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
ropehang me from the moon,i want to be beautiful
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
a hospital bird with soot in her lungsshe slept through a car crashthat almost killed her,through whitewhite wallsand dreamswhere her lover diesnobody thought she'd make itbut she woke up a few months laterwith flowers in her hairand ash in her airwaytrying to remember how to start all overbut forgetting to remember how to live.fall slipped from her open eyesand winter crawled in for a long hibernationof not-quite-cold-enough-for-snowto her the clouds looked sickand pale like they mightlet everything inside them out,but she opened up wide instead,spilling blood where there was none to be spilled.her heart slipped down the streetand with unsteady handsshe stitched in a bird and cut off its wings.
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
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you? i. summergirl,you are crowthroated and tumblingthrough the aspen grovehair on fire with sunrise, lungsfull of sky.eyelashes like wildflowersand every morning bringsa new spray of frecklesand a sharper curve to your collarbones.the cornfields hold no shadowsfor your lighthouse eyesand there are no endings in thatsurefooted smile. ii. you have grownso fast.autumn finds you with broken anklesleaning on an oak branchand watching the skies.crow to sparrow--you are quiet.summergirl, there is peace in silence,perched treetop,fallen antlers in your hands.you will come to mourn your deer.keep them close. iii. by winter you have paled,and like the streams your eyes have frosted over.you feel the chill--there is no need for sight.summergirl, th
Take me homeyou live in me,cancerous white noise,high tide of danger.you consume me,oceanic burial ground,reddened memories,love-making stranger.
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.
on hearts and how they beathe says it likedropping a stack of plates.the plates are his heartand i am gravityand i am the earth that catchesthem and scatters them around
by association.don't shoot the messengershe told herselfbut her aim was unsteadyand the wind blew her off targetthey were all rotten anyway.
unlovenot all self harm comes in the obvious form of lines up arms or down thighsof throwing up insides and self worthinto toilet bowls with the soundsthat make you wonder how you're not dead.she picked at her lips constantly cracking and splittingpeeling and bleedingit stungmore than expectedand it bledmore than ever anticipatedeven after she's been doing it all dayshe drank her tea that was still steamingstill made her hands flinch from the far too hot porceline but she parted lipsand felt it force it way downburning and splittingher lips and throatbefore settlinglike molten in herash filled stomachtiny fingers pinching, squeezingpulling on skinmaking underneath itburstand bloomher blood like water colourexploding and spreadingand mixing overthighs and stomachsno-one thinks to noticethe bruisesthey're accidentalright?
drift.it was darkand i was strugglingwith an angry oceanin headand heartyou stumble homesink beneath the cotton bluesand stop the wavesfrom breakingquite so muchenough to sleep
stinging.lover asked me about the purplethat curved and stretched alongmy legs and thighsbold and bruised against my skin.i told him'they're stretch marks'he ran his fingers along themand felt them raisedand smoothbut some were roughand still sore to the touch.but he didn't question.just kissed themand told me he loved me.he doesnt need to know that i tore myself openover and over trying to findthis feeling and tear it out of mehe doesn't need to know that.
note 27grace me like an eagledoes the earth
note 26bwe are all coffins,waiting to be buried in
note 26aforgive her;forget her; take her to your grave
brotheryour voice has depressedlike the karst out front,pitted and wounded.the other day i was guidingyour hand around the firstletter of your name,the slants that directattention in repetition,confusion-'w-'tailed by lineshacked as if in a cell withonly your nails and numerals;stroked like a matchfor light'-ill-'(mother had a clever waywith pinning words to our tendencies-)it was easy enoughbut you were never skilled witheasy.often timesi would find you with the double-you fitted between your teeth,the ill all that would be left.and now, i see you'vefound yourself again, unguided. there are bodiesin your bed and they seemto know you wellenough, reminding youthat your letters are all stillthere, and you collect themin her voicelike hymns of belief.brother, older,you're a man-the substitution of the alphabetat your fingers in forms oflace and brunet frills-even if for a moment.
note 24i tried to forget youbut you were there, lingering like smoke