I would go days without eating
I would let my bones show through
the lace of my skin
And you can be ashamed if you like
because I was
Wide Open SpacesSome sick fuck
Half inanimate object
The man, forty stories up
Hurt me, hurt me
The closest to the edge on the day she was meant to bow
"Thank you, I'm all better now"
Forty story man doesn't look out
at her feet
on the other side
This song goes out to you, ghost boy.And maybe you
too much of your own music
I am violin string, broke on lonesome.
You are an LSD trip inspired tattoo,
words to your tongue you can't take back.
and my head said
you won't fucking forget
you can't stop dreaming of
in all it's grand cliché
and the music.
my speakers are broken
but that never
the words from flowering out into the air
and so can you blame me
to your name
People are big and scarySometimes
a human life is too big
and I am too small
and I think
if I squeeze hard enough
that I'll disappear completely
I don't believe in godAnd, as hard as it is to believe sometimes, you just want to feel like someone is guiding you.
Dragging your hands forward to the asphalt.
Pinning your wrist bones to the skin of your palms.
As you, or was it Jesus, who saved you from falling head first.
Into the man-made black, flat as waves.
The taste of your bleeding tongue.
The sky, trees and houses tipped around you like the cateye of a marble.
And some sufferer, buried in regret and silence.
Both creeping towards our death day where, goddamn, we finally get to read the answers in the back of the book.
Do single-cell organisms go to heaven?
And why allow me to learn my lesson.
But yet I keep writing, starting every sentence with "And"
Comes with a swordOne day I'll tell them everything I never talked about
The women at the support group
the strongest people I've ever met.
Jawbones made of steel and fractured jade
He pushed her up against a wall and broke her nose
Her eyes fill will glistening compassion
when she speaks of him.
How can you not see how brave you are?
The strongest people I've ever met
Fighting wars we cannot speak of outside this room.
I wonder how many of us will live through love
And of all the prayers for me, I hope my prayer for them is answered
Because some will return to their husbands fists.
The sun is shining outside
so I pray that they resist.
Praying mantisThe praying mantis
in my spot
on my sofa
I eye him from across the room
with his hands, brown spikes clasped together,
prays about as much as I do.
And equally as sucessful.
In the dark shade of the room.
His glassy eyes watch me watch him,
the light from the window reflected like TV screens.
His arms still fixed
the tips touching
still muttering under his breath.
He stays for long
but I daren't break his trance
in my chair
in my space
with nowhere to go but home.
SuckerEvery little thing
You mustn't be so forgetful
This is you
I'll sit on my porch when you go.
And through Monday, too.
Why not April, September?
This is me keeping secrets behind sour eyes
And my heart doesn't lay still
for very long
My insides twist
when I wonder where you are
This is me,
LessonsIn forty-seven minutes I will be twenty-one years old and my throat is tight with this notion
that every passing moment is a boat taking me further from the boy on the side of the road.
I am terrified of the swelling tide of time, the ripples I will create,
the creases that will be etched into my face
without the laughter lines I know he would have left and
one day someone will ask me how many siblings I have and I will hesitate
because he will be so distant and I can feel it coming.
I never intended to swim without him, but
I am drowning under the weight of pocket-stone-people,
the ones I love who he has never met and won't ever meet
and its forty-four minutes until I turn twenty-one when I realize the relentlessness of this;
how I will age away from him and I am disgusted with myself, with his ashes on the bookshelf,
with this world that keeps making mistakes that can't be fixed.
Twenty one years old and I am a semi-colon, a shuddering pause on the floor,
remembering the time I broke
FarewellThe sudden void into the unhinged mind of a demented soul,
The rapture of a lucid dream, falling into an obliterated consciousness
The devastating coma of a genius protagonist, completing the epic tale of a life
It was all but a dream, a chimera, an excruciating lie.
The nothingness digging its claws into a cryptic vision,
The finality of a banal, vain existence
Never to be remembered, nor praised for its perpetual battle against agony.
There is nothing,
Nothing but the sharp sound of shattering glass,
Nothing but a hollow shell on the edge of the world.
This is where I depart, this is where I bow down,
This is where my crude hatred vanishes with my existence
There is nothing but a vague memory, of a silent soldier walking against the wind,
The pallid remembrance of a once scintillating simper
Good fortune to you all, for my path lies beneath the river
And with it, a single breathe to be released upon all as a somber farewell.
Fairy Tale GirlFairy tale little girl.
She wears a crown upon her head,
And befriends the monsters under her bed.
She sings songs to birds.
But no one ever heard
Her cries when the castle walls came tumbling down.
Real world little girl.
She weaves herself a fantasy inside her mind.
Hoping to find
The same peace from when she was young.
And she's like water colors.
So soft, and easily washed away.
She is the soft blues in the morning of a new day.
I found her hiding within her tower.
Far above the real world below.
She is so broken but never lets it show,
So desperate for some fairy tale ending.
She asked me quietly one day,
'Do you think the world will ever be like my story books?'
I thought for a moment before replying,
'In order to survive there are some bad things you have to overlook.'
'The world is grey.'
I heard her say one day.
As if accepting the odd mixture of good and bad.
Her voice sounded happy and sad,
All at once.
As she ripped away the last page
In her story book.
beautiful.i hate my stretchmarks
the vertical the horizontal the ones running miles down my arms
stripes on a circus tent
my body is a freak show
75 cents a ticket
they are the bars on a cage
trapping me inside this prison cell of flesh
(not letting me run away
from all i once was)
reminding me that i am
still that little girl who
was told that she had too
much weight in her stomach
and in her thighs
to be called beautiful
my stretchmarks are the debris from when i tried to collapse upon myself
tried taking up less space
because beautiful is small beautiful is skinny
diets upon diets
because i've been told that
i am only worth the sharpness of my collarbone
Between life and death
again and again on my knees
broken by those who should help me stand
not sad nor happy in this life
and getting up
again and again
after every fall
more determined to keep standing
more desperate to avoid another
depression doesn´t hurt
it´s beyond limits of sadness
beyond any other feeling known by mam
being alive is too hard
there are easier ways around
why to stand up after fall?
stubbornly holding on worthless things
patiently crying when no one hears
broken pieces glued together
effort testing limits of strength
buying time to find more will
forgetting to smile
what did it feel like
for the last time?
girls that photosynthesizeI.
i asked my mother to buy me sweetener,
and she said "no," and she said "no,
sugar is better for you it's more natural"
so i shrug and i clamp my teeth over
my tongue and sew my mouth closed
and i steal sweet n' low
from the pizza place
my friends watch me pick at my lettuce,
a rabbit-food-lunch that makes me sick
to my stomach, and when i run to the
bathroom during science class they
follow me and ask what i ate for breakfast.
i say "waffles" because they can't know
i won't let them stop me
my therapist asks me if i think i'm sick
and i'm not, i'm strong, but i can't be
not here not here, and the $$$$$$$$
are ticking away as i consider my answer
so i say "yes" and she asks me what
i will become and i say "better"
because that's all they want to hear
my dietitian sets up a rough meal plan
and she says i won't gain weight on it
somehow i trust this woman with art
on the walls of her office and i pick
through the day in corn-kernel bites,
Dear Homophobic ParentsDear homophobic parents,
How the fuck do you think it makes me feel
When you walk out of the room crying
Because you can’t stand the thought of something I can’t control.
I’ll tell you that it makes my insides burn.
The living room feels like a closet.
Suffocating, and yet I can breathe fine.
I am choking on the air,
Polluted by your homophobic slurs.
Making uneducated guesses about things you know nothing about.
Someone ought to teach you to look shit up
Before you go about, shouting your false claims to the world.
My very existence is an error.
Some messed up chemical defect that went wrong,
I don’t belong
I am the Titanic,
To you I am supposed to be perfect
I am supposed to be straight, and happy, and fine.
But I am so very far from fine,
When my lungs are filling up with water,
Your words are an ice berg,
And I am sinking fast.
Why I DanceI dance as if I am sick,
And the movement is medication.
As if getting up in the morning just to practice is the only motivation
To stay awake.
Because well- worn soft shoes
Feel like home.
The world is cold, and lonely.
But when I dance, there is a fire inside my heart, warm and lively.
I feel like a bird,
Like I am able to fly as high as I want.
Gravity, I taunt
As I laugh in its face.
Because the Earth was never a place
Because leaping across dance floors,
Allows me to soar
Higher than I could in my dreams.
Hard shoe dances make me feel powerful.
Like a raging storm at sea.
My stamps, and clicks are crashing waves.
But I am also the sea breeze.
Strong and graceful.
When I dance I feel like I am trading
Secrets with the universe.
My head is clear,
And my will power is strong.
I am a force to be feared.
On bad days,
The rhythms of hard shoes sound like a heart- beat.
A life line.
And I’ll dance until my feet bleed
Just to feel something.
Because dancing is the only thing