this is totally not about youi am being tortured by you. you are the knife in my gut.every time i try to uncurl from my bed i have a flashback:the time we got drunk in your parents' houseand i got sick so we sat on the floor of the bathroomwith our backs against the tub and you read aloudfrom sherlock holmes to make me feel better.the time we walked your dog through the parkand you showed me the trees you and your friends smoked potunder in high school, the sky purple and black above us,fireflies drifting in the cornfields nearby.all the times i pressed my nose to your bare chestand breathed you in,your hands in my hairgrazing my facehanging onto me.always laughing.we were in love.you've ruined it.i never realized how quickly all of these memoriescould turn to broken glass, biting into the lining of my stomach,blood between my teeth. every time i breathe ini can feel a part of me dying, the part of me that believedthat i would be seeing your face in every golden morningyet to come. instead i
Untitledthe last time i kissed you,i didn't know i would be kissing youfor the last time.
murphy's lawi have this feeling like you didn't exactly think this through,so i'm here to tell you about the fallout.this is murphy's law, the things reacting to your actionthat you aren't going to see.this is the supernova breathing fire,but all you're gonna see from where you're standingis the flickering squinting glimmer.here are all the places i have stored you:on my hard drive. in bionic text.on my phone. within my photo album.between books on my shelf. in the box under my bed.in the folder at the back of my notebook.inside me. inside me. inside me.right after we moved into our house, my fatherwent out into the yard with yellow gardening glovesand he knelt down on the dirt and he systematicallyripped all of the poison ivy from the ground.he grabbed fistfuls, triplets of shiny reddish leaves,pulled them slowly enough that it sounded likea scalping. he came back inside with oozing weltsup to his elbows, clawing and scratching and aching.i keep thinking about this as i tuck
the tragedy of meif i've been trying to get upoff the ground for the past six months,today is finally the day i managedto slide one uncertain foot underneath me.i am not quite to standing,still kneeling like i am proposingto my own standoffish life.please, my love, will you provide me stability?the life i want squints her eyes down at me,wrinkles her nose,tosses her luxurious boa over one shoulderbecause she is the type of gal who buys into boas.i don't know why i love her so much.i am surrounded by standing peopleleaning down to speak to me,so much gentleness in their touchesthat it shatters me.this is the maelstrom, they say.this is the part of your life you will always remember,and never in a good way.when i am forty-three, i will still be sobbingover the ache i felt at twenty-three.i will still feel so sad for the young uncertain me.it's simply a tragedy.i cope by playing my music too loud in the car,crawling into small spaces and pretending i don't exist,snapping a
23 and and and23 and the dishwasher breaks.23 and there are mice in the walls.my mother says that being 23was the hardest thing she everhad to be.23 and "i'm sorry, this position is filled."23 and living at home with mom and pop.dad says you cannot light a candle in your room,he is uncomfortable with open flame.he says, "look at this ceiling. look at these walls.this house costs upwards of [insert more moneythan you can ever hope to possess here],and i don't want it to catch on fire."23 and you are a child.23 and you still don't really know what it's liketo buy something large for a lot of money,have the responsibility of owning it.when your father is not lookingyou light the candle.23 and what we have in common is crying.we have secret competitions to see who is more broken,who has had the deepest, most gut-punching of sobspulled from their mouth with agonizing slowness.23 and we cry over our morning cereal,while checking our e-mail ("i'm s o r r
all of our roomssometimes i still think about that room,the square of white brick where i told youthat i was poison and you respondedby taking me into your mouth,melting me along the soft liningof your throat, and letting me infect you.that was where we seizedin the first glimmerings of daylight.that was where we retired,exhausted from hammering ourselves into shapeswe had to force, to find thatour purest elements already coincided.we were effortless in that room, archingunderneath each other's hands and spillingsecrets like a release.that was where you turned my palms overand traced my fingers like i was a perfect specimenyou had found at the bottom of a dark, cold cave.i think about that roombecause it's gone now,pieces of us we had confessed and cried and createdlost in the dust and ground down into the earth.i think about all of the rooms after that:your childhood bedroom where we sat by the open windowas dusk fell in summer;the room with wood-paneled walls at the backof
PhoenixI won't be your phoenix,your death wishof maudlin wordsstretched across this failing light.I will not wearnew wings for youthat crimson youwere born with -a mother's final wishto keep out the winterand weep.But I will wait,the flaw and beautyof your youthpainted across your palmsas you hold upthe moon to meet me.
We all are beautiful!We all are beautiful!The problem is on our eyes!
Solemn TimbreMy heart is the rotten,exposed-beam,roof-ripped-off carcassof an ark;that once protected,nurtured, savedbut now is a mererelic,a remnant,of when there was hopeof things gettingbetter.
RidaYou said your namewas Rita with a "d"and let me blundermy way through you.You said I had charm(and finesse was for amateurs)I liked how you were a ladder,how you could speakin any accent you wanted;you liked when Idid not change the sheetsor tie my hair back,You had droppedout of art schoolin Alabamawhere your fatherstill thought you were a virgin,and I was bussing tableson St. Charles.We lived all that summerin one roomand a kitchen.You would fry plantainsand we would wash them downwith purple haze,watching the musicianssilhouette their soulsagainst the sky.On weekendsyou would tell fortunesin Jackson Squareand men would payjust to watch your copper hairspill out their futureacross the cards.The city had neverseemed so cleanso fragrant with rainand the daze of hibiscusrioting in the courtyardfollowed us in our sleep.But autumn came too soon,hooded in chill -its mood ugly and resentful.I watched you deadhead someone's rosesin the yard -know
Authorshipyou’re the authorof this story - and yetinsist on playingthe role of a foilwhen you couldrewrite the pagesas you wish.
DownfallAnd in this dark harvest of seasonMy life has completely lost reason,For which or against to decide.All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tideIn sadness and in kindnessIn light and in darkness.In a boat made of hopeI shall sail to tomorrow,In a winding hurricaneMade of treachery and sorrow.There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...Piercing, slashing though my head.Starting somewhere in heaven,Ending somewhere in hell.Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.Are the armies within.In my head they are all thrashing.On the heaven's and hell's whim.To be light or to be darkness.A perpetual array.It's not merely my choice,But the choice of the way.It's an option of the voice,It's a thin line of gray.Is it a choice forced by fate,Is it a pre-set time and date?Or a choice to which I myself sway?But here's our story anyway
."Nothing that I do will matter.As all things will merely shatter!"All my hopes thus darkness scatter,As it shoves me a decree.As it si
spaceshiptwoWhat's leftafter the explosionare these suns,a faint projectionfrom an unreachable darkness,flickering.And then everything is simultaneous;the entangled mess,the crowds.*And maybe it's all about editing and being edited-The pilot painted across a desert,A desert painted across the pilot.*Or the holographic drift, a surface reflection-The expanse outside echoed inward,Jagged orange treelines over the firefly black like someone holding onto a woman(or the memory of a woman).*Or maybe just the T.V. relayas I struggle to sleep,the newscasterfrom both dimensionsglowing and whispering:The horses of your apocalypse/the apocalypse of your horses.
JumpI look downI can't see the bottomSo I smileBefore I jump
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead. It isn’t true. It’s said the stench of hell infects the earthand healths of heated blood are downed. But Hamlet lied. The dead know nothing, the living less. There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.
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.