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I fell from the sky when I tried to kill god.I gathered wild grief stricken boys
And stored them in glass jars
Their moon shine eyes hooded,
Under the train tracks red light glow
Much like the local strip of neon slit sidewalks.
I realized I was not so much the Doreen in my queer little life
So much as I was Esther.
When I’d take slugs of cheap wine whilst reading the classics
And writing obscure essays and analysing dead poets
Licking the burgundy liquid from my wrists
And mopping up the spilled ink
With my frayed sleeves.
The autumn air smells of rot and I can’t help but reminisce
About bonfires in old abandoned warehouses
Where we’d run across open fields that split the sky
Open and twisted it into
Something like a looking glass
Except there’s no fire in your eyes.
Just watered down sonnets about girls who work at diners
For minimum wage, who get into cheap bars,
And drink martinis with rich business men.
Maybe we were born to be the lost generation
Or maybe silver linings
Are just the silver refract
The boy who hides in drugstores and late nightsBlindfolded airwaves hide his forest veins
Where not even the moon can touch the lonely heart
Resting on his tightly buttoned sleeve
Insomnia drawn deeply into the creases of his eyes
Galaxies humming in time with his stuttering heartbeats
He hides behind nightlights to burn out his demons
Because the devils in the detail
and he's one hour away from tearing down the sky
Splintered amber bones searching for serendipitous moments
He longed not for the stars but rather
For those moments where the horizon kisses the earth
Bonfire irises with a knack for chasing time
Longing for the sun to seem real again
Carving his name into walls to be remembered
As the boy who went down swinging
Hypermobile boy likes to turn stars into sun setsThe knee jerk reaction of his carnival tongue
Hangs off arctic bones and threadbare vowels
His split grin knuckles torn apart to spew out
Galaxies set on fire to make the constellations
Burn out quicker than the frantic heartbeats resounding
In the cavity between his lungs
He speaks of myths and legends
and peels apart the
Gilded edges of heroes
and devours them for breakfast
Hercules hanging from the corners of his lips
As he drowns out the fables
With formaldehyde sonnets
His sea scape pupils roaring with sea foam
The concave of his iris’s murky with secrets
That he whispers to the dawns hushed sky
When the sun tips off the earth’s horizon
Like a lazy lover
He sits in those quiet moments
Seeping into the floor boards and watching
Between the silenced edges of crackling silence
When the air is a compressed mass of nitrogen, oxygen and unspoken words
He is the boy in which autumn seeps into the splits of his ribs
And dragons curl into the spaces of his vertebrae
.I wedged the remains of your bus ticket veins
And chloroform sticky notes under the floor boards
Concealing them, out of sight out of mind, but I swear
Sometimes at night I can hear them crunching
Vowels like bones between their molars
Aching for the flesh and thesis of pretty little girls
Filmy and crackling like static between the slopes
Of your shoulders, those quiet spaces between
The short lived confessions and pulpits of your
Half assed convictions and lovers trysts.
Hardly left any room
For the gods to reside in the pieces of heaven
That you scattered across the carpet
Of your apartment floor
in hopes of catching angels between ash trays.
The older we get the better we used to beAll we ate that day were 3
To stifle the anxious shaking
Of our palms or
At least produce excuses for
The anxiety rustling beneath
Our scarred veins
When did the diamonds
Leave your bones
And for how long have
You been expiring without them
When did the construction
Of your false reality
Finally fall through
The fragile infrastructure
Of your factitious commentary
Lack the physical manifestation
Of your laboured breathing
Perhaps it's best if we ache
For magic and other childish things
Because the world hurts our eyes
And I don't want to see anymore
The skies are pressing against
Our glass houses and
The sun is bleeding over the rim
Of the bathtub
It's slow dripping
Pelting out a funeral song
The unabridged memoirs of a teenage drop outI’d be lying if I said
I didn’t want to spend those nights
Watching the moon hang between your pupils
Like a cadaver strung up high and dry
In the brittle November air.
But there’s something about that road kill smile
That was too fast, too cruel
You were intangible and indistinct
In the way you’d shake your cigarette packet
Hearing the contents rattle like a self-contained thunder storm
You were always like that,
So painfully self-aware you tried to suffocate yourself
In such a way that it was neither poetic nor beautiful
Rather disjointed in mathematics and skewed logic.
You were not romantic or tragically beautiful
You were a boy with a spine that could fracture the sky
If you pressed against it at the right angle
You had †hands like braille
That shook when you thought you were alone
Slumped against a wall in an attempt to look blasť
When clearly there was a witch hunt seeping through your bones
I saw the way the knee jerk reaction
Of your carefu
On reality and other fictitious thingsI chewed out a piece
Of the sky
Spit it back out, again.
Maybe I’d be better off
From my fingers
Wiping down your
Bed frame spine
And collapsing your easel
Joints like a puzzle.
I swallowed the
Rains sticky heat
Like a shot
And it burns
Just the same.
Been there, done that, got the fucking t-shirt.I left my conscience on the doorstep along
With my battered red sneakers,
As we curled ourselves into the floorboards of your attic.
Letting the dank air suffocate,
the screaming angels
Residing in the back of our lungs.
Aching to be burnt out with surges
Of nicotine fueled suicide.
We we’re the type to store pain in ounces
And place them in jars,
As though they held some kind of worth,
In a world in which pain is the latest trend.
Teenagers are the hormonal disease spread out like
A plague, that everyone grows out of
Or at least can medicate.
We were the lucky ones, who made it out alive,
Or so they say.
A chip off the shoulder
A fish in the sea
We we’re nothing special, just burnt out carcasses
Trying to get by.
We’d spend our days on concrete rooftops,
Humming constellations under our breaths
Hoping for our dilated pupils to focus on the ground ahead
And not the oncoming traffic.
I asked you what meeting me was like
And you replied
She chased wolves all the way back to the sunSunsets would break and collapse
Between the gaps of her spine
Sliding past the summers aching breaths
They’d reside in the hollows of her eyes
Cold lucidity seeping into her ivy sewn ribcage
Her songbird synapses collapsing into the skies
As they caved in upon themselves
When the earth opened up and swallowed
Her day dreamer retinas
And pasted over them in night time symphonies
She was Pegasus palpitations hung up to dry
When the stars could no longer bleed
And the trees would split into a thousand storms
Held tightly under wraps by green eyed spirits
And hungry wolves clawing at her open palms
Lions den whispers echoing between bated breaths
She'd tear the sun apart
To feel the liquid light filtering through her veins
Swallowing down the liquid heat
Of lonely summer days spent
Hiding on scraped knees
Betwixt negative space and human nature
She was the weather torn kill joy
Hunting the sunsets to carve her name into the sky
or maybe it actually is.this
a love poem:
this is not about
me and how i hate
the way realism tastes.
this is about you.
this is about how you
are one too many shades arrogant,
how nearly every night you
try to forget that time has
left you behind. this is
about your laugh and the way it
whispers "i can't remember
what i was like before i
became this." and,
if i'm being honest, this is about
how i will never see your too
cocky for your own damn good grin that
makes me go weak in the knees.
this is about you
and how you're not real and how i wish
to god that i wasn't either.
why we pity angelsto him;
you are afraid of phonecalls. you
are afraid of your own voice, and
opening your ribcage to let
your heart come live on your sleeve.
you are afraid of living without caffeine
or alcohol, whatever the day calls for;
you are afraid of being real
without laughing afterwards, becoming
everything you worked so hard to get
away from, acknowledging all
that you still are. know this:
I am afraid of loud noises.
I am afraid of honesty and drowning,
people I don’t know and words
I won’t say. I am afraid
of growing old and living alone and
you not accepting me. I am afraid
of myself. In that, we are the same.
I have the compulsion to grab you
and cup you to me like you are some
half-alive bird, like that sound
as the lazy sun paints you a portrait is
your hummingbird heart and not my own
shallow breaths. in the beginning,
you were my peace of mind. you traced
the contours of my being with a scalpel
and held me up, a shadow puppet,
as the darkest, blackest figures I gav
Once Upon a Carcass,I loved her like the flaws in barbed wire;
it stung. & I needed to take her castle ribs-
but I was jealous of heaven.
She spoke through her bones.
She: a beautiful decay
draped along my apartment,
& the mess of my mouth.
When she left,
I cried big ugly tears
for the First Aid of her
I needed Draco.
I needed her.
“Is it sweet?” She meows even still
with all my self-doubt.
This thing, I must not feed it-
As I still long to leave galaxies
along the length of her entire bed.
Stitch and OverwhelmThe only thing I noticed when I held you
was the feeling of your ribs pressing into me.
My arms wrapped around you tightly, too tightly,
feeling your trusting bones give and bend in my grip.
As you clung to my dress, I tried to keep my fists from clenching.
You gave me a flower when we went to the beach
that I still have, half-rotted, in an old shoe box
along with a dead cricket and a forgotten promise to myself
that I would always keep my head.
When you told me you loved me, I jeered at you
because I couldn't manage to admit I was weak.
I remember the look on your pale face:
retracted, like you'd seen my soul for the first time.
I always wanted to break you; it was my only goal.
You were just too easy to snap, to crack, to rip apart,
to blow away like twirly little dandelion tufts.
Every time you whispered into my ear, I imagined
biting your lips, tasting the blend of our blood,
to prove all the things you never meant to me.
I don't remember much about the night I killed you.
symptoms of red a materialist
inside of you
unknitting your sweater
& in your dream
you are a wolf eating
a flower in an orange field. the world
is ending. an unnamed girl stains you
as if she were tea
giving up to a
she writes a story: the unrequited
blurry visions of two visionaries
NaPoWriMo- Day 5She used to try and catch butterflies
until she realized their beauty
rubbed off on her fingers;
but she will always be loving you
with those digits.
20 years from now
when even the love on her arms
Our DutyWe swallowed the path home
Because we were hungry,
Though starving is an ongoing
Story, an empty bag
Dancing in the streets,
Full of an unfastened voice
Walking through the house,
Wind unchained, heart admonished.
Heaven fills its eyes, crawls away,
That sleeping boat content to follow
The vacant waves, intervals
Of dying that we dare not interrupt,
And we watch the kind ear shrinking
From our charcoal docks; heaven
With a full stomach crawls away.
This is what we were put here for.
purple lipsticki used to think that there were only two
types of girls:
ones who could pull off red lipstick
and ones who could not.
no one ever bothered to correct me
because they thought i was right in my own way-
a four year old girl talking about there being
bad girls and good girls,
but that is not what i meant.
now my knees, spine, elbows crack
with each step i take, bones withering
in the cold winter air, lips cracked and bleeding-
not prettily, either
and i’m trying to learn portuguese
so maybe i can have something going for me
other than bad habits and a tongue
too restless to properly fit in my mouth.
are many things i cringe about but
not very many that i regret.
those mostly involve alcohol tainted
breath clinging to the insides of my teeth
for days, or
the sounds of voices i reluctantly remember
telling me i shouldn’t leave.
i used to think that there were only two
types of girls:
ones with cigarette smoke hanging around their lips,
sorrow burned beneath their eyelids,
the invisible wounds of warhome is so different when you're
standing behind the wall;
i wonder of the people who
live/will live in that house now as i
stand yonder on the neighbor's
my face illuminated in a yellow
i wonder if they'd listen to my winding
stories; the nights i'd scream
back at my parents as they screamed
at each other -
the tornadoes and storms that ripped
through the back yard, leaving us untouched
but devastating others -
the christmas and easter mornings, good
times and bad, dreams and heartbreak
and so much cigarette smoke staining
the walls and my lungs.
(we were a good american family with
good american values and traditions,
i wonder if they'd listen to my twisting
roots, sitting calmly as i'd tell them
of the horrors of standing naked
in front of my mother to have her tell
me my body was wrong.
i've always been told that people
abuse in myriads of ways, but never
that the walls of my old home
would abuse along.
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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