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.
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.
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.
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.
to say i'm sorry is so cliche.and on your flawless face,in the hollows of your cheeks,i poured my every secretin the form of silver tears.
remembering.no matter how many cigarettes i light,i can never get the smoke to smell quite the sameas it did pouring from your lips...i guess the same thing goes for sleep,because my bed is nothingcompared to that stupid sofa beneath your window.
i hope you remember to bring the flowers.the stars whispered lateone nightas we lay beneath theirgrandeur."what if i die today?" you asked.and i told you in that case,i'd see you by tomorrow.
whispers.i was so hesitantto take your hand,because when you said you loved mei knew you meant itand that scared the hell out of me.
5:17 AMand it's sad to thinkthat if you came backto tear me apartagain,i'd let you.
against my psychiatrist's wishes.you always gave me rosesthat dripped from pages inwatercolor sinand fell onto the poemsi slipped into your hand.together we'd lieas each petal and word would slowly wilt,with shut eyes and frozen lips,all enveloped in lilac smokefrom our stained and burnt outhearts.
meadows.you only ever picked dead flowersbecause you wanted to leave the living onesfor others to admire...i guess that's why you chose meover everyone else.
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.
broken.my parents took me to the hospital because i never ateand so the doctors fitted me in a baggy mint green dining gownand wrapped my fingertips in band-aids('cause all i ever nibbled were my nails).they prepared a pharmaceutical feastwith non-breakable plates and plastic knives.calories gave way to milligrams,but xanax and prozac don't mix wellwith apple juice.
You've Endured So Many Storms That You Became OneYou have endured so many storms that you became one.Your mother was a tsunami.Her emotions came in wavesand crashed down on you like“this is all your fault”.Her high-tide flooded your basement.There’s water damage in your roots.She taught you how to swim when you were five years old,but somehow you’ve been drowning for seventeen years.You once told me that you hid all the knives in your houseso that the waves wouldn’t carry them away.Your father was a thunderstorm.His voice shook your house so much,I could have almost sworn that you lived by train tracks.His thought cloudsgenerated enough electricity to light up your neighborhood.When his lightning cracked you’d count“one Mississippitwo Mississippi”to see how far away his hand was from your facebefore the friction in his bones was too much for him to bear.You have endured so many storms that you became one.You are an earthquake,and my heart is your San Andreas Fault
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.
Flawed Canvas.Your lipsleft watercolorstainsall across my heart.My blood isn't evencrimson anymore,its a pale and dyinglilacthat bleeds onto the floorand paints a pictureof you.
the words do not come.i am told to writefrom my heart, but i cannotfind it in my chest.
.fistsclench; i brush myheart frommy sleeve, thenditch thesweater
the birth of winterintoxication never even crossed your mindwhen you were thirteen, but there you were:seventeen years of age, shooting every possible substance you couldand mumbling nonchalantly into every mouth you found.those eyes. you knew them - theystared at you, at every party, afterevery next sip of drink. you knew theylooked, you knew because you felt the buzz of itand god knows you always felt your highestwhen they raked over you, autumn,hazel, pierce through a couple doors,a couple walls, a couple months.the same strings of words cascade from between your lips every time you open them butit's because you lock your surreptitiousnessfar deep down in the back of yourthroat, let the alcohol numb you (dumb you) down - down. you fall through the back door and laugh at the stars.
LungsMaybe ifour lungsexhaled moneyinstead ofcarbon dioxide,we'd valuelifea little more(or maybe we'd just go broke).
.and this beating in my chestmight just be the banging of someonetrying to break free.
if you want to stop hurting:i. i have swallowed down this 3am lovelike the ibuprofen i fed myself for myswollen ankle that time in spainwhen i pushed a little too hard andlet go for a little too long.i have swallowed you down so manytimes before, kept you like little embersin the crevices of my chest, burningholes through tissue and bone andeverything that i am - through everythingthat i swore i wasn't.ii. a few months ago,i learnt that it's easier to breathewith your throat open, to take itdown and let go gracefully,like opening your palms againstthe wind outside the car and inhalingthrough your nose.iii. if you want to stop hurting:listen to them speak but do not hear their words, hear only their voice,feel it reverberate against your spine and tell yourself -this isn't a bad thing.rebuild your body like jenga blocks. if somebody comes close,hold their hand and tell them -i trust you.let the air rush between your fingers,let the fire in your arteries sizzle aw
And There Was Lighti.He was seventeen when he died.I never went to the funeralbut I walked past it the day ofthe service. His motherwas in the backseat of a blue Dodge,door open, head in her hands."My baby," she kept repeating."My baby." It would go from sobbing, toscreaming, to a soft whisper thatI could only hear being carriedon the wind.ii.It was a Wednesday afternoon that they foundhis old red pickup truck parkedout front of Slim's, two beer bottles inthe back and the windows cracked to let the staleair out.I heard that his dad told the police he wasgonna take that old truck and fix it up, becausehe had promised his son before—because it's always in the before—he died.And in the after, his mother never had dry eyesand I'm pretty sure my mom told methat she saw his dad at the bar every night,drinking his sorrows down because some people can'thandle the stress.Some people can't figure out why their son wouldkill himself.iii."Some men just want to w
unchainedi have seen sunrisesbloody and feral.i have walkedinto thewind.
42you should neverlove a poet, do not trustthem with yourheart - love may betheir language, butthey are always best atbreaking.
.i've been breaking out ofhell, but the devil don'tstop mehe slips a return ticketinto my pocket and says,you're gonna wannause this, kid
SometimesSometimes,touching myself Ithink of you & ifyou can hear the soundof it, my sleepy love-slidein the sheetsO Ashera!O Ariadne!O Kali!or can you feel itcurling round you? that drummingbowl of skin, that cat-claw,that golden devotionalthat kisses, pulls,pulls your chestto the ceiling.
epitaphs don't count as love letters.he said my eyesgasped like a dying breathand he wasn't going to wait aroundfor the funeral.