don't shoot the messenger
she told herself
but her aim was unsteady
and the wind blew her off target
they were all rotten anyway.
003its easier to say
"i'm fine, just tired"
than explain the water rising
when really they just asked out of politeness
and don't -actually- care.
awake from my dream state.it was a leap of faith
but i wish someone had pushed me
so i had someone to blame
nervous ticki. i curse you some nights, kicking the soil around your grave and daring you
double fucking daring you to be alive somehow
ii. i heard you at my grave. my god your face has lengthened, your jaw was so slack and wide and i nearly lost it
lost it like you clearly already have.
i want to tell you i do. i'm alive, in most ways at least
iii. your mail still rattles my door of a morning hiding in with mine like it can sneak past me
past my dulled senses and weakened barrier.
everything is numb.
vi. a shadow. thats all that i am now, friend.
i have tried dialing numbers or scrawling words but they don't come.
imagine that, me, out of words.
i am not myself anymore
v. solitude will be the death of me.
i'd swear to god, but you've ruined that too
you logical bastard.
pressure.she was cracked in places only she could feel, and where the blood could only be tasted, and not seen.
her lips, fingertips and inside her chest. she learned that there are certain body parts prone to being cut or bruised, and her white laced knees could attest to that. but there comes a time when cutting your leg on the coffee table or pinching your stomach with your belt buckle, isn't an accident anymore. its something more, and you know it is. but you can go so long without ever admitting it to yourself, and even longer for anyone else.
001 i am a whirlwind of
an aching heart
a regret that could
031.Things to do;
1) admire the entire city from the rooftop
2) smoke a whole packet of dunhill reds.
039i will write about you until i run out of
words in my blood
or breath in my lungs.
whichever comes first.
calamity.the poor boy got a lecture from deaths secretary
"deaths busy enough as it is without walk ins"
"but it was urgent," he stutters.
"it couldn't wait, it was now or never"
he was simply told
"take a number, and wait over there with the rest
who 'couldn't wait' "
trembling knees.don't give up now.
i know that sometimes the floor seems more comfortable when you're curled in the tightest ball you can muster, or that your knees don't work quite right. you wonder if you'll ever stop aching in a way you can't ever describe, and i'm sorry to tell you that you won't ever learn to describe that. you'll get better. you'll find peace.
cause he's not fucking worth it.
and i know its more than that, i know its all piled up on your shoulders, and tangled your stomach and lungs and entire insides into a knot, and that you never were co-ordinated enough to untangle even your necklaces. let alone your internal organs. but keep drinking the tea, it won't solve it, but it will keep you warm enough that death can't touch you.
listen to the stupid man, don't let them take you alive.
yes it hypocritical, yes it makes you feel small and insignificant and fucking useless. but just shut up and listen. if it worked but then, it will work now. in a years time you'll have him on your sk
confessionalthey say sad girls change their hair color
and forgive their monsters.
i change my morals
and become one.
NaPoWriMo- Day 5She used to try and catch butterflies
until she realized their beauty
rubbed off on her fingers;
but she will always be loving you
with those digits.
20 years from now
when even the love on her arms
i would never number the poems
i wrote about myself because that
would be like ticking off the days
until my breakdown;
i was a moth, unapologetically throwing myself
at any gleam of hope; wasting my wings
on industrial promises
colors always felt much more
appropriate for the purple boiling
beneath my heart and the pallid
purposelessness of my head,
but i was born into a colorless world--
no one sees me behind the metallic scars
of my skin and iron grating of my voice against
the grain; no one sees me as more than
gray regret or monochrome mistakes,
no one sees me but
all i ever wanted was for a
fallen god with feathered heels
to believe in me: to pray upon
the monuments i built for
broken dreams and to baptize me
in his tainted tears,
i just want him to be real. more
than anything, i want to be real, i want
to be more than an imaginary friend
to various mental limitations; i want
to trade my liquid skin [evaporating]
for a chance to be
i am a moth and you are the lighthouse
maybe you never belonged to meI can still feel the weight of your lips on the curve of my collarbone. Sometimes, it feels paralyzing, crushing, absolute. Sometimes, it feels like home. Like everything.
I once heard that when you can't fall asleep it means you're awake in someone else's dream. I wonder which one of us was dreaming that night, because everything was too quiet, too easy, too perfect. You used to fall asleep next to me, your body curled against mine. It's a warmth that's not easy to forget. A hidden smile tucked into pillows and sheets. It's easy to think these things will last forever when you're tangled up together. For me, the strings of my life will always be tangled up in yours. Forever tied to you. No matter hard they attempt to fray. To fall apart. To sever.
It's snowing for the first time this year. Soft and gentle, glittering in the sunlight, falling in large flakes, easy and quiet – nothing at all like the storm that rages inside of me, turning up the corners of my heart, throwing shrapnel
shallow breath, aching bones.this feeling is too big for me.
too giant for my small frame to contain
and its spreading and spilling out and
over my insides and leaving me waking
up with bruises from dreams so real
this feeling is too much for me.
i can't carry it all, it leave part of it
dragging alongthe ground behind
me and i tend to forget its there
and i trip over it and fall to ground.
i decided to collect bruises
but i dont have to look to far
they tend to seek me out
and scatter themselves across my skin.
monster.we watched horror movies together in the back room of the shittiest apartment on the west side. the more blood and cheap effects the better you liked them. i was always worried you might be getting ideas. that you might have been too focused on the red and the way it was forced out and how you could replicate in it in full HD.
most would worry about you replicating it on someone else, like the media is forcing down my throat. god dam this world makes me mad sometimes. too busy trying to stop people hurting other people, that they don't notice those hurting themselves.i noticed you. no-one else did though.
i never understood how your heart could be so big for everyone else, but never enough for you. i have never wished for anything as hard as i did when it came to you. i wished for you to heal, for god to swap our places and give your burden to me. i swear if it meant keeping you by my side i wouldnt care if i never saw the light again or if my knees buckled every single morning under t
riddance.and lately i've found myself swallowing matches
trying to burn my insides for fun
to distract myself from missing you so much.
its not working.
darkness.he stumbled across a room in the back of her house
crammed full of paintings
others reaching the ceiling
or dark reds and blues and purples
she froze up when he asked her
what they were
if they meant anything
they meant everything
and they scared her
she would paint them in a frenzy
and shove it in the back room
lock the door.
she was trying to figure out
what death looked like
and trap it.
lock it away
fast-forward through the goodbyesthis is the beginning of the end
“i know you,” he says.
and he looks defeated, he looks sad, he looks like
he's a boy who may one day realize how much
he cares for you, so you cut him off and say,
“minus all the secrets i don’t tell anyone.”
“well, yeah, minus those.”
“then you don’t know me at all.”
and then you tell him,
i love you. but you don’t use those words
because those are taboo. are jinxed.
are knock on wood three times fast.
instead you press him in a hug and say,
i’m sorry, knowing he won’t understand
that this is the first time you ever cared for something
enough to try and fix it after you hurt it.
you hope he doesn’t ever realize what you’re saying
and his response will always be ‘what for?’ because
if he figures out he loves you nothing changes.
he’s just going to be in love with a corpse, a memory,
a pair of trigger happy hands,
bad days.on my bad days,
i open notebooks like bibles and hold pens like lifelines.
i keep opening the book of my memories
just to see if it still leaves a bruise.
i am covered in the bruises of your hand
your ghost is in my bed. i can't sleep there,
again i find myself miles from home
wishing on stars i can't see
and spitting memories into the ocean like watermelon seeds.
i sit on my longboard like driftwood and send my shivers into texts
like letters i never should have mailed.
on my bad days,
i wear cuts like ropeburn,
like i just don't know when to let go.
i get lost inside the sadness and hold tea thats long since gone cold
as hours escape like small birds set free.
i forget to open the blinds
and paint my fingernails black
and stare at the too-big numbers aligned on the scale i can't stop stepping on.
Haiku Ithe birdsong filled her
empty shell with a blissful
verse of harmony.
one purple flower
swallowed by the azure sea,
now forever alone.
the moon ate the stars,
and carried them far away,
darkening the sky.
you are nothing but
an injured bird,
losing your way
in a world of uncertainties.
have been clipped,
by their ignorant words
(not good enough, not good enough)
and you’re grounded:
unable to rise
to the light of the sun –
instead you’re alone below,
drowning in the droplets
of their adamant rain.
not good enough,
they whisper once again,
not good enough…
starsi pray that someday soon, in a lonesome winter, your bones will cease to ache.
regrets will no longer break your morals like glass figurines,
you will not ask God to pardon your sins.
you will forgive yourself.
i hope, for your sake, that your butterfly-flutter eyes
will only be dampened with tears worthy of shedding.
your glory will shine out of those 2 crystal windows
and you will finally know what freedom feels like.
one day, in the midst of a dreary december, i wish for your wings to open wide
and carry you to heights far past any you have ever experienced.
your lungs will become blooming forests
with snippets of poetry carved into the tree trunks.
you will no longer be broken, but instead, crack into miniscule pieces
of yourself until all of the grace & goodness
buried deep within the crevices of your flesh
is soaked up by the atmosphere.
i am awaiting the day that i can finally lay next to someone i call lover
and point up at the stars to show him
fragments of you scatte
Sky EyesDesert hands tell tales
of a hundred arid summers, but
you are no longer as cloudless as they
(there is a storm
creeping through blue, blue veins).
But tell the sky to keep her sorrow,
that grey cascade blurring against
eyelids and horizons;
and suppress her misbegotten
droplets, seeping into the sodden
for there is still sun in your sky eyes.
Sensual Moon: Love Haiku1
winter crescent moon
across my breasts—
he calls me wisteria
clouds under the moon—
yielding winter pears
selecting ripe persimmons—
warm scent of last night
green shoots forced
from the gardener's manure—
we linger, moon watching
on a moonlit garden path
too cold out to be tempted
6 our astrological elements
my air to his fire—
a position for
every phase of the moon
the sounds he makes
a night creature's song
after, my streaming hair
for his head to rest upon
the low-slung moon
also in repose
moon tides penetrate—
he's still with me
at dawn's first light