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were illness ever so apparenti cut the
of a wolf below my breast,
i call him sweet
and tearing lover
that cut me in two
a blade of
sitting distinctly within my chest:
it is to say
that i am not
comforts to killthe happiness that follows your voice from silence.
you are not god, i am not the mount
and i will not kneel
to hold you
when you are ready
her he loves
him he loves
there is a dawn
pulling, a sunset
liei am calm i
am as calm
as the hills
in a winter
you will find me afterwards
glistening and still.
i hate thinking of your loversi like to pick them, he tells me.
he tells her, and she blushes
and he traces her legs with his
hands. she is a beach doll,
a lay of sand against the shadow of
her head, lips fertile
with the crescent.
thick and forward, he tells her
he can make her shiver; i've got
hands like gods, i've been told.
she puts them in her mouths and
think, spanish inquisition.
she is thirsty for discovery.
he feels her,
he fucks her,
and like a tease
to find her.
untitledWHAT WERE YOU THINKING PRYING
HER MOUTH TO FIT YOU, DID YOU
EXPECT HER CRY, WAS IT LEFT
OPEN AND UNFORGIVEN BECAUSE
YOU ARE A BASTARD WHO FISHES
FOR LOVE IN THE PIT OF OLD
what do gods see in the dark?hello friend i've not yet had the pleasure to meet
your deceased, do they tally the reasons for
you why life is better belly up in a grave,
your daddy was an arsonist
carried guns and drew them
to your temple and would
ask you about gods,
do you know gods don't exist
little phillip, only darkness and
the absence of darkness which
if we were to look correctly at
ourselves are endless contortions
of light, endless, endless, ever
forming and reforming and
attempting to deform,
and you were never good at not
frightening yourself to tears, so
you did just that, and your daddy
laughed and said not to take things
before he put the gun to his chin
and killed himself.
the thing is,
you were not supposed to see
and you did, you curious little
thing, always asking questions
and always looking through
drawers and peeking through
cracks, don't you know curiosity
is cunning and will crack
you like a whip,
against the door frame you held
idkwho you are,
but this tepid
destruction of trust
that tumults in waves
against my hands outlaid
said to put myself
at the foot of your bed
and i would not be forgotten.
have stayed, despite
the discourse of sister
whores lining the frame, your
offshore maelstrom of urges
that howl through the inland
where i stay
i watch shores desecrate
with you leading massacar, a hand
drawn and a victim laid straight
that drench the banks,
sink your feet into me
stay until the soil dries;
i leave you
A message to the brokenYou drown yourself
in liquid sorrows,
letting the salty mess
burn your wounds,
and the sadness
to drip in your mouth,
consuming your words
and you say
you deserve the pain,
but I want to dry your face,
and whisper in your ear
how the clouds cry too,
while they hold such beauty,
and so do you.
Pretty metaphors are for pretty girlsI told you to stop
spewing pretty metaphors at me,
for with each elaborate comparison,
I feel a bit more
detached from this world
And maybe I don’t feel so strong at the moment,
but would you be
if you felt like the entire universe
was resting upon your shoulders,
and someone was just there saying:
But you’re stronger than the powerful beats
of a butterfly’s wings
And maybe I do need more confidence,
but would you exuberate it
when the part you hated most about yourself
were the freckles that have speckled your face for years,
and someone was just there muttering:
They’re not flaws,
but rather stars that form constellations
Yes, I can’t help but hate
all those unrealistic metaphors
you choose to pelt at me when I’m low,
yet the irony is,
I know that those beautiful words
are realistic in your eyes,
So I can’t hate you.
Stand Against SuicideI know the pain is perhaps unbearable,
But darling, please put down the blade.
Release your emotions through tears and smiles,
Rather than dreading these days.
Do it for the little girl, whose mother can’t be there,
Or for the boy whose father drank too much.
For the boy who can’t sit in elementary school,
Because the bruises from Daddy hurt to touch.
For the teenage girl lying face down in her bed,
Thinking, why can’t it all be done?
For the elderly man looking up at the stars,
Counting the days one by one.
Do it for the children who wonder, does it end?
For the ones who feel left on their own.
For the ones who think, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard
If I didn’t feel so left alone.
And finally, do it for one other person,
The person in front of these words.
Because you’ll never know how it gets better
When focusing on pain and hurt.
Live one more day, dear, for them and for you,
And I swear to you, problems will fade.
I know, for right now, it’s p
dark circlesi haven't slept well in 14 days
my eyes droop pretty colors
'50 shades of purple and grey,
they're bags and they're designer'
making jokes is how i cope
with chapped lips and constant chap-stick
it tastes like honey and mint
i laugh and say i'm addicted.
hooded lids and sleepy smiles
during lunch at subway
my friends ask if I'm okay
I say that I'm just tired.
but really when I see him with her
my heart sinks to the tiles
she's pretty and witty and sure as hell she can sing
and i'm just a loud bone-collector.
when I see her with him,
dancing and laughing and grinning,
the ring on her finger
laughs at my singularity.
for as much as i lie and as much as i try
my loneliness still creeps in,
because no matter how much they protest,
i'm still the lowly fifth-wheel.
walking behind them on sidewalks
that are wide, but built for four
smiles and laughs when they look back
but the frown creeps evermore.
pelvis peaks through paper-thin skin
and knuckles white and pale
my ribs are empty, my bo
Clear WristA clear wrist, barren of scars,
as opposed to skin sauntered in marks,
tells a trickier story than it's soiled and raw,
uncaring, unkempt counter part.
Bravery, I think it holds,
the strength to bare unimaginable loads
of pain and suffering through endless times,
and withstanding the agony of sleepless nights.
Some think it is fear, the reluctance to cut,
but I believe it opposite, it show courage and guts.
To bear your pain without a nick on your wrist,
is like a solider braving his terrain while being torn limb from limb.
Agonizing as it is, to hide your pain,
you do it so well, and no attention you'll gain.
At the end of the day, it's not cry for attention,
rather a cry for the victory that's silently mentioned.
Your scars are those not self inflicted,
and despite the gnawing intention,
to harm yourself and ease your pain,
the scars you earn are rightfully gained.
In a room of those who have jumped the gun,
and left traces of blood deep in their arms,
do not be tempted to do the sam
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