Hangman.I cursed my hangmanuntil I remembered whosenoose was 'round his throat.
Grateful.I am endlesslygratefulto you,Who sawmyheartand called ithome.
Early morning philosophy.We're already bornso thelastcertaintywe haveisdeath.
Intuition.Call me paranoid,but I'm starting to seeyou're not as lostas you'd like me to think...
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.
Best Spent.The hour hand is on afuse,set to clockwise sidestepsoon;carving down ourterminal diagnoses.Maddening,quick,the calendar sheds,the bare bones,the New Year's ball againand we are 18 and 45in the exactsamebreath.Work, family, and weekendsjust as we were toldwhile the hands we dearlywish to holdrace out of ourpanicked graspsearchingpleadingdaydreaming-Until death comes 'roundto kiss our cheeksand tuck us under soil sheets,What remains in our heads:thoughtsforeverincomplete-So pour them forward,drinks on you!Only one day for dyingthe rest is your's to choose,So every day,love better than the last.For when Dying Day comes,it won't want to wrestlea fretfulinsomniac.
The Domestic Type.Props to the housefly,who can pop in anywhereand feel right at home.
Victorious.I hopeeveryonegets a momentto realizeit wassillyto haveworriedat all.
H(our).it is trueyou can't redothe last hour of your life,but you have exactly one hourto make the next oneextraordinary.
tidal wavesdon't fall in love with a writer,rinse & repeat:don't fall in love with a writer.(i could write this day in, day out; up and down chalkboard roads and everywhere we go, but it never sticks. it never sinks in, just sits on the surface and stings)tell a lie, play nice likemother taught me to: be abutterfly under pins, letyou fondle my wings and worm your way in.(you're the final bridge to burn in a long line of ash; kerosene and sulphur kiss my knees, teach me how to say please)i am an ocean, but honey,some lines aren't meant to be crossed.
heretic.admired & afar,his beauty became a childlike caricatureof his defiantly devious demeanour.euphoric ecstasy found its feathers, flying him'til gravity grounded gushes of his history on my helpless hips,his insanity insistent on injecting juvenile judgments into my kingdom,killing love & leaving lust,as malleable memories manoeuvre my mindnear never-ending nausea.oh, other-worldly oppression,please place me at peace!a qualm quickens the riot rising in the rosebud refuge of my ribcage,sand spreading through the time-glass(my time-glass)underneath the vile vagrant with wicked wings,wanting water in xerarch.yes, i yowl, yeszeus.
He calls it cologne:nine dollar wine, smeared on with hands thatquake beneath the weight of five ounces (chalk dust) and a splintered childhood.
windfallI would gather allthe seven seas for you.for me, you would notspare a raindrop.
unheard songs and the dreams to matchonce you finish readying yourselffor the metallic mists ofmidnight, you betray the sensesand fall (asleep)into dreams of clever atmospheresand misspoken resonances.for so long, you've been smilingat thoughts of a boywith stor(m)y skies for eyes,tracing flowers on the hypotheticalskin of his metaphorical handbut recently, you've been dreamingof a guy with the sun in his eyes,stopping you from waveringon the edges of conformed reality.this is not the end-we aren't even past the beginning.and you're already imaginingthe unforgiving flow of abutton-down floral dressand a town too beautifulto see it.you can see silhouettes fightingfor control against an unnatural lightand hear a rustling in the garden,so you wake yourself upfrom clandestine nightmaresand redo an untried cycle.
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.)
SynestheticSometimes I taste test names;Anita – sharp citrusand lemongrassfor the ann-i,a tortilla for the taa.Brad – I likeits weight; a slabof marbled chocolatemelted on my tonguebefore the last letter.Charlotte – somethingsavory, but sweet; porkmarinated in honeyon sweet rolls.Doug – vanillatinged cheesecake;a dusting of grahamcracker shavings;an Oreo with no filling.Elena – spiceand heat radiate –eh-layne-ahh – a coronabursting fromthe second e.Fletcher – it’s syllablesmesh like mashedpotatoes, lumpy yetconsistent.Gladys – driedlemons and staleSpree candies, rattlinginside and empty pitcher.Hawthorne – brackish,the leftover remainsof a magnificent feast,the apple still stuckin the boar’s mouth.Imogen – leanand stringy. Greenbeans and chickenbroth at a small,weathered table.Jules – red velvetand hot peppers, a weekold cake with hardfrostin
this is the way that i will extract my revengei am nothing but phantom painsreborn into old bones;oh, sugar skeleton, tell me -what's it like to be a ghost?
aubreyYou are a three-day lightning stormthat leaves only plastic bags and stray dogsflitting through the river runway streets.You are dark purple and blue cacophonies,searing-white and shredded muscle tendrils,and seams bursting from blistering electricity—I am not afraid of you.My father has whirling weatherveins too,but my mother coaxed it to his irises and fingernails;typhoon boy, you too will find your stormchaser.She will have a flagpole straight spine and sunshineclenched in her fists like crumpled dollar bills, andmore importantly, she will make you feel okay.You deserve okay.
you're not silver-tongued, specter boyyou told mewe walked among dead -that we're all(nec)romanticists;now, dearest, i knowwhy skeletonsalways look likethey're smiling.
Kate (day-dreamer)Kate paints her nails teal with black speckles because she says they remind her of egg shells left to warm themselves in the summer sun.(I tell her I've never seen a teal egg but she tut-tut's at me and presses our lips to the pages of an old book until our tongues are tattooed over by words from a dead poet's mouth.) Kate cuts her own hair with scissors she found rusting in an old, waterlogged box in her grand-father's attic.(I tell her rust doesn't cut, only bruises, but she rolls her faded eyes like dice and tells me that's nice but I shouldn't believe everything I read.) Kate uses honey and paper bark to wash her face because she says it's all made of star-stuff and she likes to touch the night sky.(I tell her it doesn't equate to the same thing but Kate is a believer and my soft words don't change her.)
YOU make me want to LIVE!walls keep closing in on meonce opened doors shut tightdarkened skies refuse to clearwhat's the point anymore?why continue this mundane existence?but then I think of youyou make me want to liveyou make me want to breatheyou make me hope againyou listen to me...friends I loved have disappearedfresh enemies abounddark shadows follow me homewhat have I to live for?why go on to face a dismal future?but then I think of youyou make me want to liveyou make me want to breatheyou make me hope againyou listen to me...world spinning out of controlmadness all around mecan't control these emotionswhat do I have to offer?why pretend that I matter to this world?but then I think of youyou make me want to liveyou make me want to breatheyou make me hope againyou listen to me...pain and sorrow/never-endinglive tomorrow/answer pendingdesperate feelings/wanting closureneeding healing/not exposurewill you take me/will you save mecan I break free/can I b
bullets in a shot glassAgain the archers are aching,again their bones are breakinglike the cracks in the Colosseum.Death does not defendeager-eyedfighters; he does not fulfillgodly goals ofheaven and halos.I am inverted, introverted,a jester jeeringat kids who kisslike life is long enough to fall in love.my mouth is a machine,a new nightfallordering our soldiers outinto pits where they pray for peace.the quirks of ourridiculous readings rule us,sand us into sculpturesthin and tall, trembling.our universe is built on uncertaintyand vicious virtueswritten by long-dead warriors whoexpected to live forever, andI do not yield to yourwell-read zombies.
I saw the tornado in your eyesSo you learnt to hide your hurricanes,You hushed your storms silent,And hid the seams in your bruised heart,You found cracks beneath your gentle smile.(G.L)-I saw the tornado in your eyes
open up and kiss the blueour souls are unfurlingpeering through the cocoonof darknessinto the daywe aresunflower-children,faces turned towardsthe sun—our soft, leafy fingersreach towards thelightpetals blooming,eyes unlockingthe sun will risethe sun will risethe sun will rise
Sullen.There's asickeninglysullenboywho wakeswith a songin hishumminghead.Oh,how I wish thatjustfortomorrowI couldbethatsong.