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)
goldocean, i have no more words to give you,it smells too much like summer,too much like home, but you area thousands miles awayGaea wants to be Midas, the earth is ina million shades of the ringyou left on my front porch,of my mane back when i was wild, when i was free.i remember when was your leo, you'd stare at the stars and wonderwhat it felt to be molten but still burningbut you'd never know, never know,because the sun doesn't taste like honeywhen the well runs dry, it tastes like death. (sometimes i miss you, but i know better)
-she knew he was a grave, but she buried herself in him anyway.
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?
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.
(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.]
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
treasureI watched beauty die today.She said, "I've lived too longand now nobody knowswhat I really am."
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.
the kids have never cared too much for breathinghe wrote memento mori in the fleshbetween his ribs, growing ivy 'round therotting of his lungs. oh, that satyr boywas more narcoleptic than dystopian. withmenthol bones, he was infected & festering -(you cannot dwell in a wasteland head forever, vagabond).
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.
three ways to fall aparti.we were seventeenwhen you promised me thatthis tiny dustbowl ofa southern town was not going to beeverything my life was made of.it wasn't hard to believebecause the maps you'd spread acrossyour ceiling never lied (since you claimedit was easier to dream when theywere stuck above youin the night).i remember the lines you'd drawnin a felt pen, red because it seemed important,seemed louder than the rest, andi remember how youwould trace the roads with your eyes until youfell asleep. you had a knack formemorizing every escape route, and when i asked whyyou answered that it was because one day youwould have to run.when i asked if i could fly away with youyou said yes, and that night i dreamtof runaways and falling stars. i never was sureif they were supposed to mean something bigger than us.ii.sometimes when i lie awake at nighti wonder now how far we mighthave gotten if we ever left, if we had jumped intoyour old impala and left the road behind us -it's too
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.
dearly belovedthese daysyour name has been slippingin and out of my rib cageand sometimes,my heart forgets to beat.it's funny,i suppose—how even after all these months i stilldon't want to believe thatyou're dead. how during thefirst couple of weeks i prayedto a god i didn't believe in and begged to knowif death tasted sweet to you. how once,when the monsters in my headdidn't let me sleep, iwrote you three poems and thendestroyed four.you were a supernova thatlit up my life fora few radiant moments before,like all good things in thisfilthy world,you came to an end.the sinner in me hopes that you have wings now.but i think that,most of all,i hope you no longerremember what painfeels like.
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
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.
iHer eyes clouded bynightmares of the pastAngst controls her lifeas shadows chase hereach and every day
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
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
kryptonite kidi."I'll be batman,and you can be my robin,"you said with a smile.(it's just like youto want to play the hero.you speak when someone pulls the string on your back:you have all the right words.)ii.when I was a little girl,I wished I could be a superhero.all I needed was a radioactive spider,or hidden powersor super soldier serum.I grew up in pursuit of these,and became an adult when I realizedthat I'd never find them.I miss the days when I believed all I needed was a cape to save the world.iii.I knew you weren't the onebecause somehow I still wanted a hero,somehow I still believed they existed:one person who could rescue the cityall in a day's work.I knew you had the frameworkbut not the heart,a branchless treewith no roots.iv.sometimes I stand on the edge,wishing I could flybut knowing I never will.I think it's enough to pretend I'll learn how one day.(in other words,I'm not your sidekick.)
[songs of rain]forgiveness in the third chord,like silence or the momentartemis pulls the arrow free,thanks the buck for his sacrifice.lightning in my lungs.saltwater in my lungs.i, storm,will rage & pass on.
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.