I wanted to write
a poem for
but when you left
you took everything,
even the words
I never spoke.
One Day His Life Will Be a Classic.There's sorrow
on his lips,
in his eyes.
Each scar on his wrist,
speaks in fatal monologue.
He lives a tragedy
Shakespeare could write.
this can't be pain, it hurts too much.i always fall addicted
to dangerous things,
but at least cigarettes
warn me on the label.
your smile read only innocence,
but i guess that's my fault
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,
how to love a boy who is lost.fall
like you're jumping from a cliff
into 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 you
and don't be afraid of that pounding in your chest.
each heartbeat is sonar
a signal calling him and his calling you.
learn to swim now
if you drown you cannot save him.
swim to the fallen cities,
the submerged castles
and maritime gardens.
there you'll find him,
lost in thought and studying the fish.
i hope you saved some oxygen
so you can breathe during the kiss.
rain.i still have buckets in my room
from when you poured your heart out.
plastic pails full of pain and love
and lust and tears and names and smiles.
i don't know why i keep them...
maybe i hope one day you'll come back
to claim them.
or when i'm being really dumb
i let myself hope that you'll come back anyway
left.i just needed you to stay
but you couldn't hear me beg you,
because the world outside
was so damn loud.
december.and when they take me
to the morgue,
will you see the difference
between my skin and the sheet?
and when they close my eyes
please be standing over me,
so that your face
will be the last thing they see.
and when those tears fall
down from your face
pour them on my lips,
so i can take you with me.
and when they look away
caress my bloodless face,
give me one last gush of
and when they bring the casket
gently tuck me away to sleep,
read me one last story
from that book atop the shelf.
and when they place me in the ground,
beneath six feet of dirt,
leave your footprints in the snow
and please don't let them melt.
and when I fall to hell
i'll be waiting at the gates,
but darling please take your time
there is no need to rush.
i think most people would call you a regret.you're the mistake i'd gladly make
for the rest of my life.
but i'm just a few saturday nights
back in november.
can be the painter,
paint words on my lips.
will be the writer
and write kisses on your skin.
i hope you remember to bring the flowers.the stars whispered late
as we lay beneath their
"what if i die today?" you asked.
and i told you in that case,
i'd see you by tomorrow.
astrology.i never wanted to be an
until I fell in love
with those constellations,
freckled about your face.
hollow.i gave you everything
just to make you whole
and then you left me
and now i wander
like a ghost
just searching for some place
because your door
is closed to me.
Flawed Canvas.Your lips
all across my heart.
My blood isn't even
its a pale and dying
that bleeds onto the floor
and paints a picture
i'm going to need you to breathe for us.don't fall in love with me
because i don't do things the way your exes do.
i'm not going to take you to some fancy restaurant
with a suit and tie and valet to park the car
i'll take you to a library instead
we'll go shopping together
and try on some other people's grandparent's clothes
we'll get new names and fake shitty accents for each reflection
i'll convince you to buy an ugly jacket
by telling you your face is so damn pretty
no one's going to look once at that color blocked windbreaker
you'll wear it in the car,
but fidget uncomfortably when we stop
so we'll switch coats outside the art museum
you'll take my picture next to some abstract piano sculpture
constructed of old park benches
and tell me that i'm brave,
but i'm just a coward who likes to make you laugh.
i care too much about what people think
but not when i'm with you
because those strangers are just echoes of your shadow.
we'll go into the bell tower of that catholic church by the harbo
TonightBring me to life
With your touch.
Love me now,
Forget me later.
Set me on fire
With your lips,
Into my soul.
At least for tonight,
Let me feel again.
he/himsomeone came out to me recently, asked me to use
his 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’t
want my parents to know who i am.’ so every time i sit at their table
for mashed potatoes and peas, i listen to a father asking
his son how her day was and i hear him start to think that he’s alone
and i watch every wrong word they say strike like an axe into
the trunk of a young sapling who’s just
starting to grow into his own.
i know they don’t know better, but it’s hard not
to hate them when i am censoring every word i say
before it comes out of my mouth, changing secrets into
dinner time conversations, because a boy does not feel
safe enough in his own skin to come clean about something
as pure as the foundation he has been built upon.
later he tells me that he wishes he were strong enough
to just tell them, but he knows his father still
has the c
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 tea
you love but i’ve always disliked. opening
the 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 newspaper
and you’re finally going vegan - don’t let me forget to tell you your risk
of 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 room
and put on new sheets. these don’t smell like you, not that
i could even smell-taste-hear-see-feel these days.
you stole my heart and bed frame an
there aren't anymore saturdays.it's funny that you thought you could
tear me apart
but weeks passed with your nails against my soul
tell me when did you realize that i'm nothing
and there's nothing inside my skin
no feelings for you to tear
and all you did was hurt your hands and
tangle your hair.
i wish i could laugh.
What I Gave YouI gave you my time
And you wasted it
I gave you my love
And you ignored it
I gave you my heart
And you broke it
I gave you my soul
And you lost it
I gave you my life
And you sent me to Hell
the aftermaththe temple of her body was torn open tonight,
desecrated and lit on fire. i swear, gods have burned
and felt less pain than i do as i write these words down,
because she’s crying in my bathroom right now and i have
to go and convince her that the handful of feathers
i have left in my palms could ever equal the wings he snipped
off of her tonight. she will never fly again. she will never
believe so wholly in herself again. her body is no longer
a temple, her body is a landmine, an open wound, a thousand
foot drop off of a bridge, a stranger to her. she will never
again be able to trust her body, to know her body.
this is not the first poem i’ve written about rape. but this is
the first poem i’ve written about rape when my hands
are shaking and i have a twenty second phone call still ringing
in my ears. it’s not about statistics anymore. i cannot
distance myself from the cold, hard facts by using pretty
metaphors about dissolving and beginning anymore
because a gi
NothingI heard someone sarcastically sputter,
"You are what you eat."
But hearing that sole sentence
allowed me to finally understand
why I am
what I am:
hi momhigh school’s getting a bit tough
and i just wanted to know if you’ve ever
looked in the mirror and thought that maybe
your 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 harder
than i thought it would be when i was five because
people are a lot more different now than they were then.
they're a lot better. and a lot worse and things are a lot
more complicated now that i realize the gerbil i had
when i was six didn’t just “fall asleep” while i was holding it
and 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 lies
and bad lies but my friend told me it has something
to do with intent and i know you hate to
see me cry so even on days i feel like the dead sea
inside, i promise i will not let go.
i just wanted to ask you how it felt when dad told
i read about serial killers not saintsshe says, “what are humans made out of,
if not emotions and quirks and mistakes?”
i think to myself that humans are made
out of sinew and bone and tissue and if god hasn’t
found a way to love us bloodily and morbidly
then he will never be able to look past any
of our self-taught imperfections.
but i say none of this, just nod and smile,
and wonder what it means that to her,
all that i am is a series of mistakes stacked
on top of each other. my entire body is a past
i cannot outrun no matter how many times
i move away and forget my name and who i used
she tries to take away my body, but i have fought
for sixteen years to gain these inches of self-love
and i am proud to stand before her now wearing muscle
and skin. i want to tell her that i am ninety-three
percent star dust and that means ninety-three percent
of who i am has lived in a blackness so absolute
that the only light i had was the one i created for myself.
i want to tell her that’s something i thi