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.
where do you fall when you fall in love?i see my voice curl toward the sky in crystal breathsas i stand beneath the stars and ask the gods"where do you fall when you fall in love?"and in the distant thunder roars as zeus clears his throat.lightening strikes to start a fireand in anticipation i sit by the flames as he begins his story."love," he says, "is the beautiful medicationthat we drink to still our pain,but often it is overdosedand we always end up crashinglike a star falling from my sky."as i watch the shadows dance about his faceaphrodite proudly walks to uswith her golden grace and emerald eyes."there's a kingdom," she says with ivory verse, "just below the seaand it awaits young lovers therewhere they drown for all eternity."at the mention of the sea, poseidon falls down to usfrom his chariot atop the cliff and in his booming voice he declares;"and in that cavern the butterflies are drenchedand with heavy wings they cannot flyso they suffocate the lovers."with the quietest gait of a clumsy fox
5:17 AMand it's sad to thinkthat if you came backto tear me apartagain,i'd let you.
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.
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.
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.
you're so blind.here i am drowningand you have no idea what to do,you're so lostand panicking.why don't you take your handsoff my shoulders?
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 lace curtains drowned in the rain.you told me i wasn't allowedto write poems about you anymore.but it's like when my doctor tells my handsnot to shake;i can't control it.
metamorphic.being a ghosthas lost its appealand i just want to slip back into the autumn warmthof human skin,but that sweaterno longer fits.
numb.i'm left standing in the rain,holding every death like a bouquet of flowers,but damn aren't these daisiesbeautiful?
its 8 pm, and i'm just trying to forget."hey, your shoe's untied"shouldn't be romantic, and it shouldn't make my heart flutteras i lie here in my bed and imagine that the lines in my ceilingare the perfect blue veinscoursing beneath the flawless ivory flesh of your careful hands,that never shake like mine.but those four simple words you said one day across the halls,before we ever really met,were the nicest thing you ever told me,because it showed how much you cared,but i guess that was back then."i love you"should be romantic, and it shouldn't make my heart shatterwhen i look at the polaroids taped to my wall,and think about how much brighter your eyes always seemed at nightwhen we danced beside the waves.but you spoke those words as you stood by the doorwith a question mark hovering in the air;the air that choked me when you walked away."i'm sorry" still lives deep within my walls,and reverberates every time i scream your name.
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.
there's rain on the window.hands like yours could choke the seaand paint clouds in the sky.hands like yours could tousle the hair of god,but you'd rather touch my faceinstead.
beautiful.i want herlike the atlantic needs a storm,but she's causing hurricanesto flutter in some other boy'ssoul.
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.
i'm not going to lie and say she was perfect.her skin was spotted with what she passed off as freckles,but what were really scars from a thousand summer sunsas she ran about outside,climbing trees and treading rivers,pretending to be an american bomberin the midst of WWII.she kept crimson stains on pearl pink lips,which always had the habit of getting on her teethbecause she put on make-up after dressing in her carand ordering coffee in every way she hated itas she drove to the record store three times a day,ignoring her job downtown.she owned four and a half hairbrushes exactly,i took count on the first night i stepped into that whirl-wind room,though her lopsided up-dos of messy blonde hair revealed just how much her fingersnever broke the dust.she had these lovely fragile handsthat showed each and every vein and bone,the type of hands made for tearing boys like me apart.how could i have even expected to survive,a paper poetheld against a reckless flame?
right now it's raining outside.i take the things i loveand hold them tight like a rose beneath my fingers,my knuckles manage to fade a whiter hueand slowly the petals bleed,and i'm left with the crumbled thornsof painful regret.they would have been better offhad i just let themgo.
tenI've politely declined deathfor maybe the seventh timebut he's a rather persistentfellow; he never lets myfingerstray toofar fromthe trigger
.just breathing isn 't enough -i need to scream to remind you I'mstill alive.
.and this beating in my chestmight just be the banging of someonetrying to break free.
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
Feardeath came tappingon his window(there's nothing to fearhe's gone now)
NothingI heard someone sarcastically sputter,"You are what you eat."But hearing that sole sentenceallowed me to finally understandwhy I amwhat I am:Nothing.
i don't have a dog1. i get up at ten.this is an accomplishment.by eleven, i’m awake enough to miss you.to be honest, that part never goes away—but eleven is when the typewriter grows fangsand threatens to swallow everything i amif i don’t put a name to the feeling. even the dog’stail does not wag. he keeps watching the door.he will not even touch his food until the sun hasset as deep as possible. he is giving you everychance to come back.i try to tell him there’s no use,that you will never come back.but dogs don’t understand things like that,don’t believe in the concept of ‘never come back’.they believe in the sound of a key turning a lockand the inevitable stomping of feet on the welcome matno matter how many times they’ve heardthe car engine start and the crunch of gravel as it pulls away.2. this must be what missing you feels like.i have lived lifetimes in the minutes i keep breathing.i keep breathing. this is an accompl
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
i speak too fast for necromancya cigar-store solipsiststuffing towels in doorways,i was crowned prince asphyxia;oh, do not fall in love withdead boys - you can't makemartyrs out of suicide drones.
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.