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revelations in the mudi only want to fall in love
if someone is there
to fall with me.
i want to jump from high places
and pretend i'm flying,
i'm a bird, i'm light enough at-fucking-last
for the air to catch me,
and the harsh grounds beneath me?
can't touch this.
but i'm earthbound
and parachutes will not work
if you do not open them,
and i am just so sick
of feeling like maybe,
becoming an abstract painting
on the rocks below, would be enough...
but there is something beating in my chest.
i'm very afraid of what it is.
and i don't know a lot,
like the size of the universe.
or why you sought solace in the south.
or how i came to be in this crater that swallowed me whole;
but i do know the second you told me
you felt the same for me like i did for you,
something in my universe shifted.
part of my soul went to georgia...
and i began to climb.
the purpose of life is to knock you on your ass
so you have to do something with it to get back up.
i don't know about you,
but i'm pretty fuckin' tired of feelin
virgin culturethere's a little more to love than lust
and a little more to a person than a label.
you can try to sum me up in five words or less and you'll find those words,
but you won't be able to reduce me to them.
you can't turn me into something that can be thrust,
down the grapevine
when there's something more to me than the colour of my eyes or the size of my chest.
and that's something we could all do with remembering.
but this is the culture we were born into.
where the length of your hair is more important than the sincerity of your words,
and nothing matters as much as the kardashians' latest scandal or talking some hot chick into bed.
i'm nineteen. i understand. but i'm frequently finding myself writhing in my own reassurance that i exist.
my name is melissa, i am a liberal, college-going female who doesn't remember what her own house looks like but remembers her childhood telephone number
and i'm not sure if that's ok. is it normal, am i the only one in this goddamn world wh
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
scattered grassrootsi am the great plains-
i begin losing my hair and
i am tumbleweeds lost in the wind,
tumultuous dust storms
from the dryness i leave you in.
this becomes my skin.
i miss having someone
to tell i love,
but the ache it left in my bones,
deserts and sands,
is reminder enough
that fond remembrance
doesn't mean it's
why jk rowling embodies depression as dementorsi wanted to talk to you about happiness
but i don't think anyone in this room is qualified to talk about something
they probably don't know much about, and
how it spends most of its time
seeping out of your skin in whatever ways it can
because maybe your body is too toxic for it.
that's when you start having your moment.
the moment when you're not sure
how to be alive,
when strings become nooses
in the stars of your eyes,
thin objects mock your bones
and the instruments of your heart
act like knives thirsting for blood.
pavement shatters underfoot.
the cracks become teeth,
sharp and unfriendly as you pass;
they're grey, great sheaves of skin.
the world is alive, but unfriendly and cold.
so we sink back into what we're used to.
the way settling into sadness
is like settling into bed after a long day.
so they put you on everything they can find.
prozac, where you stayed miserable.
abilify, where you stayed miserable.
seroquel, where you stopped eating
when being treated for having stoppe
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.
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.
the commutei keep your kiss
under my bed:
i won't lose it
just because you aren't here.
i will hesitate in the spaces
between the weeks
we are together,
and we are
i will write you letters
and gaps and commas
when my head stops spinning
and my pride takes a bow
to the lion of my heart,
and feel the stinging air
seep out of its balloon.
put your (love) affairs in order, dear
and find me under your blankets;
i want the places i know best
to be the ones made of skin,
secretly tucked away
in the crook of your elbow
where my body rests, or
behind your ear,
like a pencil-
i want you to write me words
that make me start to hum.
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
to love and to cherish 'til punctuation do us parti only love you in my poetry:
my parenthetic utopia where i can make
you into the eighth world wonder, make
my freckles swim into your skin, make
out with you in paradise's garden, make
you into a dandelion, blow you & make
a wish: i wish you would make
love to me,
in my poems,
let's have our honeymoon
on the moon, honey
(and we do)
like dreams, all poems die
when their lines di vorc e;
(the trick to living forever
is to never write the end
i let myself become a candle one cold, windy nightI thought I killed Poetry---
but Poetry killed me. Left for dead,
now I don't even know how to write
anything resembling good literature
without resorting to sex-jokes, bad
puns, or half-wit metaphors. I am
a half-wit metaphor. I am
the shadow of a poet, but
my candlewax-poetic cry
for attention burnt out. I
extinguished the Sun, so
the remaining silhouette
of my former conscious
vanished into the night
like a doused flame.
Gone, forgotten. I am
a fallen chunk of rock
from Earth's Sky, now
Sunless. The kindred
soul I once let bloom
freely in Innocence's
Garden lay befouled
on Time's patio. Its
carcass rots among
like coins in a well:
of a once-upon-a-time wish,
the fossil of a daydream, the
wisp of smoke from birthday
candles on a whimsical cake.
Wind's ominous breath. I am
nothing but the remnants of
broken wishbones, shooting
stars, doused flames; I am
the last line of
on fueling the fire with your own spityou are so gorgeous, janie,
and do not let anyone
tell you different. okay?
okay, gradie. what
you do not know, baby,
is that outside of your arms
i want to die a thousand small
deaths because the world is too much
when you leave me so empty. what you do
not know is that outside of your arms all my
senses are brightened because you just lit them.
what you do not know is that outside of your arms these
waters are rising and i am not treading the levee walls carefully.
i welcome my tragedy and its ecstasy.
ti wrote you a letter
and i slept for twenty hours
then i realised
that i loved you in a language
you couldn't understand
and if she loves you
with her body, and
that is what you understand
then i hope
you can be happy
and i hope one morning
you wake up and realise
that you aren't
drunktoo many corners
and the depth of too many dark hours.
i was alone
faceless, nameless, but hearty and strong
i took my fate and strangled it
decided i wasn't good enough for that
then realized i was better
too many birds
too many songs
why are you singing
what is there to sing for
what is there to sing that hasn't been sung
for all the running of our blood
together and apart
i wanted years and it has been days
i feel years and it has been days.
hands around my neck
control my breath
control my life
control my death.
take me to the edge of the canyons
and fall in. don't worry. i am there
to hold your hand. i love you.
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
Things I'll tell you when you're older (3).You are not the
property of anyone but yourself,
don't let them teach
secondhandi didn't realize it then but
i held my breath the whole time i
read that poem of yours, the one
about flagships and the moon.
i kept envisioning bits of rubber
beneath my toes on a sunken beach somewhere
gathering all the different levels of brave.
i move now with her, mouth shaping
solitude in bright corners covering every
inch of my mal-adjusted skin until we had
no choice but to hang from the tips
of our own fingers glass shards on
a cloudy day. i write like this, words
tumble forward without apology
the light off the brier patch and
the dust-jacket. these are places
i will not go back to without you
the number seven and marshmallow
fluff with no expiration date
photosynthesizing. no license plate.
no glowing numbers no
marble law to hide behind just this
exhaustive un-fragmented truth appearing in the
dusk before us like so many nursery runes,
i cannot decode you so much longer.
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
Stuck The car sputtered and shook as it came to an almost silent stop. The engine had gone silent as the horn beeped loudly through the dark night. The orange gas light blinked mockingly at the woman behind the wheel. It was making fun of her; she knew it was making fun of her. Grabbing the black cellular phone on the passenger seat, she looked at it with full intention of calling somebody to come help her.
“Oh, what the hell?!”
The “no service” sign was mocking her at the same exact time. The horn beeped loudly as she slammed her head against it once again. The day was out to get her in general. She had arrived at all her classes late, and her son was sick with the flu. The babysitter was able to watch him as she went to her late night classes. Giving a heavy sigh, she lifted her head off the wheel to look out the window. Drops of water pooled on the windshield as rain started to fall in a pitter-patter pattern. She didn’t quite understand the message th
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