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
note 28you are beautywritten over and over
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
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.
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.
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
Iwhen the grey wolfcomes striking at my door,i will strip him of his cloakand make him a man,naked
ropehang me from the moon,i want to be beautiful
IIhe's greybut only a boystuck at his mother'stit; misanthropistsadist
how to healthey say honeyto soften the wound, but i let the woolwet with ethanolgnawuntil i amweeping,again, and again,and again
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
on being savedi am sorry youhave never known salvationfrom another's touch
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
inflicti opened up the earth andstole your breath before we could do ityou and ifell in hard a couple of chicken legssprawled and brokenat the bottom and you told meto climb to the moon if i'mso eager to die but instead i crawled to you'til your brow, all six stories andjust when you thought you'dget some sleep i went in you, enamored--you were great but iwas better
riddance.and lately i've found myself swallowing matchestrying to burn my insides for funto distract myself from missing you so much.its not working.
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.
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
Ain't nobody happyAin’t nobody happy if momma ain’t happy - (nobody's happy if anybody's unhappy)Happiness - made of delicate lacewoven by century-old spiders,instantly unwinding with the first light breeze.We must all carefully tend to our strand,our gossamer thread, lost in the tapestrysingle knuckle capable of destructionwith one twitch.
Tick tickHe could hardly breatheBut his heart was still beating A broken rhythm A Phsycotic tempo Beat Beat Beat Beat....He didn't know the timeBut he still heard the seconds go by Swirling around him Something was saying His time was over Tick Tick Tick Tick...He didn't have wingsBut he was flying away I couldn't catch him The wind carried him away From me His hands Were cold and bloody Drip Drip Drip Drip.....And he bled Dripping in tempo with the clock It struck twelve Like knifes and swords And he bled Away Tick Drip Tick Drip Tick.... Drip.... Tick... Tick.... Tick.....
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
note 32 i am so terrified