the apple.

But the apple is looking for more water than the tree can give it. So the apple dreams about a summer rain-shower that will give it a chance to have its own experience. A similar, but different one, to the darker apple that hangs from a higher bough, an apple that has been spoiled from having too much sun and water.

3

During Winter Break, Vicki scored me tickets to a game between the Wizards and the Bucks. From court side to the nosebleeds, the audience at the Verizon Center was chanting in cacophony and in tempo. Wall was injured. But Gortat crashed the boards, Nene' drained mid-range shots, and Beal drove up the lane like Ginsberg reading Howl.

Vicki and I both tried to talk to each other as much as we could; unfortunately, Voldemort—my ex-gf—sat in between us and was gossiping about the latest scoop with the Kardashians.

Nevertheless, Vicki and I still managed to drink and have an outstanding time. But I should have given her more attention and spent less time on my smartphone. I was spending bread on Papa John's Pizza and chain-smoking jacks during half-time, and even when there were time outs. When I would come back and sink into my plastic chair, I'd feel bloated and dizzy.
And I'd look over at Vicki and either she was talking to Voldemort, or typing away on her smartphone. I didn't mind it at the time, but now I wished I had been less of a concessions barbarian/used-car salesman chain-smoker, and more of an older brother. I should have asked her about her day and her friends and her interests.

But I didn't.

Because I was so concerned about indulging in my vices like eating slices of pepperoni pizza and drinking overpriced beer. There's nothing wrong with pizza or beer. But as we all know the old saying goes, everything is about moderation.

Vicki scrunched her nose and squinted her eyes when I would lean forward and try to maneuver around Voldemort, trying to talk to her about the game and the players in it. I imagine that when she smelled the cigarette smoke leaking away from my lips, that she believed I was inconsiderate and not self-aware.

After the game, we went to a bar across the street from the Verizon Center, and bought mixed drinks. Voldemort was D.D., so Vicki and I drank until our Asian faces got redder than women and men who go up on stage for public speaking for the first time.

I remember this older Asian guy was trying to hit on her.
I took in short breaths. Inhaled. Exhaled. I cracked my shoulder blades to push my chest forward.  

And then, I patted him on the back and grinned. The Asian guy got the message. You don’t **** with the bodyguard.

Vicki had and still has a great boyfriend named Matt.

I guided Vicki back to our table and laughed about the awkward situation with her.

The Asian guy craned his head toward me and did a short wave. And then he bought us coronas. Either, you’re still hitting on my sister, or it’s a kind gesture. She and I better not get... Or am I overthinking it?

But seriously, I wished I had been the one to spend money on her first—she had bought the first round of drinks. Because at the time, my job was challenging and low-paying. Or maybe I just wasn't being frugal enough and partying way too often.

I still remember the picture that a cool rando took of us, drinking the Coronas, and how I was happy to be a part of her life again. Our eyes were so Asian. I had my lanky arm around her small shoulders, like a proud Father. She had her cheek propped up by her fist, her smile, gigantic and beaming, as though she had just won Wimbledon for the first time.
I was wearing a white and blue Oxford shirt that she had gotten me for Christmas with a D.C. Rising hat. She had on a cotton scarf that resembles a tan striped tail of a powerful cat.

My face was chubby from the pizza. Her face was just right like the one house in Goldilocks. The limes in the Coronas were sitting just below the throat of the bottles, like old memories resurfacing the brain, to make the self recall, to make the self remember how to treat his family.
Or maybe this is just a brand new Corona ad geared towards the rising second-generation Asian American demographic? I'm playing around.
But end of commercial break.

Vicki pats me on the back and we clink bottles together. Voldemort is lurking in the background, as if she's about to photobomb the next picture. Sometimes I don't know if there's going to be a next picture.
Either we live in these moments, or make memories of them with our phones. And like sheep following an untrustworthy shepherd, we went back to our phones. She made emails and texts. I went on twitter in search of the latest news story.

2

Before Vicki and I opened each other's presents, I remember I blew up at Mom and Dad, and criticized everyone in the family room including Vicki. It was over something stupid and trivial, but it was also something that made me feel insecure and small. I was the black sheep and she was the sheep-dog.

I screamed. Vicki took in a deep breath and looked away from my glare, looked away to a spot on the hardwood floor that was filled with a fine blanket of dust and lint. I chattered. She rubbed her fingers around the lens of her black camera and shook her head in a manner that suggested annoyance and disappointment. I scoffed. She set the camera down on the coffee table and pressed the flat of her hand against her cheek, and glanced out the window into the backyard that was blanketed with slush and snow.
Drops of snow were plunging from the branches of the evergreen trees and plopping onto the patches of the ground, plunging, as though they were little toddlers cannonballing off of a high-dive.

She turned back and looked at me straight in the eye, so straight I thought she was searching for the answer to my own stupidity.

I cleared my throat and said, “I need a breath of fresh air.”

Vicki bit her bottom lip, sat down, and put her arms on her knees, a deep, contemplative look appearing on her face.

I stormed into the narrow hallway, slammed the front door back against its rusty hinges, and trundled down my front driveway, the cold from the ice and the snow dampening the soles of my tarnished boots. I lit a jack at the far end of the cul-de-sac and counted to ten. I watched the cigarette smoke rise, as the ashes fell on the snow, blemishing its purity and calmness. I inhaled. I exhaled. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach that Vicki knew I was having a jack to reduce my stress, stress that I had cause all by myself. I ground the jack against the snowy concrete, feeling the cold begin to numb my fingers that were shaking from the nicotine, shaking from the winter that had wrapped itself around me and my sister.

When I came back inside of the house, I told Mom and Dad I was being an idiot and that I didn’t mean to be such an *******. I turned to Vicki and put my hand on her shoulder, squeezed it, and smiled weakly, telling her that I didn’t mean to upset her.

She nodded and said, “It’s okay bro.”

But her soft and icy tone made me feel skeptical; she didn’t believe me. I didn’t know if I believed my apology. Minutes later, I gave my present to her.

Her face brightened up with a smile. It was a gradual and cautious smile, a little too gradual and a little too cautious. She hugged me tightly, as though my earlier outburst hadn’t happened.

She opened the bank envelope and inside was a fat stack of cleanly, pressed bills that totaled a hundred. Being an arrogant, noob car salesman at the time, I thought it was going to be a pretty clever present. I could have given her a Benjamin, but I thought this would make her happier, because it showed my creative side in a different form.

I remember seeing her spread the dollar bills out, as if the bills were a Japanese Paper fan. Vicki told me not to post the picture I had taken on insta or Facebook. I smiled faintly and nodded, stuffing my smartphone back into my sweatpants pocket. I understood what she wanted, and I listened to her, respecting her wishes. But I also wasn't sure if she was embarrassed and ashamed of me. And maybe I was overthinking it. But again, maybe I wasn’t overthinking it. Social Media, whether we like it or not, is a part of life. And in that moment, I actually wanted social media to display this a single story in our lives. I wanted to show people that Vicki was the most important person—besides my parents—in my life. Because I was so concerned with how people viewed me and because I lacked confidence, lacked security, and lacked respect for myself

Vicki's present to me was a sleek and blue tie, a box set of mini colognes, and refreezable-ice-cubes. I think she called it the car salesperson kit. But I knew and still know she was trying to turn me into an honest and non-sketchy car salesman. And you know what, I was genuine, but I also couldn't retain any information about the cars features—to reiterate my Grandma has Alzheimer's, my mom writes down constant notes to remember everything, and I forget my journal almost every time I leave the house.

After Christmas I wore the tie to work a few times, but the mini colognes and ice-cubes never got used by me. They stayed in the trunk of my Toyota Avalon. I should have used the colognes and the ice-cubes, but I was too careless, too self-involved, and too ungrateful.

1

Back in the 90’s, when we were around 3 and 6 years old, Vicki and I shared the same room on the far left end of the hallway in our house. She had a small bed, and I had a bigger bed, obviously, because at 6 foot 1, I was a genetic freak for a Vietnamese guy. I read Harry Potter and Redwall like crazy growing up, and I would try to invent my own stories to entertain her. Every night she would listen to me tell my yarn, and it made me feel that my voice was significant and strong, even though many times I felt my voice was weak and soft, lacking in inflection, or intonation.

I had a speech impediment and I had to take classes at Canterbury Woods to fix my perceived problem. I wanted to fit in, blend in, and have friends.
Back then Vicki was not only my sister, but my best friend. She used to have short, black bangs; chubby cheeks, and a dot-sized nose—don't worry she didn't get ****** into the grocery tabloids and get rhinoplasty. She wore her red pajamas with a tank top over it, so she looked like a mini-red ranger, and her slippers
Dedicated to my baby sister, love you kid!
alexandra Feb 2013
a young couple in love turned into a disaster neither of you wanted, a weakened man cut down by life reaches out for just a taste of the dragon, and life spirals down from there, utter depression, daily beatings, tons of lies and painful cries, and somehow she managed to keep her hope alive.
she held her hands out like a life ring, just begging you to grab on, her only desire was to save you.
her heart stopped beating after years of loving you and praying you'd get over your self destructive habit.
she begged you to love her the way you used to, although she accepted it when you couldn't.
and when your heart turned cold and icy, hers was still warm enough to heat up a room. it's too bad you'd rather be stuck in your lonely ice box that you call a soul.
battered and bruised, you're twisted and she's confused, she can't escape this place. she's too invested and in love, she prays from help from above.
all she wants is her old life back, where you loved her more than misery and smack.
blood shot eyes, one too many lies, and ******* broke her spirits and for some reason that came to your surprise,
but you only cared went you weren't high.
the stale smell of blood, constantly finds it way into her nose and drives her crazy, and when she craves a line or two of sugar her nails dig holes and lines into her skin.
she's lost all hope, all love of life, she's given up on God, and you know it ain't right.
she wakes up screaming from her dreams,
to sooth your soul to go back to sleep, you go into the bathroom in the dark, take out the band, and jab another needle through your so called heart, then collapse in comatose beside her cold body.

©
kelia May 2016
we find ourselves crumpled like paper
my nosebleed acts like glue
you smell and taste like pixie dust
my eyes roll around the room

ascending towards heaven
i grip your ribs like handrails

you stop me short -
'i'm going to...'

and like a napkin under the dinner table
i’m falling off your lap

you'll remember me when you need to clean up
when you need to wipe your hands
abby May 2014
you hurt like ache
and adderall
and arnica

you hurt like bruises
and battle scars
and broken bones

you hurt like cuts
and *******
and countryside

you hurt like death
and destruction
and die-hard

you hurt like electricity
and emergency rooms
and edit-undo

you hurt like *******'s
and fire
and fallen trees

you hurt like garbage cans
and gonorrhea
and gang ****

you hurt like hell
and holes in the road
and heartache

you hurt like israel
and illness
and ignition fumes

you hurt like jaundice
and jugular veins
and jack in the box

you hurt like karma
and kissing
and kerosine lamps

you hurt like lightning
and love
and literary terms

you hurt like mother
and mary
and moses

you hurt like nakedness
and nosebleeds
and nervous breakdowns

you hurt like oil spills
and old yeller
and oral quizzes

you hurt like parkinson's
and parties
and panic

you hurt like queens
and questions
and quantum physics

you hurt like rogaine
and roses
and rope burn

you hurt like solar power
and stomach aches
and ***

you hurt like teeth cleanings
and tar
and tobacco

you hurt like ulcers
and underwear
and unrequited love

you hurt like viruses
and venus fly traps
and vapor rub

you hurt like warning signs
and weight gain
and war

you hurt like x-rays
and x marks the spot
and xoxo

you hurt like your mom
and your dad
and you

you hurt like zig zags
and zero
and zip ties

*(a.m.c.)
I don't really know if I even like this. But it was fun to make. ******* q, x, and z.
Tommy Johnson Jun 2014
Let 'em hear ya in the cheap seats
In the nosebleeds

Trashed and thrashed
The stove heats up the whole house

The beauty pageant is being judged by those who have been bribed and the biased

There's no room at the inn
To the barn, I guess

Ring in the morning
As today's hectic schedule chimes in

The chimney sweep preforms rhinoplasty on a bobcat
And sends windup toys to Goodwill

I christen thee, Backwards!
Here, take this seven leaf clover for good luck
AW Gray Aug 2018
Trapped inside this box of your brain
Just one way out ;  crystal's key
Crush  purest, whitest rock.
won't feel so foul
though careful now!
you'll waste your go
theres only bout a gram you know
translucent Blue cases and razor blades,
an assortment of bank cards and notes far and wide,
torn up notebook scrap dyed red -  a meaningful sign  
from the brutal nosebleeds marking the straws
The purest indication
of our devout dedication;
my love,
complete devotion to such  godless acts
Hear cheers of charlie
speaking salacious acts
Sniff some magic snow for silence
the hankering soon be back

One in the kitchen starting his war,
One in the spre room - dead on the floor,
Two in the bed lost to their head,
And myself on the hunt
for half ins for more
not finished, needs editing for structure
Robyn Jul 2013
She had a frazzled sort of look about her. Wispy hair fell into her eyes which were watering from the allergies she often complained about, the ones that caused her nosebleeds so heavy, she'd nearly faint from blood loss. But beneath her red eyes and curly hair was this pale, pink cheeked girl who listened to  punk and wrinkled her nose. She was like an antique. Something worn down, beautiful and full of secrets and memories, that you'd find under a pile of books in a dark corner. She was sarcastic, flighty and judgmental, constantly angry with the world and culture that she'd been ****** into. She spent all her time forcing beauty and laughter into people's lives so they wouldn't see the shattered pieces of the world and subsequently herself that she tried to hide behind her back. Others might see this as sly or deceitful but it wasn't. Her lies were the selfless kind, if such exist. She wanted to protect people from the world that wore her down so cruelly and quickly, she became an antique person by the age of fifteen. This frazzled, determined, lovely girl may not change the world, but she changed my life.
Craig Verlin May 2014
Not much like this high.
Your brain about fifteen seconds in
advance of your body. Staring around
at your friends. Blood dripping
from your nose. They don't tell
you about the nosebleeds. They don't
tell you about the burn that guts you out
right behind the eyes. The ache in
your chest as your lips curl and your
eyes roll back. Not much like this
high, boys and girls, not much.
Chopped and cut; a one way ticket
to El Dorado. Your spine breaks as you
attempt to stand. Your legs buckle. Time passes.
You're on the porch, knee deep in the pool,
******* it feels good. Time passes.
You can't eat. You can't drink. You can't blink
Not much like this high. It don't last long though.
Here comes the tide rolling in. Here comes
the Downs. Down down down. Killing yourself
is too much to pass up on these days. Too much
going on not to take a trip. Get up. Get away.
Haven't eaten in days, just crank. Chop up.
***** up. Line up. Inhale. Don't forget to breathe.
Saved a hundred dollar bill for the occasion.
Break it in. Go go go. Quick, before the
Downs come. Go go go. Screaming from
the inside out. What have we gotten
ourselves into? Vicious cycles and
bad habits that won't break.
Vicious war within ourselves; broken bones,
nosebleeds, and all of everything burnt out.
Our souls turn to ash as we lean in closer,
and laugh because we know we shouldn't.
Harry J Baxter Mar 2014
You are getting nosebleeds at all the wrong times
the tears welling up behind your eyes to track down  your
pale, pockmarked cheek
and that bulging in your throat constricting the airflow
let’s you know that fast can be too fast
you thrive with the sunlight
but like flowers standing tall against the oncoming winter
you wilt with day’s last breath
what time did you get home this morning?
hair all matted and stood up
smelling like a sorority party massacre
glitter, wine, tequila, coke, and anonymous ****
take another adderall
******* for the bored children
feel the electrical signals pulse from your brain
to snap your pupils to attention
wash the ***** out of your hair sweet heart
the boys back home never talked to you the way these city boys do
“girl, *****, chick, ****, ***** -”
“oh her? yeah she’s a sure ****
her legs are like seven eleven
they’re not always doing business, but they’re always open…”
So forget the night ever happened
each day brings new opportunities
but they all want you
they all want one thing from you
and you don’t want to say no
don’t want to make them mad,
be a tease, a *****, frigid
and you like the way they make you feel special and beautiful
until the next morning
with the nosebleeds and the dry heaving in strange toilets
and you are waiting for Prince Charming, huh?
as if he will jump out of cheesy romcoms and magazines to hold you steady
well Prince charming is dead weight slowly spinning beneath a frayed, twisted rope
in a dark closet next to the nameless stranger and the noble outlaw
so go ahead and smash those mirrors sweetheart
what’s seven years more bad luck?
kenye Sep 2013
Be my constant
like Desmond
and the Island

When you and me
met between nosebleeds
and seizures of consciousness

We looked to the sky
and watched
electromagnetic
explosions

That held our hearts
pumping out supernovas
In their hands
we were Gods
respectively
blowing
Buddha minds
out of proportion
re-enacting
some center stage production
of how we shift our own reality

Subtly
unspoken
devoid of emotions
lost like a lighter
in a smoke circle

Offsetting
the light and darkness

But You were always my constant
again and again
in
flash-backs
flash-forwards
flash-sideways
*We could never escape the timeline
I've been watching Lost on Netflix...
Zoe Sue Nov 2016
I can't be your first love
The one who's name waits on your tongue
To lash out and remind me
I am small within her shadow

I can't be your first love
With mocha skin
Red wine dripped lips
And the touch that may still creep into your dreams

I can't be the first love
You waited months to kiss
In a firework glow
(I wanted you more, God only knows)

I can't be the first love
Who captured you
With artemis' grace
And her goddess confidence
(Rather, I'm the stumbling deer in your headlights)

I can't be the one
Who coiled around you
Demanded princess treatments
No, I never fit right on a pedestal

I can't be her
Though I've wished I could
When the way you say her name
Holds more than just nostalgia

Now I know she's got the front row seats
Serial effect on her side
But don't put me in the nosebleeds
Cause the previews always come
Before the main event
Yes, I can't be your first love
But I'd love to be second
Odi Jul 2016
A marinate was played
Full of granite and fine rings
A bathtub of nosebleeds Danny and a bathtub of kings
All the cards that were dealt all the hands that we played pulled the curtain bell
Of my sleeve up to delay what I'd say and
All the cards we swept under the rug Danny all the music we screamed
From my sore throat and broken hands came the sound of suffering on a silent note in an empty room a bell jar and a piano and a single key being pressed in time to the sound of my weeping Danny
My friends ignored my cries
But here we are now with a new drum set and two sets of sticks for hands and we break everything we try to touch Danny thinking it can be played like the single key in that lonely room
Listen there are vultures in my throat in all my baby teeth and landlocked blues
I know that's the name of the song but I wanted to play it for you
Just in case you forgot I could sing out my suffering
And it doesn't sound so horrible now does it Danny
Because you don't know the story it tells
The blood diamond behind the curtain
Well it glimmers just as well
And I'm sure we can find a way to forgive ourselves for everything that was done
But I'm in a two step programme
Where everything gets reversed
And no I haven't slept in weeks Danny you're right I know I look like ****
I just haven't had time to think about what I'm putting in me
When I try to scream and I come up on a single static piano key
Listen there are ways we broke each-other and I'm sorry I tried
But the sound of my suffering
Doesn't mean waving goodbye
A poem inspired by a series of bright eyes songs.
I write your name
                              in red
   sunlight
seeps through bottles
          on a windowsill
   margarine kaleidoscopes
         on legs

naked for a change
(early summer risky business)

Floorboards yawn
     under the weight of our stories
   I take showers
        as well as baths now
   Can't be twenty-one here
older   shush you couldn't tell

   Roll my finger
   make your piano tingle
like when our wrists
    bump together
    when spines crackle
on books bought yesterday
    this city   bubbles
        all fiction

You think
monochrome
     makes you look better
     camera   snap   done
jazz sashays around the room
    head out a window
hear people as nosebleeds
                    scrabble about

You flirt
        (what a discovery)
like flowers in a vase
   orange juice   bagels
ten-plus-ten toes

     (A moment
where your eyes ache
     into mine)

I hop
stepped jumped
into this mess

     you know as well as I do
     what a delectable
mess we are in
Written: June 2014.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time (and there will be more, somewhat similar pieces to this soon.) Something very rare happened, in which I sat and wrote a page of random notes inspired by recurring dreams, and rather than leave it and later alter it into a poem, I just re-shuffled some bits, added some more, and put it on here, so while it is in one sense 'raw', to me it is also rather 'fresh.' Feedback highly welcome and appreciated on this.
NOTE: This poem was inspired, but is not directly about somebody.
Jo Sep 2012
I can see you smiling through the pain
You've been through storms of hurt and rain
Your heart is big, but your eyes weak
But you still act strong, oh so sweet
Although you say you're quite alright
Saying that phrase takes all your might
Such a weak soul, you think to yourself
And begin doing things not good for your health
You'll walk out of bathrooms with nosebleeds
Hiding your face so no one sees
No one knows anything
Just the way you want it to be
Years after rehab, you begin again
But to stop, all you needed was a friend
Someone who cared about you so
And take care of you in times of woe
A friend who loved you endlessly
And to make sure you fell sound asleep
A friend at heart is all you need
To cope with this world full of greed
Lauren R Oct 2016
Hey, Mr. Rager! Mr. Rager!
Tell me where you're going!
Tell us where you're headed!

This is an ode to all the lungs you've burnt, all the times you knew how hurt I was and am and how my heart bruises the inside of my chest, beating the **** out of me, trying to burst from my body, frantic, afraid. Oh- credit card fingers, syringe tongue, bloodiest of Sunday's, show me how to roll it, show me how to make origami of my bones.

I'm off on a adventure.*

To the fickle space between the folds of your brain, to the indecision, to the gentle curve of your shoulders that I trace with my palm, to the gaps in your happiness.

Mr. Rager!
Tell me some of your stories
Tell us of your travels
Hey, Mr. Rager! Mr. Rager!
Tell me where you're going!
Tell us where you're headed!


To the untouched spots on your cheeks, to all the noises that frighten you, to all the things that go bump in the night, to starving, to all the stucco paint, to acid flashbacks, to paranoia, to my knuckles, ****** from beating myself up.

I'm on my way to Heaven.

To the rolling back of your eyes, to ******* nosebleeds, to drunk driving, to the ***** all across your chest, to your mother's mother, to the way your eyes soften when you look at me.

Mr. Rager!
Can we tag along? Can we take a journey?


You're asleep in my arms, my hand in your hair. The world is turning a little slower.  

*When will the fantasy end? When will the heaven begin?
I miss Kid Cudi
Ken Pepiton Feb 2023
Look once more,
look back and see the way, to now
from
when reason first was used
to master the frame
of mind, embodied, as mine,
informed with shapes of things solid,
shapes of things inside,
shapes of thing outside,
shapes of thoughts stacked in sequence,
after the hallelujah,
as per holy orders of worth appraisal,
services rendered,
magic performed,
life administered, for another week,
any body can handle one more week.
After the hallelujah.
learn that definition once, and you never
see sequential activity in ritual
as before,
magic effectuation, affection, as joy
one mindful, chewy, gustatory morsel,
of child-like faith, to be conserved.
Conservatively speaking,
Whig-wise, knowing one's prepositional relativity.
We labor, not in vain… to become worthy
to tread, with shoes, on streets of gold.
where milk needs no cow, and honey bees
never need be busy all day.

Riches and sweets, both
take more than either promise, aimed at
via entertain-mental mmm-usings tight
at tension, mind's time spaced taut
edge of me, edge of mine,
edge of ever aimed at
thus far… where we suffer this is so…
- measured timespace in mind agone…
Then we live through the last now, to die.

Becoming the author, fisher for being bubbles
afloat in ever after all.

At my funeral. To spare the hassle, imagine.

Friends and loved ones,
most are dead, or far away;

but we recall times, vague days
incidents for which we each hold bits,

instants, reality instantiated, pastense,

feel the kiss, feel the shame, the joy,
the hope, the loss, the win, the terror,
the truth of no perceptible way,

away from quit.
--------------

Infancy instants, perhaps, we guess,
we recall being babes, for briefest
recollections of perceptions kept, some how

to be reformed from shards of information
stored some where in an image of a moment

seen from the frame of a seer, not me, seeing
me, infant me, tossed and caught by a laughing
man in a sailor suit…

and, the oddity, of the singular infantile memory
stored some where for reconstruction, living
entertainment…

like unto Agricultural Entertainment, an art form
ancient as harvest festivals,

when locals picked the orchards, and our worlds
were edged in otherwise wild hedge rows,
where little creatures live at child level,
where words miss heard give stories twists,

too odd to be retold while holding any of the small
awe, aw, so sweet, too dear to let be meaningless,
but
as truth been told,
mean is bad in dogs and men, mean is bad in mankind,
mean is common,
mean is most common,
mean is measured, granted
mathematical reality, mind my means, you know
"intend, have in mind;"
Mental meaning application, folded man-kind wise…
Sometimes connected to root *men- (1)
"to think,"
which would make the ground sense of man
"one who has intelligence,"
but not all linguists accept this.
Liberman, for instance, writes,
"Most probably man 'human being' is a secularized divine name"
from Mannus [Tacitus, "Germania," chap. 2],
"believed to be the progenitor of the human race."

~~~~~~~~

Institutional minds, adapted from drama,
worn like Superman's or Bishop Sheen's cape.
Übermmench, **** sapien augmentacious,

**** habitus, us, as we think, we are.
We are no other way,
as a man thinketh truth, as a mind may think,
fine, so is he, in his own mind, right or not,
limited fineness, judged, discerned, quarkishly
ever finer, to this very point,
where mind being time being comes to mind,
in you.
We, momentarily, agree, aggressive face to face
point, fair call
at the inner edge of the inverse square
practical fractal constant…
gravest of issues, at thought
speed of intention to grasp. Percept perceive
link touch… flowing listing seeping soaring

bemused become
amused and entertained, feeding on ensamples,
as sorted characters,
defined societal aspirational imaginal
roles in reality aboard 1950's era Spaceship Earth.


Standing, unbowed, before kings,
bowing before mean men, thinking

all ya'll are said to be created, made
equal…
valued worthy
of opinion expressed as yours, as
wings put on wishes, shoes on prayers,
for warding reaching pulling pushers
-list as wind, in cognitive bias, right
lean as wild grasses launch new seed,
- double helix, twisting up
- from down,
feel massive missal push us on,
orbital, for a lifetime,
be maker of a being bubble
be a minding creating creation,

as weighed in balance, or mass, as gold
or wind in force testing wills for making

a way, where no way was.
Dead end. No way from now, but through.

Wind beneath my down swung pinions,
lifting my imaginal self over my useless

wait state, ever learning, never learning
the whole truth we are sworn to tell,
as soon as
we begin to see as others see, subject,
object
seer
seen seeing, saying

we may be minders of findings, guardians
set to watch,
set to see,
set to say look this way, these invisible limits

terminal connection looping past through
you
as my word choices,
pass the blood brain barrier and pierce
eternal you, in stasis.

- ---------------
- post radio war, not so long ago

"how ' we gonna keep 'em down
on the farm, after they've seen Pairee?"
- enter the era of the salesman
Total war, full power propagation of faith,
in practice, words are empty, meaning
is made- hate festered pride
of whiteness, same color as the rich, qualia
as equally mistaken in terms we call common,
****** speech of the non-reading classes,
stupid peasants, children of useless men.
Lower by far than, Biblical men
of the baser sort. Belial's
sons of total depravity,
two rungs lower than average
working classes, labor, any collared man willed
to pay sweat for bread and circuses.
And a dry, warm place to sleep.

Man, the reasoning creature, is what he eats.
Man does not live by bread alone.

Imagine grooming a gimp, from puberty.
Imagine Michael Jackson, "the kid is not my son!"

Look out, Howard Bloom. Duck.
Watch the boy do a thousand shoulder shrugs.
See the fantasizing worth of awe in focus, this
is us,
we paid to see the man perform, in a role made
from lies a child uses
to make just now,
reasonable, just
cause,

I can, I have power given me by Life, look,
who can imagine being the fan,
aw, man,
nobody longs to be
in the nosebleeds, being there
is not being you,
when all you can become has become true.
Just imagine,
fakes never make it.

And truly a big tragedy to be avoided, next.

We interview… the biggest nobody,
an entity insisting formless information imagines
bubbles of being limited
-- some strings of pearls rolled up

roll into little *****
of gnoshit pearls, treasure true, in essence
from dried gnosisnot. These we cast not to pigs.
To think a readers reasons
for writing, become one
of the rare breed born
to become readers
of one thousand books, once before you die.

------------------
If Warhol made action seem so mundane,
might I not make fun seem so slow a function
to make perfectly reasonable,
picking a fight with a lie,
because I can… being created equal to that task,
I can recognize lies I told,
I know where the handles are, I know what holds
the handle to the secret meaning of things,
can seem material, where free will
is culture locked as impossible.
Thingo no hypo.
Action movie, opening sequence,
as liturgical as any measured reassurance,
enter in, become the entertained,
we live in another realm, we only play at
while being entertained, we only watch roles

being presented for judgement,
test your will to link a mind projection,

from a former time shaped mind, aimed
at drawing an audience, a crowd,
all agreeing upfront to pay
for the mirror neuronic stims,
in a darkened room filled with fools such as I.

Who allows possible a gunfight with ***'s,
at goal-to-go range, taking five minutes,
and no named characters die,
all blood is non player blood,
only a child's mind never exposed, flash,
allows that to feel real, for five minutes,
into a nonreal mindtimespace
reality
of ever once,
and ever after, onces

such as once, seeing a gun in your face,
once hearing the bang, from a gun in your hand,
once
upon
recalling that was a movie, and I never killed a man,
but by osmosis, I imagine I can see
how hate
works the same as ******.
Relax.
Recall the unbelievableness.
--- so what are silent action movies feeding,
young Aldous Huxley, a bright well educated lad.
{We are all alphas}
-----------
"His uniqueness lay in his universalism.
He was able to take all knowledge for his province."
-------
Only a rich man's son may so say.
Even, as limiting to level, if such leveling
evens the odds, serves to increase resolve
to square the circle and fix pi to simple, once
and
for
all. As events in the heaven occur, fractally

added in fine ality… at you, dear reader, enlivening me.
Infinitely, relative to yesterday.

Of course, comic books count. As in the future,
classic video games shall seem poetic code.
I appreciate the reader's task more than the writer's. Writing is easy, reading what you write from the outside is the reader's task, unless it feels like a game.
babydulle Nov 2013
They say young girls are the best at keeping secrets

1. I have to pretend I have nosebleeds to excuse myself from having to sit further into the cinema because at some point there is the possibility that I will need to escape these social situations I can’t deal with. Anxiety is taking over my entire life.
2. I want to try ecstasy just to see if the colours really are as vibrant as they say they are. Can the browns really be more beautiful than his eyes?
3. I often think about killing myself because breathing is getting too hard. It’s been too hard for years but I stopped telling my therapist because I don’t want her to feel bad. I don’t want her to feel like she’s not good at her job.
4. I wake up every day terrified that really I should be in Art school because when I talk here, it still feels like no-one is listening. If I drew my words would they see them any clearer?
5. I call God on the landline phone because my mobile has bad signal. It keeps on telling me it’s trying to connect, connect... I think I forgot to pay my bills.
6. I lose potential future best friends because I refuse to be a sob story and therefore I don’t tell them much. The very idea of being one leaves an uneasy feeling in my body. Like pills too large for my throat or pins and needles.
7. I can’t pin this down. I’m not sure I ever did.
8. I’m still in love with a boy who spells my surname incorrectly. He doesn’t care.
9. I’m not sure I will ever be happy. And that scares the **** out of me. Because if I can’t be happy, then what is the point of smiling?
10. Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve my voice box. Most nights I wonder if it’s still there.

I’m not good at keeping secrets.
Remember this when
you kiss me goodbye,
we gave it a try

until death or
'til we die,
is that what we said?

We will be fine,
dine on the memory
of what wasn't to be
remember me
for I won't forget you.
Astrid Ember Jun 2015
You don't know me.
I don't know if you
ever will.
You said you don't
understand
how I've grown
into a beast with
a memory problem of
reality.
It slips through my
fingers quicker than
sand. When I close my
eyes you are just dark
smoke hanging off where
I am touching.
You've grown into a demon
only pure where love
brushes you.
And you have fallen in
love with my touch.
Because my toxin is like
in math
and my negativity is
an antidote to your
empty.

I'm seeing white noise
and hearing white walls
my skin is still running
with the slugs in my
veins.
It's gotten to my brain.
melting, on fire, feels like
it's gone haywire
a needle pricking every
millimeter.
A hand's gone through
my skull
holding all my thoughts
so they
stop passing right
through like cheese
and a cheese grater.
My skin is being
peeled off in slivers
attempting scarification
trying to make my decomposition
some kind of beautiful damnation.
And
you don't know me.
I don't even know who
I am anymore.
No reflection shows in the mirror.
Searching for reality
but getting normality.
I'm out of my head
feeling crazy.
Snort some of this,
smoke that,
drink this,
Suddenly it's okay
that I don't see things
from my eyes.
My medication never used
just stuffed in an
altoid can. Traded for
dollar bills so I can
trip again.

My words slide off my tongue
like my spit when I bend
over the toilet,
too much whiskey,
too much *****,
no chaser was needed.
Don't tell me you know what
it's like to always see your
skin but you never feel
inside of it.
Don't tell me you feel
the ground as if it's putty
because trust me I sink into
the ground if I stay still.
Which is why my mind jumps
from topic to topic
never getting stuck.
If I think too long, I drown
and I don't think I want to die
yet.

He said if I wanted something real
to make sure I involved him in it.
He wanted his life to mean something.
I - apologized if I dragged him down.
I won't hear from him in awhile...
Let me tell you about this man.
He's australian. One of the nicest
men I've met and his accent really
only ever comes out when he's drunk.
He wanted to give me the adventure
I thought I've been giving myself
that inside of my head but my body's
been still for so long I never realized...
The adventure I was seeking set
my putty world is around my
ankles. You see my mind's been stuck,
the film ended it's course,
the person supposed to switch them out
fell asleep, the black screen of my mind
has grown stale.
I'm waist deep in the quicksand of
my memories. The lion of my nightmares
lurking near by and man she really
loves this sink hole and the prey
that the annoyance gets her.

Maybe if I hadn't of shown him all
sides of my personality he wouldn't
of burned holes into each
facet I had.
If I've learned anything from this
I've learned do not get stuck
on the sticky tape in the kitchen
meant for fly's thinking
it can get the bugs out of your head.
The infestation of his black ink
is like a prison tattoo on my
neck like the bruises he left
on my wrists when I fought back.
I no longer know who's living inside
the walls of my mind.
But I do know that he lives on the other side.
He lived like a rat infesting the ceiling.
Rotted like black mold behind my
stove and I tore that house down.
Broke the pilot light, let it explode.
I never looked back, but I think he sensed
the poison in the air, thought it was just his
sweat until he realized I had left him.
He ran to me, got a limp from the shrapnel.
He's like a ghost haunting me from outside,
like a boogy man and I think I might call
the cops because peeping Toms are such
a nuisance right?

Getting nosebleeds from cut straws and the
blended memories I keep snorting,
thinking maybe the drip won't
taste as bad this time
and I've grown addicted to the flashbacks
and change in reality that this monster gave
me when he dug his fangs into my artery.

But really from day to day my face changes.
Maybe I too have become a shifter,
in a world of fun house mirrors.
Define who I am with my horrorscope,
read my palm a couple
times, analyze my dreams.
But darling I honestly doubt
you'll ever know me.
It's so long read all of it please /.\
Ruth Forberg Jul 2013
Lemme set fire to your home.
Call the fuzz, I'll pick it out
my navel and run.
You'll never catch my intent
cuz it's way over the foul line
and into the nosebleeds.
eatmorewords May 2017
the modern miracles of the modern messiah
- feeding the destitute  with one chicken
- quenching their first with a litre  of Coke
- modern mercies at the homeless shelter
- the young kids with gout and nosebleeds
all the odd numbers at the bingo hall

solar power fuelled anger

buy one get two free as the flies buzz around the discarded fruit out back of the supermarket

angels with ***** faces
angels  in Nikes
PJ Poesy Nov 2015
No immediacy to what has escaped
It's run back down hill
Sisyphus so old he can't chase
They'll be no more pushing up
Except for daisies
So plant it here
Next to me, Big Rock
We've rolled enough
And never got up that great big hill
In any case, I get nosebleeds
When I'm that high
We might just as well be happy
With the ruts we've created
Perhaps we've made it easier
For the next guy
Michelle Ang Mar 2013
That was the day your face seared onto the inside of my eyelids. That was the day a gentle hunger stroked my belly, and that was the day where we trekked the entire length of Manhattan with Gershwin bubbling from our mouths. And that was the day I discovered the city at night in broad strokes, that was the time where my steps grew a little bit larger, where we painted the soles of our feet and colored the sidewalks our footprints dripped where the colors blend you held my hand and held your breath as you walked against the red light.

That was the summer you began the nonchalance around me and that’s when I knew our friendship was over, sailed on when the vessels in my nose broke and blood started gushing out. I was bending over the sink to catch the droplets in the water fingers poised over the bridge of my nose to stem the flow and when I called out for you, called out your name, you replied with clinical directness completely impassive and proceeded to google how to stop nosebleeds all the while chanting “nose nose nose” in a singsongy breath and that’s when I knew that the ship has sailed onto muddy waters.

Which is the dream and which is reality? For there are some images that are so beautiful I find it hard to believe I was awake and yearning

*That was the day where you reached to fix a leaf on a branch and I caught a pale sliver of flesh, that streak of white stomach, the glance down at me, the blush, the light tarnishing that yellow hair, setting my heart ablaze
J Lohr Dec 2013
through open windows
hear screams at night
lay motionless
lone mattress
dark empty room
four walls closing in
a cold sweat
in a dry heat
growls and grunts
raise from outside
soft drum beats
the devil is owed his due
hands run through matted hair
breath long and staggered
tobacco stained teeth
******* induced nosebleeds
screams grow louder
grizzled voices rip free
broken hands pound
dead chest heaves

raises
raises
raises
one high pitched ring
it was always me screaming
Sam Knaus Nov 2015
I miss her.
I miss how we used to be.
We sat on my bed
and wrote on my wall,
"We're 13.
People treat us like kids,
kids have fun.
When did we start making life
so ******* complicated?
We need to have fun again."
We need to have fun again.
We needed to have fun
so she took a bottle to her lips
and started crushing pills.
We needed to have fun,
but we took keys and razors to our wrists
under desks, in bathrooms, and under covers
to deal with the fights, the lies,
the whole world being against us.
(A tradition i recently continued
after 4 years
by taking a razor to my upper arm in
our school's art gallery.)
Those Nights that we spent together,
those nights kept me alive...
until they didn't.
Until I lost her.
Until she became nothing
but the smoke
of a burnt out candle
remnants of the blazing fire that she once was,
whispering,
"you're a liar...
you said you'd get better."
I sit back and see her wasting away
and i hate myself for not trying harder
to save her.
We needed to have fun
but as I watched her transform
from a girl to a ghost,
all gangly limbs and rotting teeth
and scars and nosebleeds
and missing conversations
and empty words,
I wonder what kind of fun
she could possibly be having.
I used to know her better than I knew myself
but as i watch her go from a sister
to a stranger,
I realise i barely know her name now.
i miss her.
I hope she knows this isn't what i meant
when i said,
"We need to have fun."
Written on September 15th, added the part about the art gallery today.
Delilah Sep 2015
losing love and feeling numb
she is strung through the trees
and i am at the bottom of a bottle

he will hold your hands
and i will brush your hair
when there is nothing good to say

we will weep with you
every night you need to
until numb is the new norm

august and everything after
will never be the same
because she died
and the leaves are racing to catch up

book bindings unwind
down all four  of our spines
and dormitory air is only good for nosebleeds

if i could sleep around a fire
with my best friends
every night i would

because even if we cant see the stars
we each have faith that they are still there
KD Miller Dec 2014
"Because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air."*
Sylvia Plath

And we sat dumbly on his too big mattress
a cigarette stain here, there
his pants still on the floor

we stared at eachother through the mirror
oh God, what a recurring theme
in my life
and maybe his.

**** water,**** water
******* nosebleeds and
cracked knuckles

our little litany
but please, he'd beg
don't do any of those til

college.
Walked back to the theatre
where i would tell my parents

we were.
"Honey baby,
i'm 21, not 16"

and for a
second i almost believed it
and then he smiled.

"Oh honey
baby, you know the
expression."

Honey baby
Honey baby
He'd

grab my hair like
a ragdoll then
remember to stroke it

in the four thirty pm
sunsets of december
I was reminded of a

sort of sentimental tenderness
and he asked me in the
cigarette perfumed room

"Honey baby,
why're your eyes
misty for?"

I wanted to say
the way he held me
unabashedly

reminded me
of
oh, nevermind.

we sat in his room
staring dumbly at eachother
twice maybe

me trying to squeeze in
just a little debauched
moment

last of the year.
He put on his glasses
then his pants.

I told him i felt sometimes
as if i was living with a vitriolic
air round me.

The wool spread slept dumbly
at my stolid crossed
underwear legs and he just said

"Are you kidding?
do you even know what
just happened?"
Feeling Real Nov 2015
It feels like wind whipping through the darkness
Looking up at trees without leaves, through branches
Right into the cold black of oblivion where the sea
Parts and cradles and sits waiting patiently
For all life there ever was to end, for just a break
It gets so busy when everything happens all at once
Dizzying, drawing attention back to street corners
And cars bustling past the stragglers at 3am
Who can't decide if they would rather be living or dead
And instead settle for the nothingness between the two
Lounging on couches, covered in nosebleeds and picking at scabs
Longing for a youth that has been replaced by bitterness
You had a teacher once who told you that life spoils you
There has to be great care taken you don't die before you rot
He waxed on about power lines and the role of money in politics
And promised he was the supreme specimen, rational
But he forgot to look up at the stars at night, to remember
To inhale the smoke that's never visible, to exhale white winter frost
He never left behind his body in the pursuit of understanding
I miss him and the legacy, the promise of materialism
Everything seems so pointless from this vantage
Hayley Schiete Apr 2014
i was never very confident
but when i lost you
i was confident that i lost it all

i've been living in your old room
the AC never kicked in quite right
but i still feel breezes of air caress my body right into my core
and i like to think they're you
and not the cracked window a few feet away from me
letting in the taunts of the world that lost its colors once you were lowered within it

sometimes i wish i was down in the living room
so you could come back to your old room
instead of the children's hospital
even though you were 18
the dry atmosphere caused the worst of nosebleeds
but that was just minor to the pain you were going through

you came home
but you were in the living room
i was still wishing you could come back to your old room
i would happily fold all my t-shirts and pack them in a suitcase
just for storage
because i could never leave you for more than an hour

i was unfamiliar with the word "hospice"
until you were taken under their care
i know our humidifier has been broken for some time now
but they rolled that clanky bed in
and the oxygen that the whole family breathed
just got dryer
because of your new mattress and matching sheets
similar to the one that you've slept in while the chemotherapy was entering through
making you brittle, bare and pale

on an early summer morning i witnessed the biggest irony in my life
you died in the living room
and i started to hate myself more as i watched your chest pump its last breath that you would ever take
i started to hate myself because maybe if you were in the old room i fall asleep in every night
it would somehow make you live a little bit longer
like that makes any ******* sense

..
i should've seen it coming
i should've seen it coming because a few nights before you were trying your best to play the sly cooper collection on the PS3
because it was your favorite series and you passed out because of all the morphine in your body dulling the pain
but i thought video games would ease that pain better because of the nostalgic value
so i just hoped you were reminiscing of the ability to actually hold a controller properly
even if the drugs took up 80% of your personality
basically i should've seen it coming because games were your passion
and it was let go so effortlessly

it'll be 3 years in august
and i swear despite what i just wrote it's getting easier
and on your death date
we travel
because god knows remaining in the house that day would not be healthy for a broken family like us

sometimes i pick out postcards so i can put them on your grave so you can see where i've been
so i trust you send me a pretty tourist postcard just so i know what heaven looks like

— The End —