i haven't forgottentell me, boywho is your god.do not say itis the limbsthat spread youbetween knowingand comfort;do not tell me it ishands wrapping a headboard, nor a mouthtugging your namefor salvation.i want to know who it isthat makes you lucent,bent beneath the dark,weeping,because there is no divinitylike the one that makesyou bleed
fidelic whore-- this is appropriationmy sweet synchronicity ,i have downed your appetitein a bed of front teeth (it is morning in perthmidnight in dublin, and the noonsun has been lost behinda dress of mothy curtains)do i taste ofyour forethought of love making;do i reek ofthe weeds that have infiltratedthe posture of your spine?-you bend overmy lap a curve of guiltand weep all night.i collect each knob of your bodylike a gift. press it to my mouth.swallow, spit.
note 02I wish men were made out of more than just penises;you'll never love me with that kind of head
matteri've been 19for two monthsand here is what i have concluded:even thoughyour body has become thewoman your mother alwayswas, theboys still don'tnoticeunless you're bent over their bed framecalling them god.
infectiousi find myselfreusing the wordsmy father oncegave to me:i am a useless bastard, youdeserve so much more.verbatim, i singalong the stringof my vertebra--the vortex that scatters you tothe floor.i was not borna beast, but bornofand grown.leave me.i am not your lover,i am your cancer:with me youwill be carrion castonto the lawnby morning.
Iwhen the grey wolfcomes striking at my door,i will strip him of his cloakand make him a man,naked
i am donei am donei am done picking youlike berries in a bush,hoping to find what mightexist behind the flora,possible markers of rose-lippedbeauty.insteadyou are a bruiseon a thorny vine,filled with poison.i do not want you.
wealth of plundermy body repulses you;I am the landyou are the seaand you will neverhave me
copaceticyou know when the person you love andyou decide to break up, and you both say to each other, you both agree that youwill be friends. and you think it, for a daya week even, and he is still texting you andyou are still texting him, laughing like youwould do when you were one. and then youmeet his girlfriend at the mall, some butter blonde bitch whose decolletage busts outin peach ovals and she can't even tell youhow many guys she's fucked or let alone loved andyour boyfriend, or your lover who no longer isyours is smiling like he has what he has alwayswanted, all that is not you, and you becomebitter and backbitten and say something rashand laugh and he gets it but his bitch doesn'tand then the next few weeks you are quietand he doesn't seem to think of you in hisexperiment. you become an enemy and youwatch him from a window on your laptopevery move every suggestion every shirtlesswhore make a common thing out of somethingthat was once undeniably yours. a
ropehang me from the moon,i want to be beautiful
IIhe's greybut only a boystuck at his mother'stit; misanthropistsadist
note 20there is a godand he will notsave you
how to healthey say honeyto soften the wound, but i let the woolwet with ethanolgnawuntil i amweeping,again, and again,and again
note 28you are beautywritten over and over
stephaniemy sorrowsare not greater than or equal toyour sorrowswe are all plagued by thedistortions of other human beingsit is livingwhen i say that i am okayi do not expect for you to figure outif i am rotting or breathingi simply mean i am acceptingi am walking away from a windowwith a sign that reads,"everything disappears"because i have realizedthis happened to me, and that is okay
raw collection of poemsand i am missing youand i am fuckingwith you---when you climb into bed, think of me. therosary that downs the bottom of yourdrawer is a silly reminder of what i hadtaken from you---coldice cold and hisfingersventilation;i was warm---i look at myself and i see linesimpending on themselvesbending from the weight of my soul.i am heavyi am middle-afternoonand-you're-still-missing heavyand i can't uncurl myselffrom the telephone or theidea of youleaving---we work like polarbut i swear to god i was meant tomeld with you;you go northand i south,departingthwarting what we builtbetween force fields---i look at my self and i see lines,cracks in the mirrorall down my thighs where youbroke me in twoi will come back togetherone day(only to besplit back apart by you)come home, comehome, comeback---i need early morningi need lack of sleepand i need the coldcurling meto my souljust to stopthe world siphoning theair from me---i am not doing
note 48i've hit the partwhere you say'i'm leaving' andi don't ask youto stay
thankheaven for books,and mulatto boys thatbreak my heart; thank god for vodka andthank god for urges that slither into deep throatspast better judgement and thank god for his handsthat he lovedme with
Oceanic Love Does Not Mean ForeverI do not want you to tell meof crooked smiles and offshoremoonbeams woven with nightingalewords. You are living inafter memories. You have forgottenI will live in a way that's unorthodox.I only want for youto be lonely and small,but it's for your own good, you know.Breathe it in, hold it in, hold yourselfbetween each of your heartbeats.Change because some things arelike estranged runaways caught betweenthe tilt of the earth.I was the ocean in youand you didn't understand.
justit started out as a message of honest to god tearshonest to god honestyand she was saying she was saying she wasa mistake and we were we were mistakingmeaningless signs for road signs to somewhere wherethe great elsewhereand a qu-quiet whisper-per transformedtwisted twisted and bent and bled andher voice her voice became this monster this monster offeedback and static and feedback and feedback and heartache(the sound of heartache rips the space between your ears till you are nothing left but lightness and heaviness all in one space all in one spaceand you can't breathe you can't breathe you can't fucking breathe or hear or see or taste a goddamn thing)it was all noise noise noise noise no-oise-sebouncing in the fissures of a love-torn mindand it was it was the sensation of falling awaythen the greatness of the jumbled sounddissipated like a f o gandyou saw along the path w
resipiscenthe was one of those dick-faced kids in shades of bright polyester salmon who seemed to always be laughing or looking at me. an ambiguous-named, feminine-famed all-school american douchebag in those quality leather sandals in the wintertime and golf-green shorts.ta give you some background i'm about as far away on the social scale from him as one can get. you know how all the little groups overlap and flap together, pushed around in the wet sand like wave-rivulets blending little facets of stones together until it makes a dune? well our groups---they didn't even touch. i mean you could go from pop-jock to lacrosse to dipper to weed-dealer to hipster to artsy kid to photographer to theatre kid and MAYBE just MAYBE make a weak little chain like one o em shitty-ass jump rings that connect dollar-store lockets. but anyway the point i'm trying to make is we sit on opposite sides of the room and let sociology take its toll.of course murphy's law works in that i never know anyone. is it that
7.I ate your absence for dinner.
Anything.We waited in silence,For a sound.Something..Anything really.But nothing ever happened,And no one ever came.We waited for him.But he never came.A long plane ride in bitter silence,Left alone with a crushing reality.He was never coming home.And we realize that no amount of wishin will bring him back to us.But still we wait.Wondering.Wondering if he watches us or turns away in shame?Wondering if he's proud of who we became?Wondering if he will visit our dreams anymore?We wonder..And we wait in silence.For a sound.Something..Anything.
i don't believe in jesusno one celebrates losing virginity like they celebrate losing teeth.i don't get a dollar under my pillow for having sex with my boyfriend.there are no doctors smiling at me when i tell them my cherry has been popped.i am a whore for having premarital sex.i am a tramp for loving someone enough to open my body to them.no one celebrates losing virginity like they celebrate losing teeth - but i slip mine under my pillow anyway, and in the morning when i wake,there is a quarter and a tiny folded note:"you are not a slut."
you call me an angelyou call me an angelin spite of the bruises left on the fronts of my kneesstains of sin left on my skin;the knots in my back,you liken to the wings soon to burst from my shoulders&tell me you can feel no sadnesswhen looking at my face-eyes you analyseinto paints of the colour wheel,several shades i have yet to see;my smile,despite its crooked nature&peeling lips,thinning enamel from my sickness-you still find me amongst the heavens.&sometimes,as this once,i kissed you to shut you up.my skin is removing itself after my clothesin the winter,cold &dark,too unlike the white night of russian summers.i kissed you &it was wet because i was crying&every time our lips partedanother sob stuttered its way through the gap.you heard what words i couldn't swallow,the ones straining to pass over my tongueyet drowned upon existence.you listen to me until i lose my headstrong aimto starve back to bones,to see the angel wings i've lost in my skinyou touch &feel are there;
I don't know who I am anymore.I don't know who I am anymore.A person who wants to kill herself.But wants to cry and then wants to laugh.Who makes a joke about cutting.But then gets triggered by the word cut.Who over analysises ever thing.Who dreams pathetic dreams.Who hasn't got the courage to do anything.Who disobeys her plan not to talk about her feelings.Who gets so jealous if others have it worse off.That's why she complains.But she shouldn't. Complaining stops her being the worst off.She planned to give up on love.But couldn't even do that.Who can control her anger.But doesn't want to because it pains her soul.She planned to commit suicide.But she probably won't have the guts.Who freaks out, reseaching about bipolar.Who doesn't care about anyone.And if she does she's helpless and worried and scared.Who wished to be reckless and stupid in ways to get way.But everything she does just makes it harder eacher day.
note to self.dear me, stop loving the boy with the aquamarine eyes and the irregular heartbeats.he's a kleptomaniac and he's stealing your breaths(like he stole your heart to replace his failing one)because his lungs are full of smoke and cobwebbed sadness and you're exhalingstardust and dreams. he stole a little bit more of your sun showered soul each time he gave you oneof his starshine kisses(a fair trade, i think)and he could've slit your throat with his razor-edged smile each time he plantedhis lips on your collar bone but he spared your life because it meant somethingto him(then, anyway).[i think he'd like to watch you die because your last words would still be iloveyou.] from, me
note 32 i am so terrified