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the end, actuallylassitude builds
nests in my bones
as effective at becoming airborne
as the words "i'm sorry"
they just refused to try
the most prominent thought
circling my head
like the words that could soar
there is a big chance
we will not make it through the night,
that i will never be held
in the cage of your eyes
and trapped by a heart
i must be committing
but i do not know which ones-
there just might be
on the number of tears
you can shed
over one person;
we are not snakes
and cannot remove our skin
so we cry instead
but through the heat
i felt that sadness made
over the phone
i saw no end to us
where there would be
no end to us.
a letter of hatred, to myselfdear child,
dear little girl,
dear sweet, innocent, beautiful melissa,
there is none of this that you would choose for yourself; there is none of this that you would see coming. a beautiful infant, born bright yellow like your favourite dress when you were three, you were perfect. you wore jaundice like a mink stole, blocked tear ducts like cat-eyed glasses. you cried because you were unafraid to show others how you felt: you were not scared to let them care.
strangers paused your parents on the street to peer inside of your stroller, marvelling at the porcelain doll within; the big blue eyes, reflecting the sky in grandeur and wonder; the rosy cheeks that meant you were healthy. you were beautiful, and as awareness became more than an abstraction, you knew it.
hours were spent in the mirror and every reflective surface that came across your path. dearest melissa, you were a brilliant star to behold.
constellations are just bodiesyou left me in my bed-
i was crying-
when you walked down my stairs
for the last time.
you were to spend the night-
you lived hours away-
until you told me
you couldn't do this
i was fine-
you were just a constellation-
until your words
forced images of my last love
before my mind's eye.
i cried before you-
i hadn't cried in months-
but i didn't cry for you.
in retrospect, as you closed my door-
it was the last time-
my only thought is
why didn't we fuck
before saying goodbye?
if people didn't filter their emotions and justthrowing yourself on
floors doesn't fix anything,
but it sure seems to.
my first drunk poemwriters write whilst drunk
because every word
fumbled and smisspelled
comes out beautifully
because of the truth it holds
my ear bleeds from constant burns
and my stomach burns from constant bleeds
because 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 ritual
and i let it shake.
i shook to be honest
but i was never honest enough
to admit from where the vibration came.
i shook with fear
and never, ever being adequate
or even happy
but i smiled and let everyone know
that i felt like myself,
and no one ever needed to know
that the only reason i felt so honest
was because i never feel like i can
stand on my own two feet unaided
or stop from trembling
or hold in outbursts of emotion
because if i do,
i know i'll break.
across, a crossi like the things that go unspoken
between you and me,
like the night we spent on the beach
lying cramped on a shitty, five-dollar walgreens towel
with another frayed over us,
and hearing the string
of intoxicated teenagers walk by and say,
they're watching the stars at night.
and no matter how much that girl,
clearly filled to her brim
with vodka as she tripped along the sand,
she spoke something more beautiful
than a van gogh painting.
we were romance, we were god,
and i know i must believe in god
because of the feeling building in my bones
when i see those "jesus saves" signs,
black with white lettering,
bordering the highway.
i feel a sense of peace
when you hum off-key to your songs
and your black truck blends with the sky.
you feel like a saviour when we're
caught in each others' arms,
but we'll only get to heaven
if we make it through the night.
and if only i could,
i would show you the scriptures
i've penned to express
the buoyancy you've rebirthed in me,
presumptionsi know i'm a very common-,
i look like i floss my teeth
at least once a week
and have never worn
like i devour books like candy
and never talked during class.
it's funny when people are nothing like how they look.
so let me tell you something,
let me set you straight:
i'd have you believe
i'm not some heavily medicated girl
with snakes up and down her body
in bright red rows, all raw and scabbed and
constant, ceaseless, neverending reminders of fucked-up and failure...
but it never took much for you to talk me into bed.
letting you think i'm some perfect porcelain figurine
without cracks all up my spine is about as ok as forging your mom's signature;
meaning it's alright as long as it's nothing serious.
and maybe that's the problem.
playing hopscotch cross-continent all summer and
making a patchwork quilt out of our travels when the cold sets in
is a pretty serious stab at giving us another go.
i can deal with touch, i just might shudder
write what hurtsi'm here to tell you
about fire and living
& how both burn even if you ignore them
it's not about what feels good
it's about what doesn't
cornering what hurts
and exposing it
really displaying it
pedestal on high
for what it is
and not what it pretends to be
you are not living
until you hurt
you can't be alive
if all you know is comfort
comfort is only a sign
that you are doing what you know
it is admittance of limitation
because you are human
and only know so much
and it's agonising to think
that you can be comfortable with that
and not want to reach out
and touch every thing you find
and read every book you see
and hear every sound you can
because enough is never enough
is never enough is always
on certain occassions fallacies exist for a reason[innocent is a synonym for boring
innocence is a symptom of ennui]
i'm not in the not in the not in the
to be the knot in the noose: loose
unhinged. disjointed. you know:
you know the drill & you know
the drill in my head is always
impaling my skull & you know
there is no difference between
this psychosis & you. no. i am
at best your greatest parachute
(if you fall into the abyss of my
mind, you shall float, as gently
as a feather in the wind) i am a
zephyr at worst: a tornado sans
entropy. i am the #1 cause of a
broken heart & most dangerous
catalyst since 1991. more fuel?
fuel, for what? fuel
for an aching heart
(ima hack ima hack
ima hack my wrists
which is what hacks
do) all of them do it
(i am a hack, hack, a hack
hacking up my irony lungs)
blacking up my exxon & i
mean blacking out my eye
really mean i don't mean a
thing i say & i say nothing,
nothing but when, but i'm
not in the not in the mood
innocent is a synonym for
there's nothing that feels quite like this.Maybe the problem is that I don't know what a love story should sound like. I haven't figured out what order I should put the words in to make it read just right. I do, however, know what it feels like, but pushing around nouns and adjectives just to make it grow is the hardest thing I'll ever do. And it's true that I've tried it before and maybe I succeeded once, but since then I've learned the way real love washes through veins, and rumbles through the shifting and settling of bones until it changes you completely in a way that is absolutely unyielding. Perfect. Simple. It's not angry, or jealous, it doesn't hurt. It isn't like before. So now words don't come so easy, since I'm not sure which ones will cheapening the moments, the feelings, you.
And god, I could never do that to you, since the only thing I know with completely certainty is that you are the only thing that saves me. That moves me. That completes me. Without you, I'd be less than nothing. Alone. Forgotten. It's e
peeling bandages, platonic skyThere were no stars in Vegas
until I found you.
Alas, there are other stars
in the sky. Brighter stars,
maybe. But I like my star,
what used to be my star
before we both
i'll keep you like a secret.There are a lot of things I can't tell you.
Not because I'm keeping secrets locked behind my teeth or because I'm afraid I'll say something you don't want to hear. This isn't like the last time or the time before. It's simply because I'll never have the exact right words to explain all the ways you make my heart rise and expand and skip a beat.
There aren't enough words to describe how quickly the blood rushes through my veins when we kiss and I'm on tiptoes to reach your lips and your hand is cupping my face, brushing your thumb across my cheekbone and I feel completely at home.
And they haven't even invented a way to portray how I feel when we're driving too fast in the streets of our hometown, and how I can get lost somewhere that is so damn familiar because I have the chance to explore it with someone new someone like you and you're singing along with the radio, letting me fall asleep in the passenger seat, because you and I are enough, and we don't need words to fill
a sour tongue
i can't drink lemonade
anymore because it
your breath on my lips
your death on my hips
another bittersweet dream
where you're a holy grail
of ice-cold lemonade,
and i'm just ice-cold;
where you're saccharine sugar,
and i'm a diabetic;
where your blood flows
like the fountain
e fountain of y
chromosomes, but y chromosomes
are like oil & water. they don't mix.
like citric acid & stomach acid. but
you just do acid. and lsd (love-sick
drug) and x. especially x. x as in
kisses to everyone who isn't me. x
as in ex-lover, ex-life, ex-everything.
x as in that mark on my map where i
the girl who lost her feet.she is the type of girl to bleed a number of different colours
instead of the too-common red; to dress the stars up in smiles
so they'd stop crying starlight on the earth;
to clean her mind with the dustpan and brush she hides beneath her
bed sheets when the sunlight disappoints her, and the
sparkles of the water don't look like anything but water anymore.
she knows the secrets of those who'd long ago stitched their
lips shut with lies of insubstantial beauty and inferiority,
because she's been around the block a few times and can identify
Mrs Nosy from Ms Heartbroken right down to
and she is the kind of girl who zips the secrets into the
lining of her pockets, who walks around and smiles at those
who need it at exactly that moment, who drops all her money
into the bent tins held out in hands of dirt and a world
forgotten underneath concrete dreams and whirring machines.
she is the broken kind you see when you're driving to your workplace
and there she is, sitting
Bones"There are good days and there are bad days," you would say to me as you would try and explain away why the whiskey bottle was empty again this morning, why you smelled like her and why you thought it was best to let me know what you had done. At least that way, you were absolved of the gift of lying; the one your bones were too light to lift and just couldn't take, by bestowing me with betrayal.
My mother would bring me an encouraging cup of tea in a giant pink mug instead of a cup and explain, "There are good days and there are bad days." Her eyes were always full of positive energy and strength and good will. I look back to those days and try and gain the strength she had in her bones from her words. I always fail.
They told me I had a disease within my bones. It started from the bottom of my knee and was moving upwards. Because that is what bones did. They broke from the inside out. "There will be good days and bad days," they warned me. I knew at that very point that it was going
I'll never tell you -- you already know.I remember in the beginning
there was just you and me
small intervals where the air would leap from my chest,
saying you leave me breathless will always be an understatement.
I wanted to kiss you before
I even knew you or knew the real you
but your untied purple chucks
had me even before your hello--
months later I realized that meant to be's aren't always
as silly as they used to be.
I've fallen in love with how
the palms of our hands match
the planes of our souls and
every time I loop my fingers
between yours we fall deeper--
If there was ever a time I should explain myself,
it's be right now, but I think you know--
I mean you should know--
How irreversibly far I've fallen
the vomiting crowd of coney islandthe destructive walls are shaded
in grey and i am remembering
every feeling i have forgotten-
i am terrified.
this is a city that never sleeps,
the bones of my chest thrumming
like taxi cabs in the streets,
my fingers shaking
in want for comfort and solace
i am not standing
in lorca's vomiting crowd-
i am his vomiting crowd,
looking high and low
and between my clenched fists
for catharsis and purification,
for the reason of this illness
pressed against my skin,
for the indefinable sickness
i drown in like bubbles of spit
day in and day out.
i fear the restraints
i've placed for myself,
that they may not be there
or are not in fact real.
i am caught within a sticking web
of decaying sweetness,
coney island's cotton candy,
yet it is not a trap.
i am afraid of love
and that it holds me back.
i am afraid of love
because i am used to skin on skin,
when the drum beats meet.
i am afraid of love
because it is so far stretched
over these thousand miles,
that i fear it mig
ViolinI remember the day
you told me violins
were strung with cat gut
and that is why
you hated music
(who says that to a child?)
I followed you
all that summer.
I watched you
grow away from mother -
your whiskey held better conversations
and all she did was cry.
We'd sit cross-legged on the porch
and count the horseflies
settling on our lunch.
You would drown tadpoles
in a bucket
surprised they could not swim
and I would dream
of cherry popsicles.
And when night would gather
on the sidewalk
I'd hold my breath
until a star appeared.
Don't bother making wishes
you'd tell me -
stars are dead weight in heaven
and God has cloth ears.
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