i wish i could just be a monsteri am something less human than a monster.
one hundred waysthere are one hundred waysi have to fill myselfthat still keep me empty,and for all the love for youi hold in my heart,i treat you like you're nothing.you have built structuresand outlines of cities to pressagainst a dark inked sky,you are the blood of a broken pencoursing like a riverthrough my veins.i look the other way.i look for holesin the sweatshirt you gave mebecause there are holes in you,and i wonder if they match upwith mine.i leave it tucked justinside of my closetso that i don't see itunless i look for it,but when i doi pull it in pilesup to my faceto be sureit still smells like you-four months later
adulthoodwhen you interact with other grown-ups,there are things you need to remember.i am learning the fine art of Adult Small Talk-banter for banter's sake and smiles and short, impersonal anecdotesbecause you can't risk letting anyone in, god forbid someone actually gets close.you keep your friends in your stomach and swallow them at night to keep them closeand put your cheery face on for medical professionals even when your throat is too swollento drink down those friends.those friends, you know they'll never let you down.you see your human companions on lunch breaks and weekend days.at night, young adults have sex and fall asleep toge
the best way to remember somethingi cryevery time you write me a letter-me,in all my damaged glory,still loved across miles of river and fields.you are unyielding and unforgetting,finding the words we never hadbefore.there are many moonlit storiesto recount and to expound upon incoming months-i've got a burn on the toe of my shoefrom getting too near the fire with you-the bruises on your skinlasted for days;the headband your sister gave meand the way i criedwhen it broke;climbing up stairs, skewed like piano keysin the winter air,and entering your house, where you told meto tug on my sleevebecause my battle wounds were exposed;your dog curling up
breathe deepbreathe deep.breathe it shallowly if you need to,if filling your lungs to burstingis too much,too soon;but breathe the depth-of ocean,of history,of tree rootsand ethnic rootsand the roots planted by love.breathe deepand the orgiastic fullnessit gives the empty shellyou try so hard to stuffbut nothing sticks;breathe deepbecause deep is star-soakedwith constellations,desperate with creeping beautylike attar and trellisand the june moon.this is how you keep her.this is how you say,this is our permanent address.this is how you say i love youwith something more than words.
charlestownthere are days where everything-every ladder,every sister,every river-reminds me of charlestowni jump to correct thosewho are talking about south carolinawhen i remember they're talkingof charleston,but i can't flush out the feelingthat they're wrong,or when there are no dropped r'shitting the floor beneath themthere are days that nothingbut green eyes or gapped teethhold interest for me,and nights where i feel myselfbreakdownand i dream of you,just you,and you stand before mein your newly-shaven hairand dark-framed glasses,and i can only feelthe most overwhelming senseof completion.it is nights like thosethat t
dissociationi have entered a tunnel,archways and curled wallsof the clash of unwanted bodies,fingers in my throataching to summon blood,and palpitations.i hear nothing.trapped in the fence of my head,i am thinking in scattered seeds to plotin further regions, safer thanthey can be now.i am thinking loudlyabout amorphous concepts and rhetoric,the wavy distortions of my body,the undulations of my skin,the black vignette of my vision.i am gulliver in lilliput,enormous comparative to my surroundings;the world is tailored to fit my body,but nothing else.i am dissociated,i am a sliver of the moonuntethered-at best, i am a petal in t
ambivalence"you're the only one i want to fall asleep with," i say to two men.
i've gotten a military letteri've gotten a military letter.we're not together anymorebut the way my stomachundulates its tidestells me i'm worrying as muchas your mother.in a month,you aren't home but you canbe touched-i am trembling like autumn's last leafwhile caught in the interim.i have two hearts in my hands,frozen as your late january pondsin fear of holding too close.i tell boys at partiesthat i'm very goodat not breaking things-i lie.i will hold onto drunken cups,vodka and glass,but i drop hearts-yours, his, my own-like water in fingers.seeing you againwill stir up oceans,send floods over the leveesand,foetal,i will weather the st
my first drunk poemwriters write whilst drunkbecause every wordfumbled and smisspelledcomes out beautifullybecause of the truth it holdsmy ear bleeds from constant burnsand my stomach burns from constant bleedsbecause beauty is never enough untouched, it seems,the way anything i put in me is always too much.i bled and evoked sympathy tonight.i drank until i needed a body to stand me straight.my organs writhed like heathens in moonlight ritualand i let it shake.i shook to be honestbut i was never honest enoughto admit from where the vibration came.i shook with fearand trepidationand lonelinessand never, ever being adequate
lovedrunkshe looks at me, all big doe eyes and cupid-bow lips, tells me, now i'm not trying to say i'm about to kill myself, but i'm about to kill myself.the traffic light is glass. not that it's reflective, not that it's bright, but that it's so slow, a liquid, moving like a year. it's also what my blood has become with these words.we're in my car but i'm scared. i know i'm the one behind the wheel, but i don't know what she's got in her purse. i don't know her name but i do know she's drunk. so am i. i know we shouldn't be driving but i couldn't leave such sad eyes at a bar. i guess, if i'm being entirely honest, i also couldn't leave suc
sugar freetoday my stomach told me i got a letter from you.it clenched and cursed,seeing my name on an envelope with no stamp,cursive writing and no return address.i didn't know.once i did though, my stomach swungits angry fists and crowed,I TOLD YOU SO.it was right.my hands were like stoplightsin a hurricane,malfunctioning and saying stopwhen i turn green,shaking with each gust.i don't want to read how you areor if you still love me.i don't want to feel anythingor see you in my mind's film reel,now shorn and with glasses,but worst,in uniform.it makes me swoon on my feetand not in that lustful, romantic, 1950s waybut the kin
romanticism is such bullshiti don't understand a bitwhat's so romanticabout missing-you and distance,love stressed and strained like stringacross miles of roping rivers;it's ugly and sadand there is no curebecause i will not wait by the letterboxpraying daily on my knees to a god i know i believe in but i'm not sure you do to hear word from you-that you're well;that you're happy;that you're eating and sleeping and feeling alive;that's what i want, you know-i want your vitality to blaze like the great chicago fire,i want to see your scrawl emboldened with each wordi want to see you concretely on your feetand certain of where you are goingwithout a ser
the tidiest white bedthe tidiest white bed means nothingunder flower sheets covering grandmother's hand-sewn quiltand power rangers blankets-this is waking up in sunshine and warm skin;clean sheets and dirty nights;love and peace and holding hands before sleep endsfor the subconscious fear of losing the other.
the destruction of destructioni leavetoenail clippingsbobby pins&empty watter bottleson your floorin case you decide to forget me.this is just our dynamicthis is just how our relationship works.i read you chapters of thesilliest,strangest book i know&you have me createvoices for each character.i am most comfortable as the narrator,plain &unassuming,but you like my crazier caricatures best.it reminds me of how you likethe stranger ways my mind works,&how you will pry sharp thingsfrom my clawed fingers&show up late for workjust to make sure i eat;the hateful frustration i feelwhen my body yearns for itsself destructiononly to be thwarted by somet
12-18-10 .collabi am sitting with rumpled pieces of paper and my hands stained with ink, as if blood has turned indigo, wringing your name like a paltry confession. and i feel as pathetic as you think i am, i feel as though i could walk across the ocean with salt making my lips sting and i could travel for miles just to get to you, and you would be standing on the other side with empty eyes and you're asking, "why have you come?" and, somehow, you're bigger than me, somehow, you're a giant and i'm forced to look up at you and admit i don't know.i have lost my footing. the sky is the earth, my head is underwater and hair dancing with seaweed. i am dro
a desperate bout of melodyas the sun melts into streaked paint,as your hands trail listlessly along my spine,as the paper frays like twine,i can remember your heart.the kind of beautiful that only exists at nightfire of skin and prowling catsfriction of hot tires and mattresses creakingunder the weight of the lovethat is made over it.and i,well,i,i thinkof your skin stillsticking to minelike sugar insensuousflames.the heat is quick andi'm morning sick,i am your flower andwon't my petals pleasefall away?the winda sighing of aheavy breast.i will love you in the morning whenthe fog paintswindows withhoary br
vanishing from view .collabi am missing something,i am that old woman with hercar keys forever on theback of her mind because thatis the closest to the frontshe can manageanymore.i've forgotten who i used to be.shallow screaming dins the room,shakes the walls, as i try to clingto something real, not this made-upworld where the ocean is suddenlythe sky, raining saltupon open wounds.the static is like poetry overempty air, radios humming tothe tune of nothing but yourairplane parts and riotingheart.i am the grass beneath your feetthat you trample. i want nothingto do with this cardboard cityfull of ghosts and ashes. i need to l
rememberevery time i enter my room, i have to tell myself who i am.i am melissa, i am eighteen years old, and i suck at calculus.i am melissa, i am eighteen years old, and i am in love.i am melissa, i am eighteen years old, and i can't wait til the day is over.i am melissa, i am eighteen years old, and i am sick of being alone.i am melissa, i am eighteen years old, and i am the fattest fuck on the planet.i am melissa, i am eighteen years old, and i hate everything about myself to the best of my knowledge.every time i enter my room, i have to tell myself who i am.just in case one day,the person who enters itisn't the same person as
a new heartbeatyou would have told her that she was the most beautiful idea in the world if it meant getting in her pants. please, close your mouth: it's unbecoming to gape so openly. this isn't disgusting, this isn't piggish. this is called human nature. you are a filthy, instinctual body following your hormones instead of heart. if you say otherwise, you're a liar. if you agree, you're a liar anyway.let's backtrack. the music is so loud, you can feel it in your teeth. the bass is thumping hard enough that it's resetting your heartbeat. your bones turn to s
how to stagnatethe best way to stay miserable is to hate everything new.
But leaves me envy and greed
My craving unfilled