you will know
i'm in love when i
kiss you first.
sext: this is for yousext: you are underwater. you are my head swimming as i hold my breath, you are the currents that make my heart beat, you are the waves that sway my hips. the salt of your lips is my favourite taste.
sext: if i am a hurricane, i hope you are the eye of my storm (deep inside of me, at my core).
sext: when you sleep, you are bent; bent, not broken. i will protect you from everything that threatens to shatter you. you are not made of glass, but i will bend (not break) to strengthen you.
sext: i look down and you are between my legs. you kiss me with those lips, before and after, and still there is love.
sext: if i promise you a good morning, i'll send you a poem for when you wake. if i promise you your favourite things, i'll get you strawberries (with the hats cut off), pokemon (always mewtwo), and a puppy (a blue-eyed husky). if i promise to be open, i'll take off my clothes and we can watch as the close falls to the floor. if i promise you smiles, i'll give you a thousand. if i promise
(it's not like I'm trying to clean myself up too)I'm sick to death
of bleeding on the carpet
and being the one
to clean it up.
10 ways depression can say i don't love you1. "i'm sorry
i don't want to
come over today."
the clock reads 4pm
and i roll over in my bed
2. "i forgot it was your
i'd forgotten my own
3. "i promise i won't
the ER doesn't believe
it's an accident
4. you asked if i loved you.
i had to sneeze and it
i think you took that
as a no.
5. we haven't had sex in a month.
6. we don't see
we don't see
i even have any.
7. i never answered your text.
it asked if i was okay.
8. "i need you to open yourself
up for me," you said.
i stopped talking.
9. "what do you want from me,
apparently you didn't.
10. tonight i will sleep alone
but not really.
depression will hold me
and stroke my hair,
telling me everything
will never be
if alice in wonderland was set in 2012,i might cut my hair if it didn't remind me of you,
but just like the fade from september into the pits of october,
i'm not alice, this isn't wonderland, but i am just as surrounded by things that yell,
"eat me! drink me!" and they don't say it but i know they'll all make me bigger,
sadder, fatter, too big to fit into a house, my arms my legs come shooting out,
everything i feel is just too loud-
i should be better than i am.
i should be taking the world by the shoulders, shaking back its shoulders because i am a storm, i am a force of nature and you will take notice-
but my winds are quiet. my rain is sad.
i'm too afraid to swell up in full vigor,
to take what is mine in case it's taken from me again,
i will never forget what you did- in camera flash moments, in sharp moments-
to leave me broken.
there are some cuts that never close up.
there are some things that never get spoken.
and there are some things yo
not always miserablethe last time you kissed me
was two augusts ago.
the boston harbour was bluer than
the eyes you so loved
looking back at yours when we said
i never meant goodbye.
take my lips
their feel, their taste
and press them to your own
i love you and will not
take you for granted.
i am so happy to be
in and on itself.
but time does not forget.
i remember the first time you kissed me
and how much i trembled,
my first kiss and you told me i could do better
so i melted
my face in your hand,
and let our skin stitch to the other
with the beads of excitement
that rolled down our fingers.
i know from the thick of my marrow
that the weight of your arm
(the first time)
was so immense, it should have taken
fifteen men to move it, tree-like,
to around my shoulder;
i remember the heat of your nerves
and the vibrations of mine,
getting to know one another.
(i think they fell in love, too.)
a weight on my shouldersi can turn this pain into poetry but i cannot turn it into something worth having.
for those who want to be in loveyou want to fall in love
hard enough to break your bones and
lighten your feet
lighten your heart
so softly that the butterflies you feel
pattering with their gossamer wings
beneath the cage of your ribs
and the breath,
blue in the summer,
can kiss you and the monarchs
as sweetly as your love
and her lips.
you dream of them at night.
silken like clean bedsheets,
familiar as your favourite chair
when you curl up with
a mug of herbal tea.
you feel at home
with her body curled in yours,
only able to sleep
with her skin under your fingers
scenting the blankets
with something no perfume
could ever mirror.
you write love letters
you dream emptily
unless she is there.
you want to fall in love
the way the gods drink ambrosia,
you want to treat her
better than their nectar,
sweeter than honeybees
and their summer-sticky feet.
you want a love beyond poetry,
from winter flurries
to springtime rosebuds
to summer sweet lemonade
to autumnal red leaves u
heaven and hell look the same from undergroundi scratch my skin til it looks like it's burnt off. i don't eat til i am begged and pleaded and my lover won't eat because of my sadness. it's okay because it's how i cope. it's okay because i might be dying but it soothes me. i never mind.
i used to fall in love with happiness and hope but lately it's lost its charm. so now the prince rides in on his white horse in the form of fingers in my throat and handfuls of pills and hours and hours of overdosed, sleepless bliss. sometimes i think this is heaven.
i feel myself burning. i'm drowning. i promise myself this is paradise but every time i wake, my stomach turns because i see no angels, only wingless bodies and darkness.
beautyif you watch what i photograph
to know what i fear losing,
see that i am terrified
to live with no beauty.
my pulse slows at the bend of a body
and the light between limbs;
the curve of a stem
and shallow lines of living.
to embody that
is a dream just beyond reach
of another dream.
my heart picks up double time
and my eyes turn window-wide
when it becomes real
that my slender shapes,
my delicate bones,
have tucked themselves
into the bed of my skin.
i feel the shame
burrow beneath my heart.
i swallow mouthfuls
of something that tastes
my reflection skirts away from my eyes,
until it is caught and there it is held.
to look away i need to feel
my camera cradled in the basket of my hands,
white like wicker and smooth,
i play with light until it laughs;
my shutter shudders as it
when breath breathes itself
and everything turns airy,
i am buoyant.
overwhelming wordsthere's a lot you can do with words
but sometimes i forget how to do any.
and sometimes i look at a keyboard
and see so many words that come together
from just some of those letters
and there's so much to write
that i don't write at all.
and sometimes i think
i drank deeply from the elixir of life
when i was too young
and when i drank i only drank the words
and i spilled them out in the morning
because the night was too silent to break it.
i wonder if the silence i've kept
is as big as the words i've written.
i'm not writing to be censored
it's not like i do that to myself
when the words come rolling
and i don't let them out,
when i'm running down the street
but don't make a sound,
it's not like i'm afraid to be loud.
i hope you can tell by the heat in my eyes
that my gaze turns steady as soon as i lie.
i hope you know that when i write
and my diction turns from eloquent and quaint
to fucking filthy and raging
that i'm finding myself,
even if that takes years off my life
by looking at
LandlockedDay 1 –
The idea of being landlocked has always terrified me. At age eight, I sobbed as we crossed coasts from Maryland to Oregon for my aunt's wedding and her husband's ensuing funeral; at the funeral, I stayed silent.
Day 2 –
Sometimes it's nice to think of the shores, especially when I am so far from their comforting infinities. At college, I am in a university surrounded by trees and mountains. The nearest body of water is a man-made mess in the middle of campus; it is rumoured that it is filthier than the aftermath of a Friday night in the partying capital of the school.
The only difference is that one has snapping turtles. In all honesty, I am unsure which that is.
Day 3 –
While I swore I never missed you, I missed you all throughout. With trees and skylines punctuated by tall, ugly buildings, my heart ached for the water. It also ached for you.
At night, I would find myself remembering the night I graduate
i don't want to be a body anymorei don’t want to be a body anymore
i don’t want to be skin
bone covered in things
that had been missing for years;
i don’t feel like myself anymore.
i am a stranger in my own skin
& i don’t want to wear it
a moment longer than i must.
the need to take a pair of scissors
& needle to it,
to tailor it smaller,
to fit the shrinking person inside
grows with every breath.
i don’t want to be
322010.i want to be a cigarette.
because every time your hands stumble across one, you wrap your fingers tightly around it. your eyes show a sense of salvation, a sense of oh-God,-i've-wanted-you-for-so-long. with a flick of your fingers, it lights up a smile as bright as the sun.
stir crazythe way i feel about you is rivers & skies
knees bent into little peaks facing the heavens.
you are the thrumming heartbeat
reveling in my chest,
the very lifeblood swarming,
engulfing my veins,
the poetry of our bodies together.
you are the monday moon,
the sparkle of crystal under the sun,
the smeared ink making its way
across the page on the ship of my hand.
the beauty that you hold is that of
forevers and fluttering fingertips,
the promises i wish to hear
the strange sickness of being wanted
and the sick strangeness of touch,
the knowing that tonight,
with your skin sleeping next to mine,
i can wake in the morning's light
and you will still be
escape artist.my soul is swallowing itself
in faded seas of pale colour.
it is sad,
and it is sorry.
it is the wind without sails.
i want to starve myself
into something worth living
the thrum of the heart
beating the walls black and blue
with bones bumping in the breath
of the coldest mornings.
tonight is a night in which
the stars are all too small for me.
my eyes sink further into my head
and shudder behind their lids.
i feel my knees break their skin on
the rough shingles gilding the roof.
i want to fall, and fast.
instead, i lie in a cocoon of hot sheets.
hunger has hidden her bones
inside more deserving panels.
i beg for the mercy she grants in
homeless shelters, i beg for
her sunken cheeks and haunted eyes.
three days mark the walls of
my body and i am trembling.
i feel the harsh lines of red
painted across my sharp hips as they
are threatened to be swallowed again.
she is sucking me dry
the very middles of my bones
quaking with the emptiness
once held sacred among the birds.
she weakens my k
runs in the family.from my father
i inherited cold gray eyes and
a stubborn pride;
and from my mother i received
the unwillingness to
stay and a fear
i'm sorry that i didn't pick up
the phone or
listen to your year old
messages– you should probably get
used to it.
red.these cigarettes will kill
me, but only if
i don't do it first.
(inhale, breathe, hold, exhale. then concentrate on the scenery. feel the smoke on your tongue and think about how you're killing yourself, when in reality, you're already dying.)
we're all going to
die, so what's one
day less? it seems like an
honest bargain to me,
but then again, you should never
listen to a word i
say, because i am
a class A fuck up
(or so they say).
see, i'm either too fat
or too skinny,
much too heart wild
for any man too marry.
("who would want to marry a girl like you? you're too stubborn," my father says. i am fifteen with purple hair and fire on my cheeks and my heart coiling away from my sleeve.
"fuck anyone who wants to take anything about you away," my mother tells me when i'm nearly 16, with sad eyes and a worn out expectation.)
but i think i realize now
that i don't
for me i am good enough,
good in general,
an apology letter to my body.i am sorry,
i treated you like disposable napkins. like cheap china, or a rug feet have worn the 'welcome' off of. for treating you like fast food in a landfill and for letting others treat you that way too.
most days i can't look at you in mirrors,
when i should be writing you love letters .
i have deprived you,
i have scarred your passages and eroded your halls.
i have let your sacred places be defiled.
you are a country i have never learned to call home,
a language no one has ever spoken.
i made you into a map i told everyone not to read,
planted railroad tracks like break crumbs, like my flesh was an industrial revolution i sometimes follow with my fingertips.
for the days my stomach became a ghost town,
my mouth a forgotten portal.
for the days spent with two fingers down my throat
like the trigger of a gun reversing the cycle of food.
i'm sorry for the nights i didn't sleep
and the days ballet became punishment.
for the days every muscle felt a
my body is a funeral servicethis morning i emptied your ashes into the sky, hoping to watch them sift through my fingers like an eagle taking flight. but the wind carried them backwards and my face became an ashtray for memories. you came back to me, like you always do, like a kiss or a reoccurring dream that i can never forget. i became cloaked in black grain, the remnants of your body. your cremated smile was caught somewhere between the stinging in my eyes and the ash on my jacket.
in that moment my body became a funeral service. my lips preached your names to the trees. i forgot what it was like to feel anything but hymns pressing down on my back like the heat of the sun. i smelled of incense and bones burning in a fire people are paid to create. it was more than i could bear. for weeks, i obsessed on how someone could lift a motionless shell of a body into an inferno, watch people die a second time and accept their paycheck at the end of the day.
i wanted to step into that crematorium and pluck pulses like f
please don't talk to me.Im never going to write again, she says.
Its all fabricated fucking bullshit and its stupid to put so much of my heart into something that you wont even read.
You are going to be tired in the morning
I dont care.
You are going to be so tired in the morning
I know. and youre worth it.
He used to find her endearing, but now she just talks all the time, and he kind of liked the silence. Now you just piss me off.
Thats what she thinks anyway.
My baby will be beautiful and broken and mine. all mine.
He says I need to lose myself in you and shes never quite sure if hes trying to sound romantic or its just some sick innuendo.
She cant go on living, knowing that hes around the corner or down the road or even in the same city as her. I am going to kill myself, she says and he reminds her that she is not replaceable.
Do you believe?"Do you believe in Angels?"
I couldn't help the gentle laugh that escaped me; he had a habit of asking such questions, for no reason whatsoever. Because of it, I often wondered what went on inside his head. I relocated my gaze to my right, where he sat beside me. "Why do you ask?"
His legs swung lightly back and forth as the ground stared menacingly from below. One wrong move and we would fall; one wrong move and we could die. Was it the thrill that kept me with him, prevented me from thinking straight?
Cold wind engulfed us, sending chills down my spine. In the light of the moon, he looked so pure, almost angelic. I smiled and stared up at the pale globe; we often shared such moments together. Those were the moments that helped us through hard times. When we wanted to scream and give up, our conversations pulled us back to earth.
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips; still, he did not look at me. His eyes never left the moon, a quick glance at him sho
CeruleanMy favorite color is cerulean.
It feels like dipping your hand into a brook, smooth pebbles under your fingertips, the water lacing quick and cool between your fingers. It feels like the first warm day after a long winter, when you can shed your heavy coat and a light breeze brushes your arms again. It feels like a bucket of paint, not the tacky wet paint that gets on your jeans from sitting on a newly painted bench too soon. It feels like freshly washed hair woven into one long braid down your back. It feels like a glass bottle to send out to sea with a message. It feels like the surface of photographs, piano keys, and guitar strings.
It moves like bird's wings as they settle into trees at twilight. It moves like tropical fish deep in the Great Barrier Reef. It moves like the lazy rock of a row boat on the lake behind your summer home. It moves like your walk in a new pair of sneakers.
It tastes like fresh fruit, when the juice runs down your chin, and you throw the pit into the grass
let's goi once watched a young man say goodbye to a friend.
he didn't look sad standing in front of the grave
he just looked content, like a weight had just been lifted
and he was finally able to move on.
a brown backpack hung off his shoulder, he gripped it loosely.
wire framed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose
and his messy hair was hidden by an awful green hat.
he turned to leave and as he walked past me he smiled.
i smiled back.
the wind carried leaves across the streets and i soon left as well.
each house i walked by was the same, with chipped paint and broken bricks.
(even the wallpaper in my own apartment mocks me
as it peels off a little more each day and when i see it i just sigh.)
i waited impatiently at the bus stop,
putting a cigarette in between my lips and lighting it.
at that moment i remember thinking,
if he can move on, maybe i can too.
The Dream DiaryTaken from a journal belonging to Patient 357 after he was checked in by a relative. Patient suffers from sleep disturbance, delusional paranoia, and self-injury. Further analysis needed.
This is what I remember: when I woke in my own consciousness, I was standing in a field of corn. The stalks were as impossibly tall as they had seemed in my childhood. I reached for an ear and peeled the green husk away from it, rubbing the cornsilk between my fingers until it disintegrated, gray and ashy.
At once, I fell to the ground, pushed by the strong hands of someone unseen but undeniably malignant. There was mud on my back, cold and soaking, and I began to cry because I knew my aunt would be furious when she saw me. I tried to stand again, to wipe it away, but my body was leaden. Even lifting my fingers was arduous, painful: I felt like I was condensing, preparing for implosion, but woke once more, this time in the sinews of reality, my bed hazy and soft beneath me. I struggle
big hopes, big dreams
and big wishes
all wrapped into
one tiny box,
inside this box are
the contents of
what used to be
a boy named michael.
he was a writer.
he wrote about
became harder and harder
to put onto paper
there were days
when he couldn't even
pick up the pen
he still misses her
but only when he's alone.)
with an addiction
bigger than even his
best intentions and
deep in the gutter
that is now his mind,
he no longer remembers
the nights when
his thighs would press
tightly to hers.
he no longer
morning when he woke up
and she was gone.
he repeats to himself.
"maybe i'll be okay,
maybe i'll be okay"
and as the poisons
are pushed beneath
his skin he breathes
a final sigh of relief.
For Sarah, Forever AgoI worked the midnight shift last night. It was the sort of night where you body feels so heavy that your mind just starts floating away. I was exhausted, worn. Sleep reached for my heart like a vigilante reaching for a gun, and I couldn't stop thinking of you.
You filled my head with poetry.
I could write something beautiful, that it was a clear night and the stars were out, that the moon shone above me like a love song in the sky. But it wasn't. The clouds were low and heavy and the streetlights painted the sky orange.
It was the kind of night that makes you feel trapped. The kind when there's no one alive but you, no sound but your heartbeat, a wolf howling and a siren in the distance. The kind when I decided that the world isn't big enough for us. The nights that turn into sunrises the sunrises that break apart the horizon and pull the breath from your lungs.
You know the nights I'm talking about.
The nights when the wind lashed our lips like we were sky-sailing to