5:17 AMand it's sad to thinkthat if you came backto tear me apartagain,i'd let you.
One Day His Life Will Be a Classic.There's sorrowon his lips,and sonnetsin his eyes.Each scar on his wrist,speaks in fatal monologue.He lives a tragedynot evenShakespeare could write.
this can't be pain, it hurts too much.i always fall addictedto dangerous things,but at least cigaretteswarn me on the label.your smile read only innocence,but i guess that's my faultfor misinterpretation.
the shadows beneath my eyes remind me of you.i got bored in class last friday,so i wrote a poem upon my hand,and when my teacher walked by he read it."that's deep," he said."i know," i told him,"i'm drowning."
how to love a boy who is lost.falllike you're jumping from a cliffinto a thrashing sea whose waters you cannot tread,dive into their depths and fill your lungs with waves.just don't close your eyes,because you have to search for him.feel your weight drag you to the bottom,feel the ocean embrace youand don't be afraid of that pounding in your chest.each heartbeat is sonara signal calling him and his calling you.learn to swim nowif you drown you cannot save him.swim to the fallen cities,the submerged castlesand maritime gardens.there you'll find him,lost in thought and studying the fish.i hope you saved some oxygenso you can breathe during the kiss.
left.i just needed you to staybut you couldn't hear me beg you,because the world outsidewas so damn loud.
midnights always last longer than they should.i spend sleepless nights in my roomstaring at your picture on my mirrorand wondering why on earth someone as beautiful as youwould ever love someone like me,but then i rememberyou don't.
rain.i still have buckets in my roomfrom when you poured your heart out.plastic pails full of pain and loveand lust and tears and names and smiles.i don't know why i keep them...maybe i hope one day you'll come backto claim them.or when i'm being really dumbi let myself hope that you'll come back anywayfor me.
Artists.Youcan be the painter,paint words on my lips.Iwill be the writerand write kisses on your skin.
december.and when they take meto the morgue,will you see the differencebetween my skin and the sheet?and when they close my eyesplease be standing over me,so that your facewill be the last thing they see.and when those tears falldown from your facepour them on my lips,so i can take you with me.and when they look awaycaress my bloodless face,give me one last gush ofwarmth.and when they bring the casketgently tuck me away to sleep,read me one last storyfrom that book atop the shelf.and when they place me in the ground,beneath six feet of dirt,leave your footprints in the snowand please don't let them melt.and when I fall to helli'll be waiting at the gates,but darling please take your timethere is no need to rush.
i think most people would call you a regret.you're the mistake i'd gladly makefor the rest of my life.but i'm just a few saturday nightsback in november.
friday night.on our firstdate,you took me to a cemeteryjust outside of town.i guess you wanted toshow mewhat you would do to me.
astrology.i never wanted to be anastronomeruntil I fell in lovewith those constellations,freckled about your face.
epitaphs don't count as love letters.he said my eyesgasped like a dying breathand he wasn't going to wait aroundfor the funeral.
Horology.Like a clock,you said you'd waitforever,but I forgotto replace the battery,now you'rebroken.
wilt.my brother bought my girlfriend rosesone day in june.i can’t say that i blame her for smiling,i’m sure she was sick of daisies--i always put daisies everywhereand wrote poems on the petals.i was too romantic,too feeble and weak.my stone skin only kept her coldand girls like her desire warmth.sometimes i still buy her daisies,even though i just let them slowly die atop my dresser.i still buy them for her,even though it doesn't matter.
you left your roses in my throat.i'm convinced there was a godat least oncenot because of some neck-tied preacheror pamphlets left on my doorstepadvertising jesus,but because there was poetry written in the lines of your lipsand, though you were so many things,a poet wasn't one, loveso if you didn't write those wordsthen who did?i wanted to,but it wasn't mei don't think you would have let me anywayyou never liked my poetry very muchbecause it was sadand sad reminded you of your motherand that made you sadso we'd be sad togetherand you didn't think that was a good basis for a relationshipbut we weren't a relationshipwe were just two ghoststrying to haunt each otherand that never works out.
felt.somewhere in these tangled sheetsi know you still breatheand somewhere in your hearti hope my name still beats.
TonightBring me to lifeWith your touch.Love me now,Forget me later.Set me on fireWith your lips,Breathe heatInto my soul.At least for tonight,Let me feel again.
the boy i used to write poems aboutTHIS POEM IS NOT ABOUT LOVE.you took the posters off the walls for the first time yesterday,moved the bed back into the corner and stocked up on that teayou love but i’ve always disliked. openingthe blinds used to be a sin but now they drown the room with sunlight,causing your hair to turn that ugly dirty-blonde color i absolutely hate.last night, i heard from a friend you got the job at that fancy newspaperand you’re finally going vegan - don’t let me forget to tell you your riskof heart attack will double, maybe triple.i haven’t gotten an email in twenty-four days. oftentimes,you don’t realize you're falling apart because you're in the process of falling apart.my mother came over to help me move into my new studio.we pushed the bed (mattress, you claimed the frame) into the middle of the roomand put on new sheets. these don’t smell like you, not thati could even smell-taste-hear-see-feel these days.you stole my heart and bed frame an
he/himsomeone came out to me recently, asked me to usehis correct pronouns when we’re alone,but says whenever i’m over at his home,‘please could you switch back to the wrong ones? i don’twant my parents to know who i am.’ so every time i sit at their tablefor mashed potatoes and peas, i listen to a father askinghis son how her day was and i hear him start to think that he’s aloneand i watch every wrong word they say strike like an axe intothe trunk of a young sapling who’s juststarting to grow into his own.i know they don’t know better, but it’s hard notto hate them when i am censoring every word i saybefore it comes out of my mouth, changing secrets intodinner time conversations, because a boy does not feelsafe enough in his own skin to come clean about somethingas pure as the foundation he has been built upon.later he tells me that he wishes he were strong enoughto just tell them, but he knows his father stillhas the c
hi momhigh school’s getting a bit toughand i just wanted to know if you’ve everlooked in the mirror and thought that maybeyour five year old self was disappointed in you.just wanted to ask if maybe you’re disappointed in me,just wanted to tell you that this is a lot harderthan i thought it would be when i was five becausepeople are a lot more different now than they were then.they're a lot better. and a lot worse and things are a lotmore complicated now that i realize the gerbil i hadwhen i was six didn’t just “fall asleep” while i was holding itand the cat i had when i was eight didn’t really “run away”while i was at grandma’s house.i’m still not sure about the line between good liesand bad lies but my friend told me it has somethingto do with intent and i know you hate tosee me cry so even on days i feel like the dead seainside, i promise i will not let go.i just wanted to ask you how it felt when dad told
NothingI heard someone sarcastically sputter,"You are what you eat."But hearing that sole sentenceallowed me to finally understandwhy I amwhat I am:Nothing.
the aftermaththe temple of her body was torn open tonight,desecrated and lit on fire. i swear, gods have burnedand felt less pain than i do as i write these words down,because she’s crying in my bathroom right now and i haveto go and convince her that the handful of feathersi have left in my palms could ever equal the wings he snippedoff of her tonight. she will never fly again. she will neverbelieve so wholly in herself again. her body is no longera temple, her body is a landmine, an open wound, a thousandfoot drop off of a bridge, a stranger to her. she will neveragain be able to trust her body, to know her body.this is not the first poem i’ve written about rape. but this isthe first poem i’ve written about rape when my handsare shaking and i have a twenty second phone call still ringingin my ears. it’s not about statistics anymore. i cannotdistance myself from the cold, hard facts by using prettymetaphors about dissolving and beginning anymorebecause a gi
.twenty three nightmares of beingon the operating table,my surgeon mumbles something about getting rightto the heart of things, i might feel a little sting not unlikethat one i got on my wrist when i wasyounger, but no, that's not working,would it be okay if he wereto dig a little deeper? -something crawls up and over the edge ofthe bed, yes she did cartwheelsat the crematorium becausesadness was never that much fun anywayand to be honest it was cold and a little too quietinside, there was no need to kiss heron the forehead again - and if you bumpinto the evil, sister, come and letme know -about how i wanted toslip through that crack in the pier and smash through thestained glass surface of the sea,shatter and curl up on a pew with the eels belowand simply flounder, watch the world fromunderwater, grow somecoral,i'm not really sure why it's that big a dealif i'm sick -of writingthis is my body andthis is my love(the prob
just another adolescent love poemlet’s get this straight right now:there are people i can only talk toat four o’clock in the morning, whenthe line between decency and secrecybecomes just as blurred as the one betweennight and day.you’re not one of them.i’m not ashamed of you.or scared. and don’t try to tell me that’s nota miracle because i still check under the bedfor monsters and behind the shower curtainfor serial killers. i know it’s all in my headbut things like that make me terrified;i mean, i still hold my breath crossing by a cemeteryand someone else is always going to have to kill the spiders.i’m hoping that someone will be you.which i’m also hoping i’ll never accidentally tell youbecause it’s like i lose all cognitive reasoningaround you, even when we’re fighting.you split me down the middle, half of me wantingto tear out your femur and beat some sense into youand the other half wanting to give anything,even the foun
.hatredis in labour,would givebirth toforgivenessif i let it(no)
Speechless.I wanted to writea poem foryou,but when you leftyou took everything,even the wordsI never spoke.