bad days.on my bad days,i open notebooks like bibles and hold pens like lifelines. i keep opening the book of my memories just to see if it still leaves a bruise.tonight,i am covered in the bruises of your hand tonight, your ghost is in my bed. i can't sleep there,so again- again i find myself miles from homewishing on stars i can't see and spitting memories into the ocean like watermelon seeds. i sit on my longboard like driftwood and send my shivers into textslike letters i never should have mailed.on my bad days,i wear cuts like ropeburn,like i just don't know when to let go. i get lost inside the sadness and hold tea thats long since gone coldas hours escape like small birds set free. i forget to open the blindsand paint my fingernails black and stare at the too-big numbers aligned on the scale i can't stop stepping on.my th
white noise.sometimes i turn off the greasy yellow lights and run the water lava hot.the quiet porcelain is an untouched coffinfamiliar as the look in your eyes.i can hear my heart beat in my earsand i stare at the ceiling until it darkens and blurs at the edges.my body is heavy as leadi cannot remember the weight of movement.sometimes the closest i can get is the suicide between each breathand the apology unspoken on the inhale.my skin is a ladder i keep climbing,i can see through the rungs to the fat cells that weigh down my bones.sometimes,my hand becomes his when it creeps uninvited over the landscape of my bodyand across the staircase of my ribs.i can't erase the feeling of his body pressed like a bookover my flower.my head is white noise that bleeds red,but i'm tired of all the blood.tired of all the memories like channelsi keep flicking past.sometimes i wonder if i cut enough slack in my skin, &
an apology letter to my body.i am sorry,i treated you like disposable napkins. like cheap china, or a rug feet have worn the 'welcome' off of. for treating you like fast food in a landfill and for letting others treat you that way too.most days i can't look at you in mirrors,when i should be writing you love letters .i have deprived you,i have scarred your passages and eroded your halls.i have let your sacred places be defiled.you are a country i have never learned to call home,a language no one has ever spoken.i made you into a map i told everyone not to read,planted railroad tracks like break crumbs, like my flesh was an industrial revolution i sometimes follow with my fingertips.forgive me,for the days my stomach became a ghost town, my mouth a forgotten portal.for the days spent with two fingers down my throat like the trigger of a gun reversing the cycle of food.i'm sorry for the nights i didn't sleepand the days ballet became punishment.for the days every muscle felt a
wasting time.already,i have spent too many nights with metal kissing flesh,too many nights just one step above empty air.there are too many unwritten suicide notes in my head,too many hours spent praying to a toilet that will never answer back 'thin enough'.i have wasted my 18th year curled around too much sadness,spending it in texts sent like stones i never should have thrown.words i never should have let fall out of the unhinged socket of my mouth.i am all helium and no balloon.i have spent my problems lavishly,i was a whore with my secrets.i forgot how to fall apart quietly.i fell asleep in depression loud as the thoughts in your head.i let it settle in my bones but tried to dig it out by cutting deeper.i learned healing is a meal i haven't learned to swallow yet,and i am grieving something i haven't found.my innocence is a book i never got to read,a book he burned before i was old enough to say no.i can feel my scars raised like white flags,each valley a war won.maybe they
anything can be perfect when your eyes are shut.all lights look like stars through lids half closed.but you were a supernova even with my eyes wide open.
a guide to her sadness.her wrists are wishbones she breaks for luck,not knowing there is no luck in the break.her veins are unanswered prayersher lungs an apology sent as letters to heaven,hoping God will forgive her for being a continual disappointment.her head is a phonebooth for all the thoughts nobody's picking up on.see,the the sadness is sinking her again.so when she leaves at midnight to longboard to the ocean,go with her.when she tries to climb bridges,don't let her.when she's drinking cold tea and playing daughter,it means she's trying to pull her head together.when she's in the bathroom praying to the toilet,decide to knock.when she avoids you,hide her blades.because lately,she doesn't have the will to fight anymore.so on the bad days, fight for her.
overthinking.i think sometimes our heads are so fullthat nothing comes out of our mouthsor the things we say come out all wrongi think sometimes we love so many people we forget to fall in love at allour promises get so big and heavy they curl back around to strangle usif there is one thing i've learned in 19 yearsits that people will always go back to their mistakeslike a dog revisiting its own vomit.we love our self-destructionand sometimes i think thats both beautiful and sadbut mostly just sad, like whena star goes supernova or a baby is born orhow fall is really just the leaves dyingits funny how sometimes there are people you care so much aboutit hurts, andyou don't know if you wish you'd never not known themor if you had never met thembecause not caring will never be an option againand you just hope they care about you at least a little bitbut i think caring the same isn't possible becausemaybe everyone has different sized hearts and some of our he
dollarstore happy.this happiness feels fragile, like if i hold it too long it will break,the way some things just do.a dollarstore happy,easy,but temporary.i like the weight of it on my skin though.the way the fragile skin over my wrists has healed into soft tapeworms.the way the sky seems bluer even when its grey.i can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips.my heart lives on the tip of my tongue where i keep swallowing it downin the hope that someday it might stay down,and i will be able to forget.i will learn to forget the pulse in my wristsand unlearn the butterflies that live under my ribcage.i will call my heart the sea and sail itinstead of letting it drown me,and allow my emotions to wash up on the beach of my doubtsand wither until you can smell the swell of happy i will wear in my bones.i will refit the canvas of my skinso that maybe someday i can for once in my life feel at home under my shatterglass ribcage and unzippered spine.
honestly,my heart is barefoot and i keep stepping on glass with it,and i know i feel too muchbut no one ever taught me how to cry.(so i don't)i just tear holes in my skin and pray to a god i sometimes don't believe in.
confessionalthey say sad girls change their hair colorand forgive their monsters.i change my moralsand become one.
starsi pray that someday soon, in a lonesome winter, your bones will cease to ache.regrets will no longer break your morals like glass figurines,you will not ask God to pardon your sins.you will forgive yourself.i hope, for your sake, that your butterfly-flutter eyeswill only be dampened with tears worthy of shedding.your glory will shine out of those 2 crystal windowsand you will finally know what freedom feels like.one day, in the midst of a dreary december, i wish for your wings to open wideand carry you to heights far past any you have ever experienced.your lungs will become blooming forestswith snippets of poetry carved into the tree trunks.you will no longer be broken, but instead, crack into miniscule piecesof yourself until all of the grace & goodnessburied deep within the crevices of your fleshis soaked up by the atmosphere.i am awaiting the day that i can finally lay next to someone i call lover and point up at the stars to show himfragments of you scatte
001 i am a whirlwind of bruised knees (purple) an aching heart (dark blue) twisted guts (red) & a regret that could crumble mountains. (green-green-green)
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
checklist of a masochistiiiyou were an untouched sunset,never before seen and familiarat the same time; delicately sheddingshades of pink the same colorof your starving voiceand I was most beautifulwith my clothes off, too much skinintersected by too many lines (neverthe near parallel you longed for)a hazy blur that made the nightsour own watercolor clicheiiyou were that cheap love songthat never sounded authentic,lyrics stitched through yourpaper skin; chords resonatingfrom your every wanting sighand you were surprised how muchyou needed me, from the concrete solidityof my ribs to the metaphoric indecencyof my thoughts, naked and tremblingfor your callused ears (or maybeit was just me, justifying the wayyou skinned my anxious layerswith your ravenous hands,like underfed beasts)iyou were the child cryingat shadows pretending to be monsters,running from the prospect ofgod and death and gravity;& you were the letter I never sent"I'm done apologizing forthe person I wasn't befor
Wildflowers, Imperfect BirdsI breathed your name like wildflowers under vast broken skies, in wide-open spaces. The wind blowing through them spoke of dew and dirt and petrichor, and there was sunlight on the ground like a mosaic patterned by god's own hands.I said it like a monarch claiming new land: a declaration, a butterfly breath over old earth; like it was coffee on a warm morning with the sun in my eyes, interlacing with my lashes; like it was a dream; like it was a prayer like it was a miracle wrought of air and bone and body: you, in, out, in, out, in and in and in.I cried it out like an earthquake between lip and lip, continents that don't quite fit: your name, a fault line that doesn't know how to apologize.And I whispered it like it had grown nothing where there should've been feathers, no wings to fly it on, like my lips were the nest it would always call home.So I breathed it,And I whispered it,And I said it,And I sang it,Like a castle; like a mirror; like it was the big bang and ever
calamity.the poor boy got a lecture from deaths secretary"deaths busy enough as it is without walk ins""but it was urgent," he stutters."it couldn't wait, it was now or never"he was simply told"take a number, and wait over there with the restwho 'couldn't wait' "
post meridiemi am no lionheart.look closely. there are small cracksalong my fragile frame. where purpleand blue blossom underneath flesh,and pink/white lines decorate hidden skin.i am far from what you see.
eight things that hurt more than a broken boneone,i have never had broken bones,but i imagine it would snap,splinter, pierce my skin.i imagine it would bethe pieces i cannot put back togetherscratching their way out ofthis body bag.i imagine my demons wouldnot rest until my arms are tornby the claws of my inside.i'd imagine broken boneswould not hurt as muchas broken confidence,conviction, trust.two,her faith.(my lack of it.)three,fluctuating positions in life.the backbone of a dreamerwho finds nightmares her companion,the fingertips of a mother,pressed against feverish foreheads.the lips of a teenage girl,forgetting what truth sounds like.four,bones heal,i cannot remember the last time i did.five,knotted hair pulled out at the roots.nail polish remover spilled into wounds.lips chapped red.beauty. expectations.six,burned at the stakeof accidents.dying on a scaffold,unable to speak.seven,numbers on the scale,tick-tack-toe on my wrist.every blistering insecuritythat sends me spiraling.eigh
TodayI drew a picture of you today. Not because I wanted to. Not because I miss you.I drew a picture of you today. Because your face invades my mind, Every waking moment of consciousness.I drew a picture of you today, Simply to rid my thoughts of you. Because I can't bare to see you.I drew a picture of you today. And when I find the courage, When I find the strength.I will burn it.
Things I'll tell you when you're older.The monstersdon't fit under bedsanymoreand neitherdo we.
Haunted.The nightmares are backand they end with your face;always asking why I didn't followwhen you left.
i would say my father is a wari would say my father is a war horse but that is a failed symbolbecause he has been dragged through the dirt as many times as this metaphori want to write in abstract like in a book ofcontemporary poetry i bought over the summer;it was all syllables and lines of 'talk talk talk' repeated over and overi want to write something that describes how i feel without saying a word that describes it -like:dust and ache and tired and bone and overflowing and lonely and fuck and .i want to write poems that have meaning without being cliche i want poemsthat defy grammar and space and time because when someone reads them, they become mei want someone to read this and knowit is approximately 12:04amand my ears are itchy and my eyes -my eyes -i feel a deer prancing behind my eyes, his heavy antlers pushingagainst my forehead and i should name him athena because i've got an olympic-sized headachebut instead the deer yells WANNA GO?and he says it like an angry, unde
SurrealismThree a.m., andGod is in my bathtubagain—sipping whiskeyhallelujahs;backlit bya freshwater moonin the mother-of-pearl sky.
Bitlets 12If hitchhikers were any youngerthey'd skip hopscotch acrossstates and provinces; insteadthey play four-squarein the same four countiesclose to their home townbecause they lost their sense of wanderlustwhen they bought a map of North Americaand drew stars on where they wanted to go,but never made the effort to take itout of the glove compartment.
one day, i sent a letter to the mooni got sick of our tired old earthand asked if i could jointhe man in the moonon an afternoon for coffee;he preferred tea.
SurrogateI stopped using his full titlebecause it started sounding too formal,and it’s hard to be standoffish with someonewho swaps albums and memories so generously,who loves German chocolate but hates the smell of oranges,who knows me by my boneless,drowsy form on the couch and by my words.And maybe one day he’ll askme to drop the title altogether and call him Brad,but I won’t.Because it sounds too much like dad,and I’m afraid of slipping up.
coffee talkthey speak in therattle of coffee cups—sea bent lungs await the press of the espresso crave lipsas taste fills curling limbssettling thestars in—.
slingshot words.there are a million worlds living in your head begging to be wrapped around your tongue and released like a slingshot into the heart of some stranger you may never meet.