GrowthSometimes I start to wonder, where mychildhood went.When did I stop playing withdolls,and stop holding my mother's handin the parking lot.Sometimes I wish my memories werehardened in cement.More than pictures on the walls,or flowers soon to wilt.You never know when you'll die,it could be tomorrow.Hug when you say goodbye,so no ones left in sorrow.Die with no regrets, your life istoo short for pain.Life is such a simple word, butcomplicated just the same.But we live it, and we suffer &we smile.We don't know when it's over,so enjoy it for a while.
recovering from you isn't easy, darling.it began to hurt in surges-your absence became the cuts;became bruises on my once-delicate flesh.your silence became the blood;to this day I bleed.your touch is now scars:scars that disappeared,because even my skin doesn't wish to recollectthe void that your truancy became.darling, you were scars.my scars faded.
who are youi am not the full moon on winter nightsor 8 am in julyfor i am not beautifuli am not warmi am apathy at a funerali am shattered porcelaini am missing fragments of something never whole to begin withi am cracked ribs and broken bonesi am acid rain in a green housei am not a cup of coffeeor a new bookfor i am not bittersweeti am not crispi am closed eyesi am locked doorsi am bruisesi am woundsi am nothing more than fleshi am nothing at all
let me in, let me know.tell meabout good times and how you shone,about nights spent well and how you weren't alone,about fingertips and how the goosebumps rose,oh, let me know.about how your biggest fear is fallingbecause rising again is a chorehow you fear your position is perpetualout of grace, in debris, on the floorhow time will move on, you'll be left behindhow you'll be nothing but a greyscale memory in the back of their mindstell meabout your mind and how it drifts- it sinksinto the lake of your sadness, my dear, you're on the brinksof insanity, bottled incompressed,bursting at the brim
la lune m'aime plus que vous ne le fera jamaisi am so sick of 3 am,that i can feel the existence of the clocks adorning my bedroom walls mocking me.tick tock, you’ll never get over it. so i don’t.i can feel the miles closing in around my throat.i can feel your disdain against my very entity,and I wish nothing more than for a lack thereof.it is 3 am and i want to undress the moon, and fill her craters with stars.fill her with every star I’ve wished upon, craft her out of 11:11 wishes,out of prayers in vain.maybe then, the moon will love me, as much as you claimed you did.
Growing Upit seems that by now I’ve been diagnosedwith a mild case of weightlessness, mindlessdrifting past empty homes and the emptier peoplethat purchased them. I remember conversationswith you about existentialismand the almost intricate fabric of my mind andeverything in between, and you-- the way youpaused before making a point asthe words defined themselves in your head:I remember the day I told you I was God.Creator of all things unimportant, trappedin the body of a girl with nothing left to give, youbelieved meit must be a beautiful placeinside your head, with a worldthat revolves around hope and expectationsthe way it was supposed to; allstorybook-perfect like thewars promise we’ll one daybecome[I’d like to think that every great leaderonce cried themselves to sleep wonderingif they’d ever mean anything anddid things to stand out like smokingor drinking or pretending to be someonethey’re not and every morning they’d tilt
Escaping Narcissusii.there are no explanations, none worthyof your contortionist spine andsky-hungry hands, no sorrow;this is the happy song for the happy people:raise your paper heart to the heavens [I wish god would take pity on me and flood the abomination right out of my skin, drown the impure, start new with a dove that doesn’t know my name]i.in my head,I’ve already left you a thousand times over.sometimes, I wander through the streets andidolize the living like a curious phantomwith a nonexistent pulse; sometimes, I rundesperate to the woods that seemto breathe and mourn, where the treesresemble bodies of people weaker than me,and sometimes, I fly away because it turns outthe needles nestling beneath my skinwere feathers, waiting to cry out, andI watch as your shadow dissolvesinto the unsympatheticnightbut every time,I come back, crawl into our weary bedsheets,and number off your breaths until I fallasleep.
denial and uglier aftermathi drink to you, raising my glass andchoking down the things you left,ignoring my gag reflex and waitingon the buzzing in my head, white cottonlullabies for the weak of heart.it kills me that we are just acollection of vignettes, that sooni might see your blossom fingersand bleeding sunset smile butonly as a memory gone static with neglect;this summer, i became a rebel. amartyr in a child’s game, a vagrantwith boxes of dead poetry to calla home, and when i asked you to want me,it’s only so you’d take the sanity and consciousnesswith you when you left. i missthe days when personality disorderswere not graceful.do you even remember taking me to the moon?you were so fucking tripped out on acidand weed and love and other drugsthat you thought we were a portrait.midnight blues and sober graysbreaking even for a story,but every planet we landed onwas already dead.and trust me, i know you wish life wasa one night stand, because youcan’t keep
Addressed to Jane Doesome nights I like to tear my veins out, individuallylike flower tendrils waiting to bloom andstring them up in the sun I never got to see;violet memories, severe and sharp around the edgeslike the day her eyes clouded over. bloomingpurple, precious thing, nurtured by her inability to say no;I wonder what she’d say when she saw the spaceshipssteal the sky. she’d raise her bloodless palmsto the empty heavens and ask them to take her, too(these nightmares are a self-diagnosedexpiration date, I wake to the soundof your wildflower heart mourning mygoodbye. I still wince like there’sa war being fought between my bones;the history books won’t remember the waydeath knelt and cleaned my canvasskin, kissing my forehead beforeabandoning me to lose in peace) dearnameless, the numbers stamped on your wrist are notan identity. on nights such as these, I swallow your voicelike a shot of whiskey and string myself out like you,the porcelain savior, hollow,
Actualitywhen I was young, I wantedto be a punk rockermetal holes lining my body liketrophies of war, hair teasedand bleached and styled for hourson end until it looked effortless,inked up with words and symbolsI swore were profound witha cigarette hanging lazilyfrom my fingers, lonelyfor a reason (and he told me, sweetie, you are like a fucking eclipse, the bloody dawn God plagued us with I always wondered if mistakes understood the reason they came to be in this world I guess not).
CrackedYou're broken porcelain, merely fragments,beautiful still.And I, being foolish as I am, attempt tofix you,but the shards sink in, and theycut my skin,and my hands, oh how theybled.But you held them, tightly,you held them, regardless.