Laced.Slit-skin glances andsour tongue words slip straightinto my bloodstream and fester.And won't you please take back whatyousaid.
On wanting to commit suicide, she wrote.It feels likekeeping a secretfor a very longtime,keeping andkeeping andkeepinguntil suddenly youcan't speak for fearof spitting outthe truth.So it rests bitteron your tongue,and heavy on yourteeth.And you give into silence.
Depression.To be depressed isto carry every unwashed thingin your life in yourarms.The dishes youcouldn't clean pileup with your innards,jostling for spaceamongst the lungs you'vesmoked black and theheart you've lovedthin.Your unwashed sheetshang around your shoulders,gathering dead skin cells andcatching hair you habituallytear from your skull, anervous twitch you neverquite shook.You wake up one morningand find that your hands arestill stained with dirtfrom that time you buriedyour lover in the backyard,wanting to let gobut discovering that lettinggo feels a lot likegiving up andyou're not ready forthat yet,but you will be.
Damaged goods.Sometimes I tell them thatit's a birth defect,that when they draggedme from my mother's wombthey broke me,that my mother left the hospitalwith a cheque in hand to make up for"the accident," of course.Sometimes I tell themthat they said,"she'll live,but it'll hurt her."Because I live andit hurts me and I don't knowhow else to say,"I'm sad all the timeand I can't get out of bed somedays and I've considered thatnot living might bebeneficial to my survival,"and as they try to workthat out I'm heading for the doorwith my head down andmy dignity scraping along onthe floor.
Things I'll tell you when you're older.The monstersdon't fit under bedsanymoreand neitherdo we.
A letter I'll never send.The letter I keep writingto my children.'My darlings,I have never told youthat I once lost you to myown sadness,that your tiny flailingfists once made me feel as ifthe world was striking outat me through you.I used to feed you inthe bath tub, wondering ifperhaps I could let yourweight drag us under.I still believe that it wasyou who kept me afloat.I keep writing this letterto keep me calm, to keep me fromhating myself for ever thinkingof you as burdens.And someday I want to tell youthat I once lost myself tomy own sadness, and thatit was you that keptme here.'
If you need me to.This languagemight belong to theworld and hercitizens,butthis tongueand these wordsare mine.And if I needto spit endearmentsinto the city'shumble streetsfrom her skystretchingbonesto let youknow,then sobe god damnedit.I will.
Give me all your secrets...Give me all your secrets, that I might turn them into birds.I want you to tell meabout your childhood bruises,because darling,I want to knowwhat's made yougrow up so heavily.(So blue and green andyellowed skin.)I want you to tell meabout the bags underyour eyes,how you sat up all nightcrying for a boy on the newsyou'd never known,but thoughtyou could have lovedbecause his hipsstuck out above his jeansand that struck a chordwith the gap of yourlips.I want to know abouthow you wrote your own obituaryand sent it to the paper,just to see how many peoplewould call and abouthow you felt when no-onecalled.So tell me, darling,write your secrets on myback and let mecarry those burdenswith you.
A girl who wasn't you.I met her at the liquor store next door to the grocers.She held cheap whiskey in one hand and my wrist in anotherand I swear when she opened her mouth your voice came out andstrangled me."Don't I know you?"Her words curled around my throat,like calloused hands, like rope."I don't know, I can't breathe."And when her head fell back as she tipped her glass she lookedjust like you with her pinky raised too high and her hand onmy thigh and the pressure was gone. My chest rose and I tookher home.Her dress slid down and that sultry stare was justlike you and as we fell to the floor because the bed was too far Icouldn't help thinking, this is how it should have been.But in the harsh light of morning with the empty bottle besidemy bed I realised I made you up inside my head and laughed,that's so like you.
wrists that roarmama sayspull down your sleevesthey'll see, they'll seebut no-one's even lookingi say mamatigers are proud and strongand tigers show their stripesso today i'm a tigerand who saysi can't be a tigerwhen razors made me fierceand secrets kept me lonelywho saysi can't tiger-roarwhen everything unsaidripped my throat rawi made my stripeswith tiger-claws and tiger-teethso damned if i'm not a tigerand damned if i won't roarmama, i'm a tigermama, hear me roar
note to self [narcissist].please deardon't find yourself so fascinatingyou're tripping up on your own inadequaciesas if the world'snever seen them beforeplease dearyou've really got to stopthis dog-and-pony showthis "welcome-to-my-personal-tragedy"exhibitionreally dearyou've done nothing but makea damned foolof yourself.
In my bathroom againGod's in my bathroom again,he's shaving the patches of hisbeard and pulling clown-facesat the soap. Last nighthe held me as I lay in a fever,made little screams, keptthe hot tongues from my face,the mushrooms from myspine.He says his old girlfriendtried to drink his blood, thatit messed him upfor a while. He saysit's been a long time.God looks sad, jingling histeeth at me like loosechange. The clicks of myheart make me sick;folding his pyjamaswould bethe kind thingto do.
A letter to myself.You're destroying yourselfand I love you.Your arms arebarbed wireand I love you.You pull themacross yourcageribskinand I love you.You're a one and twenty year,eight month old war andnobody's a winnerbecause there's onlyyou in this skin.I left you alonebut I love you.I wrote you a poemand I love you.I'm full of youand I love you.
lovesong for sailorboyRead aloud and explained (somewhat) here.i have always loved words as you love the seabut i have grown to hate prepositionsbecause i have always had wordsabout youwith youto you--but never for you.words for everything except you.but i have words for this, soi'll take them one by one.about.the ocean was your first love andi could always see it in your eyes.most would call them blue--justblue like a swell over a sandbarblue like the spring sky over a poppy field.but i don't think anyonegot as close as i did and they're not bluenot shorebound andsafe--they're gray like the steelbellied sea itselflike the horizon at dawn as itencircles youhems you into an impossibly vast canvaslike a demarcation lineor a promise. one you always chased.with.maybe i had a streak of ocea
ZestSunset is early,a cast-off orange peelfloating on the lake.
Honestly dishonest.I'd kissed you seventeen times before they tore meaway from the coffin.This could be tragically romantic but I'm lying;I wasn't allowed through the chapel doors.
on leaving it behindi stillremember you.this might appall youor agonize you but i do.i remember still eveningswith little to exchange besidesheartbeats and breathing patterns.i remember soft afternoonswith my back raking against the carpetleaving sporadic scars and stitches of memory.i remember dark roads, and darker rains.i remember a longer faith and a shorter pain.the wounds are not as fresh, they do not sting,but they ache and the few times i hear your voicewedges your fingers in my brain and i can feel the cakeof neglected cum stains and i can hear the desperation inthe small whimper of my name and the way it was hard for yourbreath to escape and my mind is running on thin rails, paper train,and all i ever wanted from you was a home, not a place.-you would finger fuck me in the movie theaterand i would squirm and you would laugh becausei am not so good at keeping quiet. and all it would takewas a look from me or my hand up your knee or my lip under myteeth and your eyes would
if people didn't filter their emotions and justthrowing yourself onfloors doesn't fix anything,but it sure seems to.
Ocean EyesYour skin would be laceBetween my fingertips,Tangling with streamsOf golden sunlight thatButton you up,Leaving intricate patternsThat tell your secretsWith every thread.You'd breathe like a mermaid,The scent of the sea echoingIn our veins,Like teenage heartsPumped full of lust.Too fast.Like heels on marble floors,But you're soMuch closerThan that.You're blood in my lungsAnd air in my heart,But I live onlyOff the raindropsThat fall fromYour soft, sea-stone eyesWhen a smile curves your lips.The edgesGathering me,Unraveling me.(I carve you in the sand,But ocean tearsWash you away.)
What they never teach you about grief1. You will not cry demurely in socially acceptable situations.Instead you shall perform the walkinghowl;and cry hysterically, calm down, and cry, and calmas you try to gather yourself on the way to the station.2.You will be late for work - you will see the dress you worelast time you saw your lost one -and you will hold it and breathe into it as if maybe just maybeyou will smell them or feel them or it will change thingsand then find you cannot hold it together while wearing it,change, and miss your train.3.You will find this happens over and over and you buy new thingsso that they are not 'oh I wore this with you and now you are gone'but also, you will stand in the fitting room and sobbecause now they will never see how smart you look in this.4. You will keep face 95% of the time and then ruin itby crying in the toilets and being sent home. 5.You will still want to laugh and socialise and drink and kissbut all these things will
GreyI like the color grey;it's not black and it's not white,but sometimes it's a little blue.
SehnsuchtOctober again;and the curtains billowwith broken glass echoes andMendelssohn's bride waltzingto better times(einzweidrei)She becomes the rain,and breaks her own heart as the sounddripsright through us.
fast-forward through the goodbyesthis is the beginning of the end“i know you,” he says.and he looks defeated, he looks sad, he looks likehe's a boy who may one day realize how muchhe cares for you, so you cut him off and say,“minus all the secrets i don’t tell anyone.”“well, yeah, minus those.”“then you don’t know me at all.”and then you tell him,i love you. but you don’t use those wordsbecause those are taboo. are jinxed.are knock on wood three times fast.instead you press him in a hug and say,i’m sorry, knowing he won’t understandthat this is the first time you ever cared for somethingenough to try and fix it after you hurt it.you hope he doesn’t ever realize what you’re sayingand his response will always be ‘what for?’ becauseif he figures out he loves you nothing changes.he’s just going to be in love with a corpse, a memory,a pair of trigger happy hands,
Other Girlsit's not a simple thingreading old magazineslike thatby yourselflike other girlswith other girlsin the same roomwith the same shamebut they're not youand they weren't therebut they knowthey knowWaiting rooms that get stuck in your jointsLike screwdriversflat headshow different names seem spelt nowcloser to a gamble than a titlenow, you're gonna have to spellselfishdifferentlycloser to this hellthan hellishyour good sensechirps in your sleepchips at your teethtoo smart for thatright?too determinedtoo you (makes sense)to end up like other girlswho look like other girlswith other girls' problemswith your pride in the wayokayname options.get rid of itwhat else is there?get rid of itbut when the get gets to gotfrom a was to a nothalos drag to neck braceand watching raindrops for ripplesis about as helpful as it soundsits a check box where black and white don't bordergrays corner to cornersons and leaky pipeselectrical tape and daughterssome wil
fire hazardi can help i can see -that the children of forgotten bogs may simmer beneath your skinthat the splendor may burn thorough your marrow.brush the brooks aside with urgent palm;perhaps the sky might rain upon your blisters.i think your smile is scared like there are wolves beneath your stairs andyour eyes search me out,restless lanterns in the night that will not darkenthey do not close.i think,you are a pumpkin carved in the shape of a boyand no one dare set a candle inside you.
vulgar dressingsthere is something terminal and sickly in the way you inhale me, so rotten that my toes will curl inwards on themselves and roll until my innards are being pushed through my mouth like a tube of toothpaste. do you want that? no, honey. sure you don’t.the facts are as now: you drink too much for your own good, the lighter enjoys the gnaw of your flesh more than I (see how rapid it is as I burn you at this moment), that the world is turning and I’m fucking another man and you’re lying on some moth-eaten carpet, wondering who the hell I’ve been with and where the hell you’ve been. and I wonder how well I sound faking orgasms.the world still spins around the sun, somehow managing not to falter in keeping us on her skin. but I know she doesn’t give a fuck. give the sun a few more sun-days (time it takes the sun to revolve) and we’ll be like fucking mercury, melting in pools of our own flesh while the sky alights with lightning and our backs
things i knoweverybody is sad and scared and it is ok to take comfort in this.
You can't have all of me.I hope you'll understand,I've parcelled my heartup in postcardsand back-alley blow jobsand I mightstill want to kissother people andtouch other peopleand love other peoplebut I'll never want tocome home to anyone else.