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
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 –
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
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,
exhaustionby the time you
get home she has
already curled up
and is watching tv.
she greets you when
you come in. half
of her eyeliner is
gone; she has been
crying. your chest
has been aching –
an emotional pain, not
physical – a sadness, a
you remove your coat
and sit down beside
her. the screen flickers
with static, and the
both of you
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
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.
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.
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.
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
placeboi treated your affection like pills
to take for my own benefit.
this has taught me that people make
poor bandages. skin is not meant to cushion
fragility, and bones
make for poor support,
when i'm at my most spineless-
consuming you in short doses,
extending a prescription
i made-believed i needed.
there is still the aftertaste of apologies
lingering in the back of my throat,
difficult to dry-swallow-
my wounds should have never been yours
to burden. and i should have known better
than to taper you off with natural defenses:
the act of cutting out instead
of carving in. i have never found
the ways to formulate
how to make this better:
to explain what made it so easy
to be so parasitic-
my recovery should have never been hinged
on your undoing.
when the only thing i left you with
was silence, i wonder how i could dare
tell myself that my artform is speech.
Factories of ConsciousnessHatred is infectious
Hatred is a virus
Virus of confusion
Virus that consumes our freedom
Freedom far too fragile
Freedom needing fighters
Fighters smashing Falsehood
Fighters guarding Truth
Truth be known
Truth is killed by propaganda
Propaganda in defense of
War machines well-oiled by ignorance
War machine morality
Morality that’s sick and chronic
Chronic glut and greed
Chronic hangdog citizens
Dividing Right from Reason
Dividing mercy from refugees
Refugees thrown in exile
Refugees invented by death-industries
Industries invading human nature
Industries imposing order
Order which unbrains the Skull
Order from the Towers:
“Towers open fire”
Towers of unearthly fear
Fear gains its power within you
Fear is the Angel
The Angel on a pale white horse
The Angel of the trembling
The trembling of Eternity
The trembling heartcore of the world
World of fire
World of coal and cold white dust
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
broken recordi think i liked it more when you said "thank you" more than "i'm sorry"
when you said "i'm okay" more than "i'm stupid"
when you said "i love you" more than "i hate me"
when i said "you're welcome," "i'm glad," and "i love you too" more than I said
Advice: How not to write action scenesThe cafeteria was not a good place to be for anyone who didn't want to spend the rest of the day smelling like mystery meat.
Caroline watched the food fly as she poked her head up. She could make a run for it-
Caroline spun as someone yelled "Hey, Jackson!" There was Destiny, her arm cocked back, an open Snack Pack in her hand, and a smile on her face.
Oh, for - she was still salty about that stupid puddle?
Caroline ducked as Destiny threw, and there was the sound of a wet splat, followed by a gasp. Who did it-?
Priya Chaudhri, as it happens. And more importantly, it hit her very, very expensive-looking cashmere sweater.
The bright yellow pudding lemoned down the black wool as the Indian girl looked down. Drip...drip...
Her teeth gritted and her eyes narrowed as she looked up.
"This," she said, as she picked up her yogurt, "is Dior."
See what I did t
Bedtime StoriesThe later I stay up at night,
the more the words pour into
my head like a running faucet
until I'm flooded and the tears
pour down my cheeks
Ghosts come to me at night
and we sit criss-cross applesauce
on my bed and tell scary stories,
like how that one time I chased a boy
for four whole years, how ghastly,
even though he called me ugly and gross
or that one time where I just listened to
a couple of boys badmouth me and
did nothing at all, and then we scream
and hide underneath the covers
I pull them way up high over my head
because the monsters that I hung up
in the closet scare me still and
I don't know when they'll wake up
and carve lines on my wrists, but I do know
that they love scary stories and sometimes,
just sometimes they come out
art history boysi make muses out of art history boys.
count to ten and sculpt poetry out of nothings.
they are sunshine spilling over on concrete ivory panelled floors,
their hands a single entity. gracing divinity with seraphic rebellion;
homocore and beat poetry walk in shadows, slipping between
the gaps of your ribs/ the gaps of our ribs/ gaps of ribs/
tell me nothing but this, i
can feel the arc of a tidal procession,
thought warrior weapons in a fun(eral) march
epitaphthe girl i did not run over
looks at me with eyes that say
that i am part of the problem,
when i could have been her solution,
looks at me like she’s blaming me
for swerving away, like she’s measured
every one of her steps from her door
to the curb, and i am the one thing she failed
to account for.
i almost double back to try and tell her
all the same things that i have been told
but i do not. her feet are too heavy, by now.
her stomach too hollow. she does not
need more empty words to swallow, she does not need
stop signs or yield signs or ‘for the love of god
think of everyone you are leaving behind’ signs.
i do not double back but i think of her eyes
for the longest time, think about them
so much i pick them out of every obituary
i read and every graveyard i pass. she has become
a marble mausoleum to me, a girl with too little
blood holding onto the souls of all the people
who people like me bulldoze over. i swerved
for her, but there must be countless other
In Your ArmsIn your arms,
I feel safe.
You are the one
that makes my heart whole.
In your arms,
I feel secured.
You are the one
that makes my day shine.
In your arms,
I feel loved.
You are the one
that will be mine forever.
In your arms,
my spirits have lifted.
You are the one
that makes everything alright.
In your arms,
my love grows stronger.
You are the one
that I've loved from the very beginning.
A Shattered Soul - PoemWaves crash upon a milk white shore
The breeze is warm and fresh
Sparkless eyes stare up at the skies
Longing to forget...
Yet even as the world around
Whispers of beauty and of hope
The storms within are still darkening
In the light of all that has been broke
The birds may sing...
The sun may shine...
And the waters glisten in their swell...
But what in all creation...
Can make a shattered soul... be well?