what i want you to knowi drink tea now.i guess i just cameto appreciate more subtle tasteswhich is why i could no longerstomach us.i don't laugh the same,braying to drown outhow silently uncomfortable i am;i don't shield my bellywith my arms anymore;i don't look at the groundas much when i walk.what's remained the same isi'm still not very good at math.what's changed is i don't mind.here are some things youshould know:the first night i slept beside him,in his borrowed bed,he watched me slide my pants offlike a sailor observing a mermaidshed her scales, parched mouthand wide eyes hoping i'd steponto his patch of land.you think i meant to hurt youby choosing him — that's not fair.you should also know:a lot of the things you thoughtwere not fair.a lot of the things you said to mewere not fair.what's different is i don't believethem anymore.our big mistake was that summerwhere i still let myself believei belong
but you're not a phonyby the time my voice climbssoftly onto the ivory windowsillof my mouth, coming back homeunceremoniously twitching its tail,you will be moaning into your pillow,breathy and vulnerable.i love you best when you're soft,cracked open like an oyster.oh my, i can see your marrow,darling. it's dark and knottedlike a soul.around here everybody has cornersand everybody's cutting them.they buy two-hundred dollar jeansdesigned to look likean unearthed relic. everyone around herethinks they're an artifact.darling this might be hard to believe,but i'm starting to thinkthat you're one of the only realthings i've got.i feel you sometimesin the rare moment of a day,when after slicing itself aroundall of the hard edges of buildings,the wind hushes, reaches out a hand,and ever so sweetly grazesthe tender flesh of my inner elbow.that is the pink patch of skinwith your name underneath. that isthe quiet tattoo.i love you bestwhen i can make you laugh soberand when you shudde
mrs. eliot Iyou are still handsome as ever.please stop drinking.you look thin, you look haggard,look, i brought the dog with me.she misses you.i’m not just talking about her.i’ve been looking for you everywhere,you know;i’ve been poking into pocketsand peering in the bureau drawersand looking underneath the sheetsthat drape the furniture in rarely-usedrooms, expecting to see the darned shoulderof your four-piece suitso i can pull you out from underneathand stow you in a cabinet within me.so i can remind you that you love me.don’t look so grim and horrid,someone must take care of the hornetsunderneath the bed.you need a cozy evening of dogs and gramophones,you must come home.oh, please do—the ether stains the back of my throatso fiercely, i see goblins when people talk,i have looked for you everywhere,how dare you worry me so.you need your home.you need your wife.it has been precisely sixteen minutessince i approached you,oh
ElenaElena followed me homefrom work one nightand stayed for tea and eggs,and all that minimum wageand wars between the sheetscould bring.She said she was a goddess,daughter of a carpenterwith her long red, red hairand eyes as warm as hazel nutson Christmas morning.Her hands spoke brailleacross my backand made the silenceof Sunday into a prophecy.She left one Octoberjust like she said she wouldwhen the fireflieshad turned their wings to ash.And I found revelationin red, red wineand cheap red, red fabricthat came off in my handslike summer.
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desksat school.i don't think they liked the language i usedwhen i wrote how my heart was beatinglike headboards against the walls of people fuckingat 3 am to the sounds of joy divisionwhenever you read me paintings at dawn.they were going to send me to the counselor,but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,so they just let me go.but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roofand laughing when we argue about rimbaudand sighing as we start to die.
renovationsmy mind looks at my bodyand says, "i don't like whatyou've done with the place."
The Owl's RiddleYou come and ask me,but you don't always understand my answers.You meet me in the night,but I'm not a bird of darkness.
WineHead on a patisserie tablewith a wine-scented napkinthat I scrawled your name all overin the hopes it might necromanceor just romance youto this place, at this time,so we could be together againand although the guitarist knowsthat I'm broken beyond blueI keep reaching for the bottlein the hopes it might recreateor just replicateyou.
Venom QuillVenom Quill 9/26/14I'll tattoo you with a poison quillall the venom I will spillSo all the misery you imbuedwill permanently stick to you.I cannot find any timewhen you did not feed me lines.So I will etch on you all thepain inside my skinuntil the message sinks right in.
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,or to have myself cradledin the curve of a throat,but to be broken,to be diminishedby your lack of affection& over indulgence of sexualization.but i,uneducated in your intent,found myself left entirely whole& incapable of the furyi had sought to sow between theridges of my aching ribs.
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echoof a cloudburst,the earth curls invisible fingersabout my achilles' tendon& pulls;she cries that i am notintended for the clouds,that my mind must not wanderbetween their susurrous concavesso i,furious with her insistence,her petulance,untether myself from the soft,diaphonous comfort of the heavens& sink,down into the weight of gravity.listless green blades welcome my soles,stimulating a tickle,an itch,a sneeze; i never have done wellwith nature,but oh,she is calling for me,soft-tongued and crisp in herown shadow,& i am sorely temptedbut no,no--i am not for the soil.lungs listless,she becomes my inhale;lightheaded& translucent,my alveoli shudderbeneath her force--i am not for the air, either.mellow-skinned,i stand beneath her onslaughtuntil she tires,her molten heart beating beneath my toes;unable to woo me with her facets,she pirouettes,cloaking me in one last attempt,a final shadow.my pores bloom& i r
short history of the universe(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)Genesis:A lake slams into a bus and a city is unborn.Enter an ocean of fog and then desert after desert stacked above the hills.Then you get drunk as fuck near the tumbling skyline,and this god damned room burns like prayer in your chest.Then many missing scientists reappear in your brittle beach,and your satellites in relapse all bending,and what it's like is some kind of disaster, honestly;the arms and the aerosol and the linen and the light.And the rumble forwarding the sovereign wreck sayingsurvive yourself like you've survived me;saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,always,and same for the carousal shadow bleeding through the mountain in your dream,same for your silence and the sudden red rain of witnesses.And then what unconquerable continents,what strange forecast occupied via gate via wind and wave-multitudes of sick yellow branch
grinning bladesyou asked me what's that what's that onyourwrist and i said it's nothing, my cat did itand you said you're lying; they are spiderwebbed and swelling and i gave you the rusty scissors and saidi'm sorry,i'm sorry.