"slits" poems
Clothes have outgrown me many times over,
but this sadness never does.
One size.
fits all.
There should have been an obituary for cancer, not you.
Wishing these slits within my skin could have been
replaced by a reality check from you, “You chose to exist.”
My name causes a sigh to escape from lips,
that do not feel like they belong to me,
the girl,
whose words always had to be special.
The schematics of hospitals like a birthmark in my brain,
born into sadness, a gut feeling as a child.
Never trusting time
due to what it delivers.
Death, being the only thing I desired.
But you,
who I love,
endlessly-
robbed by it.
Whose ebb for life glowed so feverishly.
Stopped comparing depression to lace,
restricted the belief that suicide is poetic,
seeing things as they were.
More often than not, applauded for feeling emotions deeply.
Every second that dies, the shift of my heart quakes.
This world is not tender.
II. Sad.
I have known the flowers I wanted at my own premature funeral,
knowing how many bouquets honored you that day.
split open my veins like a dimension
reminiscent of days where I anticipated deathbeds.
My family wondered,
can we make it through another day?
Death scares me for what it has taken,
yet, I’m not afraid to die-
it’s all I deserve.
So I await the day pain erupts
from my throat,
acknowledging the days a soul
lived inside of my body-
footprints that walked,
belonging to me.
But I learned so well.
How to suffer with a smile,
dreading the beating of my heart
how unfair—
I don’t want to take these deep breaths
You deserved,while I masquerade as a member of the undead
Never outgrowing the desire to rot with the phantoms residing under my bed.
III. Jokes played by the universe.
punchlines delivered,
how could anyone to stand to be in the same room as myself?
How could anyone look over skyscrapers and sunsets,
and not be infatuated with concrete consuming them?
How I shared a sigh of relief during the thought-
of knowing people would thrive without me,
or the power of a belly laugh,
resembling a laugh track audience
drowning out 3 AM suicidal thoughts.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 11:23 PM UTC
Red as the blood gushing from her wrist.
Purple from the bruises on her body as the beating
Green is her eyes yet she doesn't want to see
Yellow is her body from the **** her father impacted her
Red,purple,green,yellow
She wishes that she had a normal life
Red,purple,green,yellow
Her body aches for love, as when her father whispers "I love you babe" she cries
Red,purple,green,yellow
Her mother calls her fat and ugly while she beats her
Red,purple,green,yellow
She slits her wrists while she cries
Red,purple,green,yellow
Shes now dead as she was hanging by a thread
~A.E.G.
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 2:06 PM UTC
the mist from my dope
coping mechanism
tickles my nose and my lips
the corners of my mouth
pulled upward as my eyes
turn to slits
i sink into the couch
cuddle my dog
ahhh, i ******* love this
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 5:18 PM UTC
Kiss your lips
And inhale laughter,
Oh god, the way
Your mouth curls,
Eyes become
Gentle slits,
And the bending
Of your brow
Insists on
Intimacy,
Every ounce
Of my soul
Says, "Yes,
Please."
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
All that flows it the waterfall.
Her lifeless body lays in the grass.
Grass that is damp with the morning dew and splashes from the waterfall.
Her eyes are soulless and her brightness is gone.
In a few moments her lover will find her.
Tears will fill his eyes.
No words will leave him.
Only thoughts of her demise.
They shared so many moments near the waterfall.
Do those mean nothing now?
He finally gains his composure
And makes that desperate call.
He picks up her body.
He carries her to the water.
Under the spray of the waterfall.
He lays her in the water.
She floats for a moment.
He takes out a pocket knife and slits his own throat.
He dies there with her underneath the waterfall.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
*all my life i held a dream
of a woman i would love
of course
she would be alluring
supple
a charming countenance
erudite, with an angelic face
her body
a muscular stretching willow
arching her legs over head
kissing her own
curving soft feet
a graceful contortionist
in confetti colored sparkle pantyhose
stretching towards me
silken hair draping a perfect symmetry
with spun sugar kisses
wafting the scent of vanilla
and candied vaporous breath
lips like cherry lozenges
but
one never knows ones destiny
i met her
my girl destiny
and except for a faint look of languor and ruin
with a tinge of withering
she was without doubt unbearably titillating
with razor-thin blackened lips
mascara slits for eyes
hair pulled straight back
jet black
jelled like hardened licorice
with satanic blood rivulets
and pitch fork tattooed ****
a vice of lechery
a malefaction of moral turpitude
her *** scarred from orgiastic beatings
her **** became
like a large wrinkly mouth
resembling the face of a bullfrog
from pleasuring herself with
tableware cutlery
her soul
a broken creel
suffering bouts of anxiety
like a weeping moon
having been institutionalized
in Mother Marys Hell House
from a ghastly bout of parricide
her father,
a hobbling gloomish troll
while the dark veins of mother
ran through her soul
leaving little choice
but to dispatch
the parents
abandoning their corpses in the kitchen
like strewn litter
turned out
just my
kinda
girl
d
e
s
t
i
n
y
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
My bestfriend wanted to **** himself last night.
Drunk as **** he called me.
Crying his eyes out as he rants.
Talking about wanting to die.
Begging I pleaded for him not to.
Yet he had no care for what I said.
Telling me he wanted to feel what it was like to cut.
Leaving his phone to go find a razor.
I ran the five minute walk to his house.
Rushing in, he throws the blade in shock.
Then fights me as I try to keep him from going and finding it.
Fights me as I try to stop him from getting another one.
Crying I beg him to stop cutting.
Beg him to stop as he slits his wrists open infront of me.
It was as though he had no care for me.
As though I was some stranger standing in his way of happiness.
He was a different person entirely.
Calling the only mom I trust.
She rushes over and we force him to get up and leave.
We were able to stop him.
Get him to talk.
Yet.
He is still so distance.
So different.
I'm scared to death...
Scared that I'm on the verge of losing my bestfriend.
The guy who got me sober.
Who has stopped me from cutting and more, countless times.
I can't survive without him.
I can't help but pray with everything in me.
That he will be okay.
That he will make it through.
I love him too much to lose him.
He's my bestfriend.
I'm scared to leave him alone.
I'm scared to overcrowd him.
I just want him safe.
I don't know how to feel about all of this.
I'm scared out of my mind.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 2:58 AM UTC
Beauty wears a short, black dress of olive silk skin.
She lies poised on the couch, drained of her special sleep.
Yet still, light pours His fingers down her figure, sleek and thin.
The face of her dress smiles behind the glasses guarding her deep brown eyes.
Beauty chose the slender sweet slits for her lips.
They match the dips her hips outline on her gown.
Her legs sit dainty off the side, but her flushed-red scarf wraps her cheeks,
And hides quietly in the back.
She sleeps soundly dressed true black, with her small eyes cracked.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 9:43 PM UTC
What is this
Satirical mask
That weeps self-deprecating tears
Through plastic slits
Down over a contorted smile
That mocks society
In pictoral flagellations
Of an aching conscience.
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 1:11 AM UTC
I know a guy,
he is a friend.
Whom the cops often have to,
apprehend.
He used to do
some crazy ****
But now he doesn't do most of it.
I know you are thinking,
who is this man.
He is a friend who drives a van.
Although not to pick up kids with treats,
he uses his ride to satisfy his needs.
Which includes dolphin collecting,
live or dead,
he's always selecting.
Vaping real hard
every single day,
is how he spends,
his hard worked pay.
His job is selling,
illegal pelts
of rare albino beavers.
He sets up traps
and waits in the bushes
with an over sized cleaver.
Stalking and waiting for the perfect catch,
he watches the ****** closely.
And right as it comes into reach,
he slits the baby's throat boldly. (baby ****** not a real baby.)
My friend makes his way to the flee market,
where he sells the pelts.
He greets his customers happily,
as the beavers hang from his belt.
Blood on his hands and pride in his eyes,
he knows he's got a great prize.
The money rolls in,
and he know it is true,
that night he will party
until his lungs are blue,
(due to the fat rips he'll be vaping)
On the weekends when he's not working,
he hops into his van,
and drives to the border,
to make sure no illegals are lurking.
Loving his country with deep passion,
my friend protects us,
with the guns he has stashed in. (his van.)
After his duty is fulfilled,
he spends the rest of his time,
all alone,
drinking gallons
of acetone.
Then in the big city
he streaks for hours,
with bags of broken glass,
that he likes to devour.
I totally agree,
my friend is insane,
and on his family,
his acts cause great pain.
Although,
he treats his slaves
with a lot of respect,
and he gives porridge to the
needy and other rejects.
He's better than me,
because I like to suffocate,
small injured birds.
And barge into restaurants,
to steal cheese curds.
But my friend is the best,
friend he can be,
as I described in this poem,
that you can see.
Unless you are blind or stupid,
or don't have anyone to read you this,
just know that my friend,
has your children in his shed,
and they'll sadly be missed.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
Elizabeth and God exist in a sunflower grave. Her mother and father slit her stomach open and watched the contents pour out like
spaghetti confetti.
Tommy, Elizabeth's boyfriend, rode his ocean blue Huffy, until the tread on his tires grew bald and until the grips were blanketed by dead skin. Looking for her, panoramic views of the horizon leapt beside him. Silhouettes of his legs, churned and kissed the orange and caramel dusk. With every tear in his hamstrings and calves, the **** in his sky grew and swallowed the memory of Elizabeth Mendenhall, Honor Student.
Margot, Elizabeth's twelve year-old sister, was an idealistic soul. Taking a Sharpie, she wrote on her sister's wall, "Liz, there is no death greater than the loss of self, and no life greater than one where we continuously search for what self is." Margot struggled with concentrating and frying eggs - but focused on the sunflower garden, dangerously and perfectly.
Hilary and Brendan were thirty-five and thirty-six years-old. They stabbed their daughter thirty-seven times. They don't know why they did it, they just couldn't think of a reason not to do it.
She begged for her life. The yellow petals of the sunflowers caught blood-drops and, after enough struggle, floated down to kiss and lay on Elizabeth's slow-twitch body. Hilary looked at Brendan and said, "What does this mean?" Brendan shrugged and said, "This is new to me."
The garden was an oven, and digging her grave was like pulling back on a cheap, plastic latch. Elizabeth had pale, pre-cooked pie crust skin. The slits in her stomach looked like peeks into a cherry stuffed filling. Crinkled lips looked indented by a stainless steel fork, back and forth, side to side. And the soil rained upon her like the reversal of hot vapor, returning home.
Elizabeth and the Sunflower Garden.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 5:37 AM UTC
the night they wed,
cinderella slits the prince’s throat.
she won’t trade her prison
for a pretty cage.
the beast conquers nations,
but beauty’s the one telling him how.
aurora wakes herself.
she’ll spend centuries guarding
a city that never stirs,
and she never questions
her duty to people long gone.
rapunzel burns the tower.
ariel rules the sea.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
Sun slits in through slats
of kitchen window blinds
and she is alone.
The art major is cooking
spaghetti,
pretending her thrifted T-shirt
bearing a cotton copy
of Campbell's Soup Cans
is not stained with tears and blood.
Oh, but that's hysterics and
hyperbole;
art has a tendency of making its worshippers
melodramatic...no?
The blood is only tomato sauce
and the tears...
well, what are tears but
water and salt?
After all, dramatizing the
mundane is just one awkward shade
of artistic temperament.
Visualizing life through
a heavy silk screen.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
The spaghetti is redder and
redder as she cooks.
Just as
her paintings bleed more blood
as she dangles a brush over them -
the teary-eyed watercolours.
The art major has decided
that drawing out extremities
of colour
might transform
her own life into
a pop of a Warhol painting.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
She thinks, tries to
think
in technicolour.
Today's thought-pencilled thesis
concludes (like a brush stroke of uncertain finality) that
love is the red of tomato soup cans.
Anger is the boil, passion is
the gulp,
danger, caution, warning,
the hot breaths, fleeting warmths,
the burn and sweet and tang.
She looks down at the
scarlet of
Warhol's soup cans,
blooming in worn out cotton
on her chest.
It might as well be blood, she
thinks.
It is,
it is,
it is.
Blood red love -
tomato soup cans.
Sun sets in slits
through kitchen window blinds
and she is still alone.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
The spaghetti is ready.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 6:41 AM UTC
Thanks.
For calling me all those pretty things
everyday
for months
and months
being the center of my thoughts and conversations
being the guy I tell my friends about
because I have never liked a guy the way I like you
and no guy has ever liked me before at all
you are pretty much beyond out of my league
and yet somehow here we are
telling me you want to take me on a picnic
being so wonderful
being a writer and a poet
being gorgeous and handsome
being wonderful
such a wonderful person
making me fall for you
then after WASTING
so many months of my time
you HUMILIATE me
when I have to call my friends
and admit to them
that you texted me
and told me you were in love
with some other girl
in "love" my ***
Please.
Don't make me laugh.
...or cry.
:(
I met her by the way
she is the mother of all *******
and also doesn't wear actual shirts
just these loose pieces of fabric with slits along the sides
that show everything
that she refers to as a top
I've seen bikinis that are more modest
but whatever
I'm just in a good mood
because you dropped me
so quickly
like it was nothing
and watched me fall
all my friends sharpened their battleaxes
and called you all sorts of colorful things
but I was still sad and disappointed
but I am in a good mood
you know why?
Today I saw her making out with this guy
she is either dating him and NOT dating you
so you lost her
or she is cheating on you
so HA
now you know how it feels to be replaced
you **** well better not try and get me back
'cause now I realize
back before you let me go
I thought I didn't deserve you
because you were so wonderful
and I was worthless
now I know I was right
I don't deserve you
because no matter how much I loathe myself
and I really do
Even I don't deserve
a worthless waste of space player like you
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 1:57 AM UTC
The moth with newspaper wings sat under the arrow lungs of the eyeless
blood dripped falcon, more whole than the super-glued roman sculpture.
Next door a 50’s con held up church with a roulette table in the kitchen,
and boarded up the massage parlor
downstairs.
The eye of the man was a centrifuge of ducks, mallard and hen, spiraling
outward into evaporated roach-ground
asphalt.
Next door, slits in the picket fence displayed perfectly formed **** & broach,
empty shoes made of feet below, blending
fields.
The marble foundation formed from twine lollipops and fuzzy candy tabs,
ice-etched to the frequency of splintered seashell
angels.
Next door through the forest of knives a spaceship bearing gargoyles peaked
bodies through collages of faces in technicolor sepia
mitosis.
The heiress molted into tiled pieces, her own dog and sunhat caught in blizzard
cuneiform, kaliedescoping again to fractalled inchworms cemented in motion.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 9:55 AM UTC
We've got a red white and blue bloodlust
For the drips
from the slits
in the wrist
Of Ms. Statue of Liberty
Miss America
Covered in capitalist pigs blood
camouflaged as corn syrup
whispering bitter somethings
to the diabetic nation
that broke her sweet-heart
They'll give her something
to fill her wounds
And add insult to
Self-inflicted injuries
in flashes of light
our arrogance
under-shadows
our destiny
She’ll overcome us
in her apotheosis
She’ll come
back around harder
next time
When she finally comes for us
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
Pretty girl starts the year not knowing what to do
Pretty she may be,
Yet she doesn't have a clue
Pretty girl, though shy she feels okay,
With a smile, she makes it through her first day.
Months go by, time doesn't stop,
She finds her way to the top.
No longer shy, loved by all
Such a shame to see her fall.
It starts on a day like any other
This time pretty girl disobeys her mother.
She lies to her, sneaks out at night,
And finds herself neath pale moonlight.
She meets new faces she hasn't seen before,
New they may be yet they influence her.
Taking their word that everything is alright,
She doesn't scream, doesn't cry, she doesn't even fight.
She takes everything they give her
With a smile on her face
Now pretty girl doesn't see the mistakes that she makes.
No longer perfect, she is undone
Bags under eyes, yet she still has her fun.
Her parents notice, her friends do too,
She tells them "leave me alone, its nothing to you!"
She runs away from school and from home,
She is feeling scared, pretty girl is alone.
Walking the streets every night and day,
Selling her love thinking everything's okay.
Tears in her eyes, a man by her side,
Beer in hand,
Packets of ******* she tries to hide.
This wasn't what she wanted from life,
Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out the knife.
She's had enough, she slits her wrists and falls to the floor,
Closing her eyes with her last breath, pretty girl no more.
-V
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 5:37 AM UTC
Would anyone really notice if I die?
Would anyone really care?
Does anyone notice the slits on my arm?
Does anyone see the pain inside me?
I contemplate suicide, and death....
and whether it should be slow and painful,
or if should be quick and painless...
Do I live? Or, do I die?
That is my question.
I think of my past pain, and depression.
I think of the present, and the future...
Does any of it even matter anymore?
Do I even matter anymore?
All I am is a disappointment to everyone,
and I hurt them, without knowing it.
So, do I live? or, do I die?
I choose....
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 9:48 AM UTC
The slits of glass give way to light,
Which cuts through the air and sun leeched curtains.
It falls weightless on warming skin,
Breathing life into stillness.
A gentle caress, a sultry glance;
Statuesque, they cast shadows on the wall.
Shadows that illuminate and contour,
Express and entrance.
Longing rapture in eyes, incandescent and iridescent;
Loveless yet sensuous silken skin that tells of life well lived.
Your broken heart rests on shoulders, colored and vivid;
A world is painted in timeless elegance.
What horrors has she seen? Said the looker so enthused.
What grandness has passed her eye? Says another just as true.
Oh the colors so earthen tell of pleasures and sorrows, yet whisper of frailty.
They speak in tongues that can never be trusted, only pondered.
The intricate oil work from a badger’s fair coat,
Show delicate and smooth,
All the features of her roistering frame;
Passions of the heart now told by passions of the brush.
The life is still, but forever infinite.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
Truancy is a ***** with ***** stamps and skunky hair
her constant need to blow smoke up the ***** of those trying to try
is inconvenient at best, irresponsible at worst,
maybe amusing in the eyes of the elders.
Been there, done that
she rolls her eyes and pouts
slits her wrists with carnival glass
so she bleeds the multi-dimensional colors imperceivable to human eyes,
an entirely different color spectrum,
ultraviolet, super violent,
tasty and warm.
This young lady is no lady at all
just a little girl,
vulnerable and scared
and a total ****** *****
grabbing her ankles and thumping in dumpsters,
pretty little thing,
with scabs and gin
and cute little *** stains.
Leave her be,
this street walking angel
she never learned her lesson,
too swag for education.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 10:20 PM UTC
Love on my toes, love in the cabinet, love jumps off balconies
it is an eighteen year old succubus offering spinal taps.
Bring the gentlemen their evening numbness before next
morning’s nightmare and ******** are scheduled on God’s map –
he just steps out for a moment, settles his sleeping mask on.
God is so unhappy: he understands nothing of love.
Get this recipe recited so we shall feed them pink and blue pills
which knobs can sting boys in the *** a fleabite or bow
soon our leather heels chime through their ears like hooves.
The master may question their nutrition so hold out a paper cup
sloshing in female nectar, our vaguely cerise saliva
sustenance that comes from between slits carved for such –
these acids are love, love, love. Love from cavities, love pearls
knotted in the roots of a mother clam, fallopian love tubes.
Every shoebox offers warmth, complementary wakeup calls
a petite blonde to peel him out of his pajamas, too –
lay your husbands down into the doll-case if he has no love
as God is not watching here. Oh, how happy our gentlemen are.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC
Of immaterial vision birthed in mind.
Of spirit annihilating the selves,
of calling it plan. The one-
a semblance scattered on deck space
refracts on reflections of the reactions of tokens
of the carnivalesque,
of the hunger artists,
of phenomenon-
which may or may not exist depending on reflective surface of the true self,
of the motion of tides,
mocks motion in body,
of obsession.
The tonality of the "be" and the "is" and the "will be" is deafened by the "I am,"
by the Ohm.
Of shuddering and implanting embraces,
of blessing on every ember of cleanliness that is true self,
of the oneself that exists above selective memory,
not draft of time arrow but the material existence of dream,
not disembodied but embodied.
Of breeding,
of circumstance and forking fourth dimension prison terms,
of crowd control,
of she wolves and their feral children,
of forceps interpolating material reality of conception,
of Dreamtime,
of pain,
of pleasure,
where they are relations-
of skin perversely hanging, dually,
gratifying and sullying-
Fraying beautiful disasters that react to invisible ripples
I, the oneself, implore you to awaken in your utility and then outside of it.
Take those boot straps and bend the bars of confinement with them.
Chisel and sculpt light into a fabrication of quantum of action.
Celebrate the ordinary and expose it.
Of stargazed caustics,
of the early universe.
I stand awake as not the expression of design
and no longer connected to Earth by my roots
but awake inside cocoon,
entrapped behind slits,
of alien cage otherness.
The Akh beseeches ownership of the Ba
I want play dice with god and end in draw.
I am Sekhmet-Wadjet who dwells in the west of heaven,
I am Sahyt among the souls of Of.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 1:29 AM UTC
My eyes are slits
As my reflection is not familiar
— with her
But she has my attention
She is smoking from her ears
Her voice trembles
Her lips are thin lines in dry chaps
And her tone is well—
Seriously monotone
Like nails on a chalky stone
It sent violent shivers of discomfort
Up my spine
down again
This body
A zombie
I snapped back to my face of wasted time
She is an escapee from her own death
Her tone crosses me
Like a knife on my bone
In solemn droning
To the girl with bloodshot eyes
Though not from tears
But from bursting inside.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 12:33 AM UTC
Her eyes are sinkholes in a quiet, sleeping state
and I was a girl, lost and misplaced at twenty-one,
looking for love in infinitesimal spaces:
on her palm creases and chipped, ruby nails,
and in the blown-out ends of her lotus tattoo
I find myself tracing a secret,
at the spiked tips of her hair tamed by fairy lights
and on the slits of her skin — a rabbit hole of wonders,
I always fall like Alice in sworn careful tiptoes
and crash headfirst; a broken wishbone, a tainted wish
some habits you just can't quit.
like —
October and her obsidian eyes, and the sunless ways we kissed —
being lost and misplaced made sense for a while in the detached comfort
of her cold bed, colder hands,
warmth has become an oppression.
But this dalliance has always been a disaster waiting to happen
and I am a paramour, a memory, a face in the crowd
swallowed in a seismic fall —
and losing October has always been a disaster waiting to happen —
this bed, always a site of a losing battle
and I find myself in a soiled, torn dress,
lying helpless on the other side of her war.
Tonight, I light myself a candle;
maybe one day, I'll finally learn to run away from a girl made of disasters
and not towards her.
Oct 16, 2022
Oct 16, 2022 at 1:39 AM UTC
She loves every one of her victims.
From the bottom of her cold well of a heart,
she loves them.
She would never ****
an innocent creature;
they all deserve it.
She stalks her prey,
she gets in close,
they begin to whisper
their evil little secrets.
No one is blameless.
She knows this.
Dig deep enough,
find the truth.
It is soiled.
She slits their throats.
*You are released
from your sins,*
she ensures them.
Through hot blood,
they promise they love her, too.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 12:19 AM UTC