Truelove (n)-done scrawling exes on calendar pages.
For Now.I spendthe endof every daylistening for your heartbeatunder my pillowcase.
Catacombs.That Saturdaywe satcross-leggedwith our kneesjust brushing,close enoughto feelone another'sbreathon our ears;so separatefrom the daysof holding shellsto this placeand hearing our hearts:the moons thatchurn our scaled-downseas.Reading to ourselvesfrom composition notebooksfilled with talkof decomposition(the metaphorsobscureduntil the winesbegan to pour)and running ourthumbs over the keysto ourskeleton-filledclosetsuntil they reachedan uncomfortable shineandour printsbegantofade.(If only I had knownwe'd reconstructthe Catacombsbefore the dawnof that next day.)
Life (n)-the stepping stones before the tombstone.
Age is just a-I check the calendaragain,waiting just beyondthe sequel,just a few pagesshort of being your"equal."
Musing.What's so "friendly" about friendly fire?
On Desire and Incorporeality.I am newlyand acutelyaware of my skin,because more than anythingI want to be free of it.Each of its bordersrises in bumps;this pressing wantthis goose-skinned lust-What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey, that's a pretty good idea. I'll give you the moon, Mary.(You’re waiting for the full moonfor to better see our facesas you and I run anxious tongues over coarse lipspreparing them to dance,even the fireflies dulledby celestial graces.But I’m pleading for a crescent moon,ripe to be pickedfrom the sky.)Gut me thenwith its sharpened edgeand from this skinlet me slip;I want to leak into the fucking water supplyto get to where you are.Never mind this fleshthat everybody knowssowell;disregard this bodyto grace your lips just once-
Found.I find poetryunder my nailsandbehind my ears,prose spiralsdown the drainafter a long,thoughtful bath:the kindwhere you don't come tountil the water's long since gonecold.
[Contact Erased.]I erased your number today.I fearI couldbecomeaddicted;a pious pyromaniac:perpetually preying,an antsy arson pacing bet-ween chop-py chan-ces.(A self-proclaimed poetsearching herselffor a way to telljust how good it feltto burn that bridge.)
Differences1.Someone once told meThat my mind was poisonedBy the white man.That I was already deadTo my people.2.I don't believe a human beingIs inherently evilOr wishes harm on someone.3.The beauty of being a puzzle pieceIs that we're equally importantBut remain different.
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desksat school.i don't think they liked the language i usedwhen i wrote how my heart was beatinglike headboards against the walls of people fuckingat 3 am to the sounds of joy divisionwhenever you read me paintings at dawn.they were going to send me to the counselor,but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,so they just let me go.but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roofand laughing when we argue about rimbaudand sighing as we start to die.
The Owl's RiddleYou come and ask me,but you don't always understand my answers.You meet me in the night,but I'm not a bird of darkness.
renovationsmy mind looks at my bodyand says, "i don't like whatyou've done with the place."
Venom QuillVenom Quill 9/26/14I'll tattoo you with a poison quillall the venom I will spillSo all the misery you imbuedwill permanently stick to you.I cannot find any timewhen you did not feed me lines.So I will etch on you all thepain inside my skinuntil the message sinks right in.
WineHead on a patisserie tablewith a wine-scented napkinthat I scrawled your name all overin the hopes it might necromanceor just romance youto this place, at this time,so we could be together againand although the guitarist knowsthat I'm broken beyond blueI keep reaching for the bottlein the hopes it might recreateor just replicateyou.
short history of the universe(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)Genesis:A lake slams into a bus and a city is unborn.Enter an ocean of fog and then desert after desert stacked above the hills.Then you get drunk as fuck near the tumbling skyline,and this god damned room burns like prayer in your chest.Then many missing scientists reappear in your brittle beach,and your satellites in relapse all bending,and what it's like is some kind of disaster, honestly;the arms and the aerosol and the linen and the light.And the rumble forwarding the sovereign wreck sayingsurvive yourself like you've survived me;saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,always,and same for the carousal shadow bleeding through the mountain in your dream,same for your silence and the sudden red rain of witnesses.And then what unconquerable continents,what strange forecast occupied via gate via wind and wave-multitudes of sick yellow branch
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,or to have myself cradledin the curve of a throat,but to be broken,to be diminishedby your lack of affection& over indulgence of sexualization.but i,uneducated in your intent,found myself left entirely whole& incapable of the furyi had sought to sow between theridges of my aching ribs.
muddy waterthe sun rises late now. or hardly ever. or belligerent carmine on the underbellies of plants.a shot of sleep to the head, a boxing glove punch.the metaphorical rooster crows with the awful clamour of its lonely breath. the thing is, i can substitute the body.the thing is, the slit is a fantastic shade of orange i saw god but he says you still need to get a fucking jobthe thing is, i am bathtub water and rotten leaves.and the taste of power on the morning wind, a wet newspaperwith the headlines of a presidential divorce.there is power in the young eagle hissing at passersby from its trashcan throne.i know one thing:
Second.I've no crystal ball,no misty eyes,no magicwanderingthe hallsof my heart,but I can tell you now,today,just how our friendship willfall.