now i see the stars.there was a time when icouldn't catch my breath whenever ithought about you , (crippled lungs and-boy, you hit me like an asteroid,there's a crater on my chest now that I can't ever seem to fill,even withoceans of my tears cried onnights when you couldn't be there to sing me to sleep.thirty two poemless days after you joined the constellations,i walked out into the yard and howled to the empty sky,andfor a moment i was Gaea, rivers running down my cheeks,weighted to the ground andburied in myself, butwhere there is no light there are no shadows, andsometimes, i wonder if i miss me.yes, yes i do.i may not see the moon, but
she's gone, she's gone.don't tell a broken girl withgrief pouring into the juts of her cheekbones,hunger suffocating into the curves of her ribs,that her eyes are madeof moonlightand her hair was weaved fromsunshine when you arelight years away and millennia too late
beauty (lost)and i swear, this is the last time he'llpin me to the wall(he tells me i'm a work of art,but after all this time, i'm still just a girl)too young, too young, the walls whispertoo late, too late, i sobbecause this battered body,this girl with the scarlet tattoos, she is too tired to escapeand her wings won't work in the rain.and as i suck in air, i wonder, how many more will have to endurethe pain of not being their owni have heard too many screams, all at once(God who i stopped believing in,if you can hear me,let this end, so that when i am walking in the streetswith my child, i can swear,that she will neverhave scars on her back,she will neverhave welts on her heart)
-she knew he was a grave, but she buried herself in him anyway.
after all this time,my heart is trapped within lungs, andthe more i breathe, the more iremember- hecan't stand it sometimes,i knowwe're both broken.but ocean boy, i'm chained to you.(maybe i'll be an anchor) soon my lungs will breakwith me.itouch you through a gap in thefence- sand white asinnocence,eyes bright asstars.so please,horizon.tape us back together.
goddesssky mother, i buried myself once.i was not a seedling, just a cutting, but in the arms offather earth, not sure where to go,i faced the sun. do you want to meet him again? you can't see himtoday, but he left shards of himself in me,my love, you would like him.He is forever, like the ocean, but while it's gentle, and warm, and bright.i once dropped a basket of wildflowers onto his heart and he planted them there.(and i hope he isn't like the others, i hope he doesn't let them drown.)because, sometimes, i wish i weren't as delicate as thoseforget-me-nots i braid intomy hair, i love too much and need even more.my lips still tingle with his laughterwisdom, you were always a storyteller, sotell me,why am i not the same, why are therestars trapped in my ribcage and nebulae bursting in my heart,really,how long will it take this constellation veined girl to find herself again?
(she's the skeleton in her own closet)tell me your secrets, he whispered.i fell in lovewith a birch once, she replied, because it wasthe most beautiful shade oflonely. one more trip to the bathroom tonight-some days,she'll get drunk with him,some days,she'll get drunk alone.gods, she cut her hair,she cut her wrists(and don't forget her neck)but she says she isso glad she spent the nightentangled inhimhimhim(love, make wishes on my ribs)
wishesi am not a flower,if youtear outa piece of me,stomp ithalfway between cracks in the sidewalk,it will only die.butour lips fit togetherperfectly, likeall the broken pieces.[maybe it was just a dream.]
dear depression,(master of the umbra)i hate you.broken whispers, lonely promises,you are the worst of lovers, owning all, butnever seeming to be satisfiedeven with your name branded scarlet into my wrists.i am no longer the golden songbird as when you first met me,but yetyou still hang onto meyour clawsraking across my heart likemy pen ripping across the bloodstained page, likelightning across the skies, (vengeanceraining down from the gods i used to believe in)"don't let them catch you,"you breathed into my ears.an ounce of life, in exchange for a cloak of darkness (i thought i'd only stay one night)the fog was sluggish and deep.so blinded, I hidin the shelter you offered me(i still hear those echoes)my rib cages are my prison bars, my heart bound by these chains...you chopped off my wings and left bleeding stumpsand told me i was never bound for the skies.(shattered glass, lifeless eyes)Set me free.
Morpheus Hexi.I am the moon walker,the black coffee athletein the star-dotted evening gown.I am young, but I feel old,like an antique withfresh paint.Sleep lives in my shadow,a morphine caregiverwith gentle hands,but I dare not fall into his arms.There is a sad knowledgein his eyesthat I do not trust.ii.You left me behind,but my pillow stillsmells like you,and now my bed feelslike a fucking coffinwithout you in it.iii.Nights like thismake me wonderwhat it feels like to die.It bothers me thatonly the dead know,and they refuse to share their secret.One day I will find outthe truth for myself,and that scares me.iv.Three a.m. teaches youhow to suffer quietly.Sleep pulls on my sleevelike a black-cloaked child.He tells me everything will be alright(but by morning, I knowhe will be gone, andI will be alone again).
fall in love with (splitting hairline fractures)we swallow blues insteadof talking them out. oh,kids like us are specters,spectacles: boys countingrib(cage)s & (de)composing don't you hate (this body) is a vesselwe're deities or tomb-raiders; noin-betweens for writers these days
float onnow I'm thinkingthat the moon's smarter than me:she's in love with the earthbut keeps her distance,keeps moving,keeps living.I lose my orbitwhen you're not around,and I find myself without gravity,waiting for you all nightwhen I know you'd rather besomewhere else.
12:16 amisn't it a great chance,us taking it all andrunning with the colors;our skin windy andour thoughts dry, me wanting to kiss you and youwanted to seize thestars. we are nothing morethan our desiresin the end; i will belocked between dusty pagesand you will be tossing stones withApollo. we live inside a metaphor.the way your skin feltin July stand for so much morethan a passing of molecules.
the way you speak through incisionsoh, disaster dweller, you werebone-ache blue & cyanotic.we wore lonely luminescence'round the wrists that heldour god-hands, but you werelivid skin & anesthetic to thetouch. a river of pitted veins,you said: we'll all grow weary ofthe rising of our ribs someday.
these bitter kids have sharper hipsoh, i am aching to pry apart this skull &meet the ghosts thumping at its insides.i'm just pining for a rib cage like afuneral pyre or a staircase;i want to bloom from thesebitter bones & waste -(until i'm the corpsesleeping in the casket)
jillianshe's eight.the girl never stops moving,climbing the tarnished metalof the jungle gym wildly, limbs swinging,eyes alightwith a childhood joyI shed when I passedthe port of twelve,thirteen.she is knotted curls,long silken hairwith infant-blond ends.her fingers grabher doll with the frizzy hairand painted face,and she's eager to winhide-and-seek,checkers,Mario Cart.I am old enoughto recognizethat she will not last this way,that she will grow,as all children do.every time I see her,she grows a little taller.she no longer likes Dora,I've learned,and I guess she thinksblowing bubblesis too babyish now.one dayshe will abandon her dollsfor makeup,leave her coloring booksfor boyfriends and college andlife,but right now,her world is simple:days in school, coloring pictures,nights at home,nibbling dinners and playing with her toys.right now,she's eight.
you have seven days to live.1.the news doesn't hurt:it's his eyes that hurt you,the glimmer of his pastcreeping in just likehis father used to creep inat three a.m.with a sin on his mindand rage on his hands.he waits for you to react,but you don'tbecause he's suddenly seven again,hiding bruiseswhile mommy criesin a ball on the couch.2.you think timeis a funny thing.people talk about itlike it is an object:"I need more time," they say,like they will go to the store laterand buy more.but you know that timeis more like an ocean wave,with an endlesspounding that continueslong after we greet the dirt,and we want more time,but time doesn't want us.3.he tries to force youinto his wrists,his ankles, his collarbone.he thinks that if heloves you enough,he can save you.you know that he can't,so you cut through himnight after night,searching for an exit.4.sometimes death scares you.you remind yourself thateverything ends,no matter how much you wantan infin
you should be home by nowlast tuesday the house took my hand & said,it's more of a hurricane than a firesince he broke in & burnedmy curtainsmy floorsmy bridgesmy selfbut sometimes I see her with a lighter& she finishes what he didn't do(I think she's afraidof settling in,being quiet)but last tuesday I realized that she kept the lights onto frighten away the bridges & the peopleso no one will come inside& smash the teacups, steal the pipesbecause since he burnt her beds outno one lives there anymore
treasureI watched beauty die today.She said, "I've lived too longand now nobody knowswhat I really am."
lilac flicker eyelids shuttranslucent wrists in the meadowand you said, "these violentdelights have violent ends" andi remember staring, broken bones,dry tonguedusk: the clouds are smearedacross the sky and i'mdoused in diaphanous huesthe smoke falls upwardsfrom my mouth and everythingis the wrong way round again,i watch the night bleed thesun away and rememberhow you did exactlythe same thing
.i wokeon theedgeof nothing,one armdanglingover theledge(numb from the wrists down)
iHer eyes clouded bynightmares of the pastAngst controls her lifeas shadows chase hereach and every day
to the girl i lose my words aroundi have been meaning to tell you for years:i think you’re beautiful. i haveseen nothing on earth that holds a candleto the ocean you carry inside your body.it spills over your edges sometimes, likea rain shower around you, blurring your penciled-inlines until there is nothing left of you but your naturalcliffs, valleys, and deserts.i like that.i have never met someone who is, somehow,a sea and a storm at the same time.maybe i never will again.maybe you are the only onewho gathers clouds on her foreheadlike a promise, or feels the push and pull of the tidewith her every step.you are beautiful, honestly.you are honest, beautifully.it is in the way you talk, the way you hold iceon your tongue but forget to use it—you always forget to use it, i don’t thinkyou know how.to be truthful, i’m afraid of your smileand how it breaks over me, how it pullsme like a whirlpool down, how it pushes melike a current back to the surface. i’m afraid of
.and they knew,they knew i'd gone -when they found me outside crouchedwith a string box and stick, singingi'm going to catch me my death,make him sick -now i sit in a gown that is whiterthan white, doesn't suit me,this ghost to myself -on the corridor bench with my kneestucked in under my chin, rattlingwith green yellow blue(i've told you, i know where i'm going)
lunarWhen I was six years old,I decided I wanted toeat the moon.Mom with her pink frayed bathrobeand tired eyestold me to go to sleep,that I had school in the morning.Dad with his stacks of booksand prickly beardtold me that it was impossible,the moon was too distant.Well, guess what?I ate the fuckin moon.And it was delicious.Bitches can't tell me shit,I'll eat the fuckin moon if I want to.
the things i don't sayhow about soft skin over calloused knuckles,holding onto whatever hands i can findbecause i don't want to accept this,i don'tit's in my brain, i know i'm not fucked-up but my friends are gonnathink i am, there are little ballerinasin tight leotards dancing around mytaste buds, tickling teeth and whispering the words i've sucked in and kept down and stuck to the bottom of my lungs,i move onto the next guyand think this time,maybe this time
Remember me.We were seventeen when we met.The first thing you said to mewas "Open your eyesand see."You were a collection of skinned knees and yourfather's broken promises,holding onto your fearslike miniature phantomsclinging to the bit of skin beneath your eyes,the indentations of muscle in your chest.You taught me how to makethings beautiful.You taught me that every littlepinprick,every pop of pain,everytiny littleslit,cut,ripwas God's design,and if he was a painter,you said I'd be the Mona Lisa.You said I was a work of art.You made big towering claimslike your hopes for San Francisco,you piled me up like cities and skyscrapersand buildings tourists flocked tojust to take a photograph,capture a single memory.When I broke my bones,you laughed it off and said,"People, we're just likebig versions of dolls,snapping limbs and cracking under pressurethe way anything does,"and after getting pissed and storming away,nursing my cast,I realize
things that fall apart2:36, new york city, i canimagine youlooking out your window,watching the cars pass by instead of the waves, andsomething isn't right, because there's ocean in your blood andi anchor you.love,you still believe in the girl i used to be, butshe's been gone longer than this white sky summer.