I cut my own tongue
on it's razor sharp edges.
Lacerated words arise
from hidden places.
The sweet salt drips
down my cracked lips
and onto my
What have I done?
I need to stop telling myself I'm terrible.
Eighteen RingsI've got more rings
under my skin
than the big oak
in my backyard.
And I feel so paper thin
that I swear
the lines on my palms
are wear and tear marks.
A sign that any second now
I'll crumble up
and sweep under
the feet of the people
cutting me down.
(To build something
But after eighteen years
of the same old
and the same old
with exhausted people
snapping at my heels
for petty mistakes,
I'm used to feeling restless.
Though to get some sleep
a little of the spring
back in my branches.
('Cause my fingers don't
write as much
and my hands don't
draw as much).
I think the lack of
has been getting
to my head.
The fumes leaking
from their noses
when they yell
has filled my lungs so much
I'm not sure
oxygen is an option
I've had so much experience
you'd expect me
to be numb to it
will charge head first
so fast you must react
no matter how much
Aren't A Lot of the Stars Dead Anyway?I feel an affinity towards
a certain kind of sadness
and a certain type of hope.
The stars are so bright
but they are so bright
and my eyes won't adjust
like I was promised.
I Don't Want To Feel NowI.
There must be something
sitting on my chest
that my eyes are blind to.
It isn't hurting me
as much as it is seeping
into my lungs.
(I feel heavy now.)
And my head hits the pillow
like it is north
and the other is south.
But the fields
are keeping me awake
with exchanging currents.
(I feel stuck now.)
I've noticed the wall
beside my bed has bumps.
I've had enough time
to stare at something insignificant,
and now I realize just how much
I've never really cared.
(I feel small now.)
The lights are all blaring
and the clock is behind my head.
But the sunlight through my shutters
is reminding me of my existence
and how much I don't deserve it.
It's 5PM and I'm lying down again.
(I feel worthless now.)
There is too much silence here
and the room is buzzing
like the dead flies
in my windowsill used to do.
Next time I get up I'll make a note
to clean those out later.
(I feel numb now.)
Summer HomeI think you've ruined me
in a way that doesn't quite hurt
as much as it suffocates sweetly.
There's something about
looking back on everything you've said
and finally seeing each lie
as they scraped your bottom lip
on the way out.
I think I was addicted
to the taste of your blood
when I kissed you.
It seemed to mingle well
with my tears
and stained my lips just enough
to mark your territory
as the summer home
that seemed more fun
when you were younger.
Mr. MelancholyI fell deeply inlove with him.
in his gray suit
and his black tie.
He always had an eye for fashion,
and he'd dress me down well.
He'd call me beautiful,
and reassure me that the funeral
they eluded to in their jeers
was a wedding for our souls.
And our honeymoon
would be spent side by side,
as it always should be,
laying down under the stars.
A stone on my finger,
and a stone on top of me,
carefully adorned with flowers,
As my dress turns to lace
and then to dust that slips through my fingers
in rhythm to the ticking of the clock,
he sews my next corset
between my ribs.
It's steel-boned spine crushes me
ever so lightly over time.
The difference so subtle
I wouldn't have known it was real
if it hadn't been for the stares.
I suppose I have gotten thinner,
but he assured me again
I was beautiful.
His design was built to fit a skeleton,
and I wanted to please him.
In sickness and in health,
'til death do us part,
and my parts have
This Place Is GarbageThis place is goddamn filthy
and we are all trash.
No matter how you look at us
or what someone says about us
at the end of the day we all
deserve to be taken out.
I won't deny we are flawed
or even at times disgusting
But at one time we were desired.
Someone wanted us,
maybe even needed us.
But we were broken and used
and then tossed away.
That's how everything fucking works
and you either get used to it
and accept that you are rotting away,
or you realize that you change over time.
We are still rotting.
We are still dying.
But found things can be used again.
An artist's warehouse is a dumpster.
Scraps of cardboard are walls.
Egg cartons are hills.
Broken glass are mosaics
and someone fucking needs you again!
I can not change your mind
on how you view yourself.
Just as you can't change mine
on how I view you.
Call yourself what you may,
my beautiful shard of sharp metal,
you may use yourself to harm yourself,
you may rust and dirty up,
but you are the centerpiece--
The Comfort of Pale-Smile SadnessMy pockets know the back of my hands
like I know the world through
my teary eyes
and just-as-blurry mind.
I'm sure if I ever left the comfort
of closed-lip, pale-smile sadness,
I'd fall right off the orange horizon;
drowning in the migraine-inducing sun.
Because a cold night kisses hard
and love is dropping your legs over the roof
with the gently-used notion to ground yourself,
but instead you just breathe knowing you've already fell.
It's All For YouI know you will never see
what I see in you
because we have different sets of eyes
and different minds.
As much a part of me
as I wish you were,
you're still just you
and I'm just me.
So the person in the mirror you see
is a demon
and I see an angel
and they're constantly fighting.
But evil always wins because it doesn't
like I do.
So you took a liking
to broken glass
at such a young age,
that when you started to grow up,
the skin of your tightly-clenched fist
grew around the shard.
Now it's just as much a part of you
as the knuckles you damage
and the toes you use
to keep your balance
once you finally get up;
maybe to fetch a glass of water.
You've spent every second
trying to cut your own blade
out of your hand,
hoping you'll bleed out
all the mistakes you think
belong to you.
And I know you've heard
a million times
that everyone makes mistakes
but there's truth behind cliches
and those things weren't your fault.
I know you know
exactly what I'm
JudgmentCapricious, erratic creatures,
You observe the likeness of unknown features,
Condemning, curving your mouth with disdain
For the decorum of oneself shall obey your malicious reign.
The abomination you painted in your narrow mind,
Was no more than an eccentric brother yet to find
Utter compliance you seek,
Yet of vain dejection you only reek.
The enmity that guides your every line
Is but poison you gulped instead of light so divine.
Depart from the ignorance that compels you,
Underneath the deception lies all that is true.
DarknessThe disease came in the form of quiet, loving destruction.
It pulled me out to sea,
Waves crashing in on me from all directions.
It planted lilies in my throat.
Until I choked on
Roses and chrysanthemums.
It made my mind my own personal head stone.
Nothing but polluted words
The flowers made it sound so playful and innocent when I said,
'I am better off dead.'
You rage wars.
Tugging at the skin underneath my eyes.
Of a once friendly stranger's goodbyes.
Quiet and loving.
You made me fall in love with the velvet of your darkness.
The way you cloaked yourself around me.
You gave me the piercing control of a knife.
'Death isn't a disease. It is a solution.'
A solution to the dark abyss.
Nags at the back of my skull.
It makes my eyes dull.
The darkness loved my light.
It loved it so much,
It was a parasite.
It stole my sun.
Now I am just a super nova
Collapsing in on itself,
Until I, myself, become the black hole.
A Letter to My Best FriendA letter to my best friend, for when he is feeling badly
When your sunny skies turn to thunder clouds.
When you can't hear your own thoughts
Over rumbling drum rolls of thunder.
I will be the umbrella to protect you
From the freezing rain.
I'd set my bones aflame
Watch them spark and burn.
I'd turn my soul into a Bon fire
Just to keep you warm.
I'd catch fire flies like stars.
I would keep them in a jar
And give them to you.
Because you light up the dark of the night sky.
When I am feeling blue
You are the one that helps me get through
The murk of my lonely thoughts.
And sometimes, I don't feel like you see yourself clearly.
I wish you could see you
The way I do.
I see you in the stars
You talk about them so fondly.
Every constellation reminds me of you.
I wonder if you are made of cosmos.
Such chaotic, pure energy,
I see you in the rain.
You are cold
I'd dance to the music of your soft,
Pitter- patter melody.
I see you in the air I breathe.
Because you are the thing
Fairy Tale GirlFairy tale little girl.
She wears a crown upon her head,
And befriends the monsters under her bed.
She sings songs to birds.
But no one ever heard
Her cries when the castle walls came tumbling down.
Real world little girl.
She weaves herself a fantasy inside her mind.
Hoping to find
The same peace from when she was young.
And she's like water colors.
So soft, and easily washed away.
She is the soft blues in the morning of a new day.
I found her hiding within her tower.
Far above the real world below.
She is so broken but never lets it show,
So desperate for some fairy tale ending.
She asked me quietly one day,
'Do you think the world will ever be like my story books?'
I thought for a moment before replying,
'In order to survive there are some bad things you have to overlook.'
'The world is grey.'
I heard her say one day.
As if accepting the odd mixture of good and bad.
Her voice sounded happy and sad,
All at once.
As she ripped away the last page
In her story book.
The Rogue FactorRise, fall, get up, stumble and run
it's getting harder to catch a breath
in this cloud of scorching lies you've shoved me in.
Stop right there, I am not following you again
you, the one who held a scythe to my throat,
had only brought me closer to a death I didn't cry for.
It's a price I've paid for having faith in
you, the one with blooming roses
and stinging, poisonous thorns.
Whose dreams was I chasing?
Were they yours, mine or
were they the illusions of a distant fall?
Heaven and Hell crossed at your feet
but you took the wrong turn and blindly led the way,
straight into a fire that welcomed me with open arms.
Doubt someone like you can atone,
you, the one with a habit of tearing souls.
Yet here I stand, and fight
against you, once and for all.
I grew tired of letting you take control.
I found a strength in a goal you can't claim,
my life and my work are no longer yours.
Hope shines bright you monster,
I'm not going to be a victim,
I'm not holdi
The GardeniasI told you I had wildflowers growing in my veins
and you thought it was quaint,
so when I took shears to my jugular -
you wouldn’t help me cut them out.
You thought I’d be opheliac
if they bloomed, splashing white
into my already paling wrists.
Maybe you thought the perfume would purify me
and being a tragic heroine
would be better than just being tragic.
Their roots choked out my heart and
to my blood
as I died,
drowning in the after-effects of Pretty,
all I could hear
was you telling me that you loved
that I had Gardenias in my eyes.
Eighteen Years OldTwenty years old, and unhappy with the world.
Twenty years old and threatening teenage girls.
Twenty years old and unsure of who you are.
Twenty years old and hiding behind keys
and a space bar.
At twenty years old, your anger gets the best of you,
at twenty years old, I'd hate to be you.
At eighteen years old, I feel sorry for you,
despite the amount of agony you've put me
Because the one who is the giver of your life
criticizes your appearance and your size.
Despite talking, and the gawking,
and all in between,
I know you're just a poor man suffering.
But you're twenty years old, and you should
You're twenty years old,
and you'll never understand this letter.
Fifteen years old, with the mind of a toddler.
Fifteen years old, and though I'm writing this,
I shouldn't even bother.
Fifteen years old, and you're already a professional stalker,
you're toxic, your disgusting, and a suicide blogger.
Fifteen years old, and life is a game, you can ruin people,
play with pe
uncertainty is a meal i can always finish.i.
she says she thinks i wear my heart well,
and i tell her it's only because i don't wear it at all
sometimes i think my veins are breaking because they get so thin and purple
and sometimes they are blue as the sky we live under,
bulging beneath the unbroken skin of my wrists like they are straining to touch
the oxygen that writhes above them, so close to contact but
never able to truly meet.
we stay together, not through thick,
only through thin
my friend confessed her sexuality to us
maybe three months back,
but i still can't seem to find my own "label"
and it is sad because i want to be able to label myself in a
world where we are shamed by our names
i live in a city where the people care so little for each other
that each passing day i am painfully reminded
of how much i can hate
and not enough of how much i can love
lunacy.what the moon teaches us is
no one exists as a constant.
some days you will orbit elsewhere.
the angles of light that
make up the shadows of you
will keep moving.
it is the same with the ocean
and how it does not meet
the shore the same each time:
some days it will come crashing,
eroding: or it comes back to kiss
its edges over and over
there are some days i am more
of a tsunami. there will be days
you will be eclipsed.
and i don't mind this. the moon is
up in the sky but the ocean still feels
the weight of its pull, always.
i want to drown in the
push and pull of your gravity
in all the ways that's possible.
i could get used to the
different phases of this:
i could get used to our lunacy.