kiss me like i never left;
kiss me like you never sinned;
kiss me if you love me;
i'll kiss you with my heart.
a set of six word poems.
in the gardenyou are breath in my bones,
buoyant in the blue bay
outside of your house.
you are in the garden
and i am watching from the window
as you watch me back.
i am wearing nothing
but a long strand of pearls
and pink underwear,
and you cannot keep your mouth closed.
i like it better that way
when we kiss.
i like to feel your body
forget how it is to take in air
at a regular pace,
i like to feel its
it makes me feel like
your soul is dancing
when it meets mine.
(and the dark stopped being scary)once I fell asleep
beside you, I no longer
had need for nightlights.
i don't see myself when i look in the mirrormy mirror shows me
a woman with the face of a daughter,
with a body tainted by years
of scars and starvation,
and ruined by a set of hands
the woman can hardly remember.
it does not show,
myself to myself.
there are wide blue eyes
and bags of gold
hanging off the chest,
and i know this is me
but it is not my soul-
to a place where it
a burden of destruction,
a simmering funeral pyre,
is not that place.
sinking sadnessi will not burden
a soul so beautiful
that my hummingbird heart
with its stammers and stutters
silences its staccato beats.
i am struck
by the sad
i am struck
more and more
as i let my thoughts
sink me further.
i don't know how
to open my mouth
when my lips
stick together in my sleep.
i forget how to breathe
when i'm out at night
a few drinks under my belly
and men who are not you
rub their hands
up and down my body
in their minds.
is my fingers in my throat
because i sinned,
is the way my body has changed
but my mind hasn't,
is not knowing what
i'm doing to myself
is doing to you.
the something I am missingthe wood paneling in the living room
has been peeled from the paint;
bare and brash and bold
and I'm wondering
is there something that
you were the colour of my poetry,
you were the delicate bone structure
of a beautiful face,
you were the pull of bow-and-arrow lips
into a crooked fragile smile.
my house is not my house;
it has been infiltrated by
a monster, and he has
blotted out, invisible ink,
every line I wrote
beneath this roof.
all I'm thinking
is how your breath is in the walls,
how the nights fell lonely
like faded flower petals,
and you were five hours
ahead of me.
you are blowing smoke rings
from the mouth that once sang me songs,
you are reddening your eyes
when once you cried for love;
and in this house
that is no longer my own,
I am remembering;
because this is what I was missing,
that somewhere in my heart
there is a room you have carved
in your own hand;
that somewhere in my heart
you are somewhere in the world
that isn't endless across the
start your enginescaught in the corsetry
of fine lines, double yellow,
i am in the webs of
rain and The End.
i caught a fish in my mouth
out of a cloud. we are both
full of empty people,
like waiting rooms, smooth
jazz pouring from our tongues.
i am more made of stars
yearning to burn their lights
back to the nights.
the touch and flow of purple air
hovering above the city
caps my lips in words
i don't mean, silence like
that in the gravity of an elevator,
like mouthing phrases
someone else spoke, unformed, before
you were born.
unreformed i step out the front door
with two quarters in my pocket.
i strep dressage like a trim prose,
disordered my feet mourning
the sidewalk at every touch.
there is too much space in space,
too many gaps in gap-teeth.
i pull my car between
the next lane and my own
to fill the holes we leave
it's too much to imagine,
like blindness if you're not blind
or the end of time, so i quit,
revert to autopilot,
ignore mixed signals and your phone calls.
i try to make myself
mascarai don't know why i wear mascara when it always ends up on my cheeks by night.
the moon is full but i am not. i'm hungry but it's mostly my eyes. i want to eat the city and the lights, swallow stars and coins in the fountains.
instead i'm alone in my apartment, with no glass but small windows facing the brick walls of my neighbours. i am empty except for the bricks which weigh heavily and hollowly at once. i swallow nothing but city air and exhaust, fumigating my lungs in hopes of eradicating the lacke thereof.
i am full of tears that were locked up since i was sixteen, pressurised in the marrow of my bones to the point of begrudging congestion. bitterness is what makes eyelashes grow-- there should be no surprise that i can't see.
weighted down1. I am sixteen, suddenly.
I have grown up without anyone
telling me. My car keys rest heavily in
my palm. Each new college I hear about
rests heavily on my shoulders. I am
not sure how much longer I can take this,
all this extra weight of responsibilities, of choices,
of the future I’m not sure I want to have.
My skin feels stretched across my body
in places that don’t really make sense.
I still feel too big in every bad way—I’m
afraid I always will.
2. My first boyfriend tells me he
thinks I must have bits of the
universe inside of me. I try not
to get offended: I know he means to say
that kissing me is like kissing stars,
and that I hold the secrets of creation
inside my soul, but all I can think about
is how huge the universe is.
3. He breaks up with me at night.
For hours, I lean against my truck in
the driveway and look at the sky.
Stars are cold and distant,
I realize. The universe is big
4. Someone in my philosophy class tries to tell me
Cliches I Have Datedi.
Anna collected stardust
like pennies, except
pennies are worth something.
Claire had ink
running through her veins; dead,
from an unsterilized needle.
Robin had birdbones
strung together on windchimes.
Sarah’s eyes were always
to the sky, and never
Lizbeth took my breath away
with every punch to the stomach.
Rosalie had too many things
in her ribcage; emotional adrenaline
triggered her arrhythmia.
Emily left me
for a boy with starrier freckles.
I am one cat away
from a stereotype, or one girl
closer to a happy ending.
violatedsaying no applies to
drugs: never boys. do not
say no to boys, they will tear out
your heart and leave your rib cage
jagged and broken, a gaping mouth
screaming its violation. they
will take your tongue, too, take away
your voice until all they can read
is yes in your actions.
this is not
this is a simple fact: do not say no to boys.
it is not in your right to deny them.
let them see the ocean of your body, let
them widen the cracks in your sidewalks,
let them warm themselves over the fire in your eyes,
until they decide to suffocate it.
do not say no, even when you are so destroyed that
your hands shake at night, holding your car keys between
your fingers like a gun with an unclear target.
even when you cannot go outside of your room:
the grass between your toes feels too much like
hades’ hands reaching for persephone, the sun’s shadow
haunting you across the concrete feels too much
like apollo relentlessly chasing after daphne.
do not say no, even when y
I’ve always wanted a boyfriend
I could watch porn with
and drink straight vodka with
until we’re too drunk to know
who took who
I’ve always wanted a boyfriend
I could ride
without feeling embarrassed
that there’s a freckle on my breast;
a boyfriend who could make me fall in love
with his eyelashes
when they’re wet with tears,
with his breakdowns and daydreams
and every honest, vulnerable little thing.
I’ve always wanted a boyfriend
who could make me believe in God
because miracles were real
and I didn’t need evolution anymore
I didn’t need to believe
that things were destined
to change –
that I didn't want them to change.
(I just wanted it to be perfect.)
You called me heroin
because you were addicted.
“You ruined my life,” you’d say,
drinking straight out the bottle.
You never drank with me,
so I always knew it was you
who was too drunk
to get my je
gibel - it's all in your headhe's
the kind of breakdown
she saves for the holidays,
the kind of
Botox her knuckles need till
the shine of the brittle,
overthrown bone beneath
is all her rods and cones can see.
and hers is the kind of hair
that inks her bathtub water like stray
iodine crystals sublime in air;
her color is not permanent, she is
she was told her book-spine
wrinkles hitchhiked the words, 'wise'
but her eyes said
his knuckles subtended to radii-
grabbing her leaky hair,
a discarded body of
dirt any doctor would've claimed
but he knew his duties well --
to swing her lifeless vessel
till a breath of pleading air
escaped her miserly lips.
her veins bulged and screamed till their
contours marked her skin;
thirst made her pretty, the way
her cropped hair screamed unpleasant.
she was unpleasant, the dye
in her hair agreed.
breathe, he slammed, breathe but every plea
she silenced with stitched eyes, lips and
he was the
linguistics of silence 101don’t drop your ellipses
on your freckled-with-pity
walk out of our sentence. I
have only been taming
your paragraphs into stanzas. don’t
let your rosy chest-wings quit
breathe, my love,
find a sinus rhythm in your
sporadic juxtaposed days;
there is a typo error
in your impulsive ways and i’m
afraid that is more
editing than i’m used to.
let’s uncapitalize those articles, it all
starts from there
breathe, you must
page break, turn it over,
skim a reading, halt that anger and
filter those strong
am trying too.
let your grown-out hair lay
free for once instead of your
tongue. punctuate your eyes with
sleep, with peace;
breathe. it all
when you forget to see.
but you’re still here hoping
to correct me.
pace yourself when you
braid your patience. don’t
curve too fast like the sharp turns
in your purge-swollen colon.
is your punctuation, darling?
where is your grey,
calming hyphen? have you
exit stage leftif this were a movie, this would be the moment
i break down crying in your arms and i tell you
every little thing about myself that i’ve learned
to hate at four in the morning when i wake up
and ask myself why i’m still alone and you would piece my world
back together with your hands and a simple phrase and i would
no longer want to cry all the damn time and i would
want to leave the house and actually end up leaving the house
and if this were a movie that would be the climax and
that would be the ending scene, us
falling to the ground, me in your arms,
me with my make up running, me thanking god
that i met you, you holding me, you pressing your face to my
hair, you thanking god that you were able to get to me in time
and if this were a movie you would hold my hand
through turning off ovens and locking
the backdoor at night and you would cook dinner on the nights that
i can’t get out of the bedroom and you would eventually figure
out not to worry about me when i
on grocery shopping with your lovershe picks out
the perfect ear of corn.
holds it up for me to see,
peeling back the husk
to look for rot.
this is our sunday, and her hands
circle my lower back
in simple rings. i kiss her
on the shoulder
this is our wedding day.
she picks out
the perfect ear of corn
like she could have done
for the rest of our lives.
holding it up for me to see,
there is no rot to find.
no decay in us, only terrible,
in her husking hands
i see our lives sprawled out
like mountain ranges, two separate
Everests, only begun
to be shucked.
i know from her gardening hands
this will be our only sunday.
she picks out
the perfect ear of corn.
she holds it up for me to see
peeling back the husk.
it is clean and nascent,
Yes, I'm GayYes, I'm most defiantly gay,
but that doesn't mean I'd throw my Bible away.
Yes, I'm certainly sure I'm a lesbian,
but don't think I’ll ever stop loving Him.
Yes, I'm pretty sure I’m bisexual,
but that doesn't mean I’ll stop praying through Gabriel and Raphael.
Of course I’m a feminist of epic proportions,
but that doesn't mean I'll ever support abortion.
Yeah, I haven't been to church in ages,
but that doesn't mean I’ll never flip my Bible pages.
Yes, I know my sexuality is a sin,
but that doesn't mean I don't belong to the Kingdom of Heaven.
I'm aware that you may not like my gay lifestyle,
but beneath that, I’m a child of God, and that makes Him smile.
Of course I'm aware that I'm a colossal slut,
but if you say I’m not God's daughter,you can kiss my butt.
Yeah, I know that I have a terrible drinking problem and I’m stuck on drugs,
but that doesn't mean I'm not God's son.
Yes, I know that I've hurt and nearly killed,
Bitlets 125A singing bird is a horny bird
trying to hit on the cute chick
in the next tree over with
cheesy pick up lines.
The male poet often utilizes
the word 'birdsong' in poetry
when courting a female mate.
The female often uses 'stardust'.
on salting the field and winning the warthe phone rings again; pick it up.
today, the boss asked her when you're
coming back to work. she says she doesn't know
when the last time you got out of your house was.
you're not sure either. not all pain is fleeting.
not all pain is bright and hot. sometimes, it's
through the phone, she talks like the sun filtering through
newborn leaves. she is miles and miles away from
the hurricane that is battering your shoreline.
she wants to know when you'll be able to look her in
the eye again. 'the boss is thinking of giving away your job,'
she says. 'when will you be over this?'
you don't know what you should tell her.
'did you know,' you start, 'that years after
the Mexico City earthquake in 1985, citizens
walked around thinking they still felt aftershocks
in the soles of their feet?' break off
halfway through another word. stop. start again,
voice shaking. 'did you know that more soldiers in the iraq war
have died by their own hand than by that of an enemy's?'
voice shaking, h
I'd Rather Die AloneSo this is it? Isn't it? I'm to die in this room alone?
With the cold table underneath me colder than nitrogen ice,
and the blaring AC bearing down upon me like a sinners vice?
Though my arm has been torn off, and tossed beside my head,
or my leg has been twisted, and my insides scorched dead,
I'm somewhat thankful my mother asked for my nerves to be cut dead.
That way I cannot experience the full force of the pain that's blaring within.
Occasionally, a woman walks in, looks down and says, “I think it's still alive.”
When was I an it, even while dismembered, I’m struggling before her very eyes.
Behind her comes the doctor, with a scalpel in his hands,
“His mother wanted him dead anyway, killing him more won't make a difference.”
The nurse nods and ask, “Should I get more absorbic acid?”
The doctor shakes his head and levels his scalpel, “His head is softer than plastic.”
And with his death-sentence, he drops his arm, and the metal p
Worst Case ScenarioPush and pull at her long hair, topple her to the solid ground,
elbow her sharply in the raw gut, shove her harshly around.
Scratch him in the pale face, punch him in the broken jaw,
do anything necessary to him that's considered breaking the law.
And when she cries because you've punched her, let her be,
and observe her when she returns to her habitual smoking.
When she passes out next day, because she's drunken too much booze,
slap her in the face once more, though many would consider it abuse.
When he can hardly walk because he thinks he's high in the clouds,
rip the needle out of his arm, and with your nails, slash him across the sweaty brow.
Grab them and shake them till their battered and bruised,
tear at their heart, scream in their ears until you've reached the point of verbal abuse.
And when she falls into your chest, and he collapses to the ground,
pull them closely, and whisper, “We can turn this all around.”
And rehab is a necessity for all of you, because you'v
writing bonesi break myself down into sections
like Ruby stripping on stage
at that kind of club,
it's raw and fresh and
yes, a little bit
because beneath this flesh
there are writing bones,
winter bones, bones that
flower with words
instead of ripening marrow
and when i die, will they wither
or write themselves home?