when the moon
blinked / he saw
me, angry /
but not mad / i
have stars under
my tongue / i
won’t swallow /
and my bones peek
through, they have
they are the fire
of the surface ///
15. silenceall of my cyclones
are dying & my soul
is a noiseless sink-
but not extraordinary.
everything comes to
an end ( i think ).
the surface goes
change, but that is
at our cores.
93. irona breath before
the reset – i have
arrived a little
too early to give
up but the offer
stands. my hip hurts.
time is suffocating
& i want out.
my blood is rusting
& i am too tired
to see the doctor –
elegythe cherry blossoms
bloomed, last week,
it is like i can still
remember the feeling
of your hands, lacing
between my fingers.
(the cat knocked over
of your pots last month,
& i sat among their
shards & cried.)
(you would have loved
him, even so.)
& it’s been years
now, & it doesn’t feel
like hurt anymore.
it sits in my chest
but it doesn’t have
& i don’t think one
could understand this
if they have never felt
65. horrificin my dreams
are safe spaces
& i might not
there are things
that make sense
when i'm asleep
that do not –
brains and falling
apart in my arms /
cursed women who
do not die / flying /
kittens that turn
into smooth red
marbles when there
is not enough
room / schools
in the sky / giants
strapped to the roofs
of cars / sometimes
i am older or younger
& my body is different
i am a different
gender / sometimes,
i find myself in
– make sense in,
nor are reflective
the real world
i want to tell you
why i always write
about my mother and
not my father.
i love poetry but
i hate words;
it’s like loving
air but hating
but hating throats)
words are what
ruin poetry. they
mean nothing, and
poetry means everything.
words talk, but
they don’t say
(words reduce poetry
time slips through
my fingers like
breaths through a sieve
because i don’t
grasp onto it.
i have no will –
the thought makes
me suffocate from
sinks into the black
circles under my
eyes while i lie
(time is cremated.)
i always have problems
with the middle
of the night –
it’s because i love
dreams are what make
me different from
my dreams for the
future don’t exist, but
my dreams beneath
my consciousness are
vivid and only comprehensible
die in my house. it's
something that we
do together, my
75. mirrori am infinity
in six directions
what do you see
when you look out
of my eyes?
darkness & light,
like the weight
of a shadow &
crouched in this
corner of eternity,
reflectionlast year was
a [test] –
the lows were lower
the highs were longer
the average was
somewhere below the
i created more,
but it still didn’t
feel like it was
i did not try less,
but was tried more,
and was thrown – shaken –
the year ended
differently to the
year before, at home,
but with the same
heavy weight in my
and the same inclination
toward tears –
on cosmos“not only the star
at the centre of our
solar system is called
for instance, my
brother is not a ball
of fusing gas millions
of kilometres away, but
my mother still
her son –
and i may not be
made of plasma held
together by its own
but i am, most certainly,
why i do not know how to introduce edsome days i wake up and my stomach says, “i am hungry.”
and my brain says back, “good; eat.”
and i have breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and my brain says,
“you are human, you are human, you are human, and this is what humans do.”
and i feel okay and i do not think much about why this is strange.
it is cereal at nine, a sandwich at half past twelve, and supper at
a quarter to seven. on these days, my stomach is quiet and
polite. my brain is also quiet, but with the intensity
of one who is preparing for war. still,
i never see it coming.
then some days, i wake up and my stomach says, “i am hungry.”
and my brain says back, “good; eat and do not stop eating
because it is what you are good for. it is
all you are good for.” and suddenly i am stranded in
a flood of food i do not want like i should, but my stomach
keeps saying, “i am hungry, i am hungry, i am hungry,”
like being hungry is all it knows how to be, like it is a
venus manhattanand in the margins are
with mighty words penned in
ink next to a flowery motif
beneath which writes
darting back and forth, lit eyes
find skateboards in the punched holes
of the loose leaf, climbing vertical
up the page in pairs
at the top it reads
and i want to ask what it means but i’m
scared he’ll say oh nothing
and we were angels dancing on the heads of pinsit has been a long year. i realize this over and
over again as i swing the car around country road curves
and eat up miles like i am starved for them.
my fingers are tight on the wheel, and it feels like if i let go
even for a second i will not regain control. all year i have wanted
to run away, and now i am here with nothing stopping me
your breath hits the side of the window
and billows up the pane. the music is a soft hum
in the background and the dying sun
tints the tips of your gold hair red. it has been
such a long year. i know you know this as well as i do;
we are both standing over open graves, moved to tears,
throwing in time zones like dirt to cover the bones
of the versions of us that had to die for you and me to exist.
it has been a long year, i say. it is time to move on, you say.
whatever battle we’ve been fighting has been won.
by who, i do not know,
nor do i dare ask.
it should be enough that it is over.
yes, there are too many days i trade feet for
ace of spades1. i come out wrong.
well, no, sorry.
i come out loudly. i tell my friends
almost immediately, before
the puzzle is even halfway complete.
i tell them that given the opportunity
and the consent i would probably
fuck the waitress that waved at us
as we walked in. but the words
aren’t as true as i want them to be,
mostly because i don’t want to fuck her,
i want to hold her hand.
i want to be the one that gets to hug her
from behind and kiss her cheek when she’s sad.
i wanna know if she’s afraid of
thunderstorms, i wanna know if she
builds blanket forts, i wanna know
her stance on eskimo kisses and if she
would let someone like me be
her little spoon.
but there’s not a word for that,
so i say fuck when really i mean cuddle,
and i come out wrong.
2. when he kisses me, i try
my hardest to think about fireworks,
but inside me there’s nothing
but a clock ticking in my head,
counting the seconds until
i can be not kissing him anymore. i pull back
palimpsest1. “so have you, like, ever fallen in love with a straight girl?”
she asks. “i bet it’s like, totally awkward.”
i laugh and stutter through a no that comes out
sounding too much like your name, and then you are there,
slipping into my mind without knocking, like you have any right
to come back unannounced. it has been months since you called.
i suppose that counts as awkward, but when people say awkward,
i think of teenagers skinning their knees tripping after each other,
of the sound of knives scraping dinner plates during sunday supper—
i do not think of your voice when you tell me you have found
the perfect boy, of the way your eyes cut away from mine
immediately afterwards, so you do not have to see me ache.
i do not think awkward is the right word.
2. but god, you had beautiful eyes; i spent an entire winter
telling you that, hoping if i could just get that one truth
out in the open, i could hoard the rest of them to me like stolen gold.
here are the words i have left.these fields of rainbow roses
have too many bloodstains
today; their stems were
severed too soon -
cut short. saltwater drips
in the dust as each
precious life is
in vases and death counts
to half-mast, loved-ones
choke on memories that
linger like flowered
and cold to the touch;
it only takes one
hateful man to kill a field
of flowers, to cruelly
take what he never
those flowers left behind
into something beautiful.
i kneel in the broken garden,
and wonder how a world
full of hate
could still hold
so much love.
to whomever it may concernat night i lie half-sleeping with you
on the couch, the television screen blaring
propaganda and 2-am comedies.
your fingernails are getting long again,
and you won't let me cut them 'cause you say
baby, they're all i've got left to fight with
on my way outta this hell.
so i let you run them over my skin, gentle
in their calamity
(you wreck me without knowing
the price i pay to sink with you).
and when the sun dips above the
curtains you write half-posed
prose on my wrists and up my elbows,
onto my collarbones
and the twist of my neck,
you write phrases that make your mind dance
and my skin sing;
you call me beautiful in the light of
a static-screened telly
and the words on my arms sting like tattoos i've wanted
since i was thirteen
(you became my forever two lifetimes
ago, and even if we never move
from a worn-out couch
to the hollywood we've always dreamed of,
i'll be happy to listen to laugh-tracks
and late tomorrows
as long as you're around to place your poetry
in all my emp
novelthere’s tea you still need to drink.
you left it on the counter again, because you’re
always forgetting where you put it.
it’s probably cold by now, but
it’s there for whenever you’re ready.
here’s a blanket to lose yourself in.
you don’t have to give it back.
here’s another book i think
will make you cry if i ever find the courage
to give it to you. i’ve underlined every
line that made me want to scream, that made me
want to rip out my hair and destroy everything
beautiful about myself, that made me want to
drive across a desert in the middle of the night,
that made me fall in love with everything wonderful
the universe has left to give me.
i can’t find the words to tell you what it’s about.
i guess it’s about growing up and finding love
but it’s also about figuring out how to exist comfortably
and it’s about people who are good and people who
are not always good and the things they do and the worlds t
PoemI drink away anger and fear
with rum-blood from a glass heart,
igniting my mind like Nero
and watching as my walls burn and fall apart.
The Boy I FollowedYou met me at a very awkward time in my life
When I was insecure and stumbled over conversations
Fear had directed my words and I hid away
The first time we exchanged glances
It was during a very hot and humid summer at camp
And I fell in love almost instantly with you.
Freedom had embodied you in my vision
As you told stories of grand adventures that occurred
How could someone be so gentle and so fearless?
Kindly you spoke to me, the mess of a girl I was
No matter how nervous or unintelligent I sounded
To this day I still reel back from my past embarrassment
Then camp ended and we went two separate ways,
And I realized I was in love with you completely
Your mind, body, heart and soul, your entire being.
Fate would not leave my heart strings alone
A month later we ran into each other at the county fair
Through the night we laughed and joked
Around my shivering shoulders you slipped your jacket
You went on thrill rides with me and endured my screams
Then the night ended just like
Life In BoxesI have to narrow my life down to ten boxes.
It's surprising how attached you get
to something as simple as a mug you stole from Dennys
or the fork from a college you would've gone to,
had you the money or the grades.
It's like a self portrait out of tupperware,
finding your face in a pile of blankets
or a book you could've loved,
had you the time to read.
breaking stereotypesi'm too afraid to lay down on the ground here
because the last time i did that,
hands sprouted from the roots of the old oak out back and
tried to drag me down into the
tunnels of an ant mound
and i don't think i could live through that again.
once i jumped so high on the trampoline i felt
gravity escaping me and
every fiber of my being dropped pounds and
i became almost weightless and i think
that's what made me addicted to the idea of
floating on air
the vacuum sucked the oxygen
from my lungs and
i'm still out of breath,
all my fingers are numb and the
stars are still playing beats on my ribs like
they were fascinated with bleached-white bones and
blood cells burrowed in the center of my bones,
exposed with just enough pressure from their stardust-padded
mallets (they liked b o n e m a r r o w, i guess i was playing with the
stars / hearts of
they read my fate and path like
tarot cards except
something in their glimmer made m
In My DreamsThere's a place I often dream of.
Where the sky is always changing.
When my body is tired,
I leave visions of my ceiling behind.
When I open my eyes again I see colors,
Colors of the planets that hang above my head.
In this world I don't notice if I'm lonely,
I don't notice because I'm too busy.
Too busy falling from a sky filled with bright stars.
I open my arms and feel the wind as it holds me.
In this world of dreams I always land on my feet.
Some might say this world is damaged.
Sometimes there are buildings that have crumbled,
Bridges that have fallen.
I will sit on the edge of wreckage,
And watch as the sun rises.
In this world I dream,
Where ringed planets loom,
Where the auroras dance,
Where the stars shine.
In this world with an ever changing sky
I'm only an observer of beautiful things.
just another adolescent love poemlet’s get this straight right now:
there are people i can only talk to
at four o’clock in the morning, when
the line between decency and secrecy
becomes just as blurred as the one between
night and day.
you’re not one of them.
i’m not ashamed of you.
or scared. and don’t try to tell me that’s not
a miracle because i still check under the bed
for monsters and behind the shower curtain
for serial killers. i know it’s all in my head
but things like that make me terrified;
i mean, i still hold my breath crossing by a cemetery
and someone else is always going to have to kill the spiders.
i’m hoping that someone will be you.
which i’m also hoping i’ll never accidentally tell you
because it’s like i lose all cognitive reasoning
around you, even when we’re fighting.
you split me down the middle, half of me wanting
to tear out your femur and beat some sense into you
and the other half wanting to give anything,
even the foun