wild thingsthere are days iwant to run with wolves.to howl at the stars becausethe moon has never doneanything for me, and swallow roseslike their thorns neverexisted.but this cage -it seems there's no wayout,and i fear it'stoodeepdownfor anyone to hear me.life is just a zoo full ofall our monsters, and[it's our fault] wecan't stopfeeding them.
pretty little poet fingersfabricated gods rest between thelanguid crevices ofher fingertips, scribbling profanitiesall over her skin.she's just mismatched bones& blue bruises, telling of forbiddenlove through archaic letters.a tongue made forwanderlust, & eyes madefor the stars,even the devil fears her.
sati(ate)dit's ironic,isn't it? the waythey say "hunger gnaws"like the way our teethscrape against bones.for all thecalories that are counted,you still feelempty. you aren'tbeautiful untilyou are digestingnothing but airand maybe your own guilt.that's just the wayliving is thesedays: swallowingglass shards toslice up your insides soyou can ignorethe other kind of pain yourstomach is feeling.but when people askif you're doing okay you justsmile and nod even thoughyou can't help butthink "if honesty wastangible, i'd eat it rightnow."life hasan acquired taste andsome days you'dlike to rip yourtongue out.
phantoms from a sleepless mindmost nights,it takes a war to closemy eyes, & even then istill see monsters.my mind is a cemeteryfull of whispersbest not mentioned(because you'd neverbelieve me if i told you).i just want to be free.to wake up with acraving for sunshine &supernovas nestled in myrib cage, instead of thornsbeneath my skin & bonesbetween my teeth.
are my words poetic enough for you?maybe not.because i will never be the fire-hearted girl with remedial stardust lips,dancing with the astral wolves that hunt beneath her moon-kissed skin,with the courage to plant wilting lilacs into every crippled soul she finds.but what if they were?then i would be the ink blots coating the archives of humankind,the fractured jewel tucked away in a catastrophic dragon's chest,and the lyric every mismatched bone engraves into their marrow.if only.
constellations, ambitions, and things in betweeninstead of poetry,i want to live inthe stars;nestled betweendraco & orion,wrapped in nebulae.oxygen is toosuffocating. iwant to breathe ingalaxies.neither the godsnor my demons canstop me —i will make the universemy own.
You WillICatholic school can really fuck you up.Petty insults; “you have ugly hair” “got milk?”Breasts at the age of nine.Bullying makes you someone you don’t want to become;hide all that blackness in your heartwith overly cheerful hyperactive personalities (that make others think you’re a little strange),quickly forgotten.Friends can’t tell when you just want toscream and cry and be alonebecause of how deep you’ve dug yourself in.Afraid of yourself, you think and think, and THINK,until you are terrified you’re going to give into those dark thoughts - (and if you do, then you’re just numb afterwards. Staring at hands blankly).IIFaith in everything, the world, God, people around you, yourself;all you can see is horror.You hide it, fake it, pretend to be okay.Why would anyone care to listen?Just one person of billionswith worse problems than you th
Playing GodSometimes I like to pretend thatI'm God, putting a pen topaper and scripting out someone'slife like a puppeteer.Maybe if Iwrote the epilogue inmy own blood, thescreams inside myhead wouldn't be asloud."They aren'treal," is just an excusefor killing off theirloved ones; I want to feeltheir agony tenfold (because Ideserve to think I'm as heartlessas I feel).
Second star to the rightThere are days where sheforgets how to fly;wings all tangled up inmisguided heartstrings."There is nothing wrong with me,"she insists,"Nothing at all.I just can't seem togrow up."The clock strikesmidnight -she's nothing butmisled faith,broken trust,and withering pixie dust.
dear,when i first met you,terror chilled downthe heatof mylouisianaspine.i shivered& my heartbegan to buildwalls over wallsover walls-beating:fuck this,i won’t let themhurt you, again.i have a tendencyto get knockedoff my feet& not knowhow to get back up.i’m still crawling around,searching for your heartbeats under my bed& between my tangledsheets.i am pathetic.but,you were all crooked,misshapen insecurities& nights of forgettingto take your zoloft.i didn’t think I would miss that.i didn’t think I would miss you.you fell like a meteorfor him, hours afteryou demolished me.& i can’t hope you’re happybecause i’m still patching upthe war zone you left behind.i taste bile in my throat.but,i swallow it back down.i won’t get sick for you.i won’t.i won’t.i won’t.too late.
Metaphorically SpeakingPeople are like books;full of stories and easilybroken at the spine.
broken dreams and invisible heartstringsEvery morning,she wakes up to ahollow chest & stormy,red rimmed eyes.It's so easy to be in lovewith being in love;swallowing fake truths& sincere lies.But her heart—it forgot how to smiletwo years ago,because no one can tellthe difference betweenimitations & reality."Please,please find me;I'm lost between the cracks ofdying stars."Desperate to breatheyet wondering how it would feelto drown,she's never belongedin this universe.
Deux ex machinaMaybeyou should start being morehonest with yourself.You will never be aconstellation ora sunspot on themoon; only fallenheroes belong there,and your life wasn'tpitiful enough tocavort with the stars.The gods love agood tragedy, but only whenthey're the oneswriting the playbill. Itisn't any fun when the actorsforget their lines andbreak character.(better draw the curtainsbefore the performance morphsinto a comedy)You say "I'm sorry" but inreality the only thingyou're apologizing for isleaving before the showended and reading thewrong horoscope that day.
On a Tight LeashIt always makes me laugh when I hear people referring to their boyfriends as “dogs.” And why does it amuse me so, you may ask? Well, probably due to the fact that the man I am currently dating is a werewolf.I won’t deny that I might have panicked a little when he broke the news to me and tried to pummel him to death with a silver cross.But we’re past that now. A little midnight romp under the full moon where he had accidentally transformed and chased after a stray cat had been the undoing to Rory’s lupine secret. Of course, it had taken me awhile to accept the fact that my goofy and sweet hunk of a man was actually a beast of legend, but it wasn’t too hard after the third time he managed to rope me into a snuggle session with his wolf form that I became completely okay with his “condition” (as Rory likes to refer to it).It was, however, on the days where he begged me with those brown puppy dog eyes of his to go for a walk where I alway
pipe dream.dreams:I’ve always wanted a boyfriendI could watch porn withand drink straight vodka withuntil we’re too drunk to knowwho took whoto bed.I’ve always wanted a boyfriendI could ridewithout feeling embarrassedthat there’s a freckle on my breast;a boyfriend who could make me fall in lovewith his eyelasheswhen they’re wet with tears,with his breakdowns and daydreamsand every honest, vulnerable little thing.I’ve always wanted a boyfriendwho could make me believe in Godbecause miracles were realand I didn’t need evolution anymoreI didn’t need to believethat things were destinedto change –that I didn't want them to change.dreams:(I just wanted it to be perfect.)truth:You called me heroinbecause you were addicted.“You ruined my life,” you’d say,drinking straight out the bottle.You never drank with me,so I always knew it was youwho was too drunkto get my je
as numerous as the stars under your skinand here I am, reinterpreting the definable universein relation to you, the poet, and the gravitationof your hips (the parentheticals of your sighs, the longingin your star-ward cries, the vespertine scent lingeringon your weary skin).I would love every piece of you. I would stay up too longand watch the night crumble away, to whisper togetherthe scraps of your misdirected sanity. I would call you perfectwhen it wasn’t true, and become the answeryou spent an entire existencesuffering for.You owe me this, sugartongue; the sweet silenceof your teeth. [this story is like a million othersrejected before it, glorifying earthbound angels:please]rewrite the world for me.
honeythief.straw-stitched and hangingoff every word--violated:pressing my earsagainst your brittlehivesand smokingyouout
Ephemeral1.i wake up and tear the sunfrom the sky like this is agrade school art project and iam supposed to share somethingworthy of myself-- i thinkthere is a black hole nestledbetwixt my lonely ribs,devouring anything alive.on days like these, my greatest weaknessis weakness and i am my own fatal flaw.we live by mantras and my ears ring‘i hate every piece of me’(he put his head to my chestand heard me dying;call me beautiful now)2.we are the false ends of sunkenuniverses, we are pieces ofdead galaxies and you arestardust, god, you arebeautiful.i believe that this is all just a dreamby someone with an imaginationbigger than the word “no,” that weare pawns in a game not worthremembering, but when i’m with youi’m real.i never took kindly to thingsthat required codependency,the uncalloused portionof my frostbitten heartbut god, you arebeautiful.
9729 kilometers away, to be exact.i have these bones like flowers-fragile and finely plucked,these lily stargazersare kissing ocean beds,making love to sirenswhile yearningfor a taste of herwander(lust).i want to tape maps to my limbs-throw caution to the windas i gather upevery love letter receipt,from every false attempti ever wrote her& forget for just a momentthat even stilllight-years away,she does not love me.
Under the rug“You’ll never amount to anything,” the dust mocks me as I sweep it under the rug.“No time for self-pity today,” I tell myself, or tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that…“I have NO interest in being friends with you. Leave me alone.” Another speck hisses, voice quiet but words filled with animosity.“Well fine. You shouldn’t have lied about that then.” I try to sound angry. It doesn’t work.“You’ve already messed this one up; let’s see how long it takes you to mess her sister up too!” a clod of dirt roars before it joins the dust.I stop.That’s… that’s not true, is it? Me, messed up?My brain helpfully provides evidence that would agree with this statement.Depression, ADD, poor motor skills, lack of social grace, lack of social-anything-positive…Don’t you cry, don’t you dare cry, I don’t care if that’s true or n
excuses for why I'm shakingwe live in a world of apologies.I made a mistake a year back,choosing my addiction to oxygenover less demanding things.I’m sick of trembling for problemsthat aren’t mine and I’m sick of tryingto romanticize black holes andthe indiscriminate nature of lithium andI’m sick of waking up every morningfeeling sick. and truly, I’m sorrybut I’m not ready to accept my rolein the making of myself. I’m not readyto lament for those with a smallerpain tolerance, and for my dislikeof anything that requires commitment.I’m sorry I miss you and I’m sorryI won’t admit that out loud.how scary is it to be somethingso unalterably heavy, to be diagnosedas your own worst enemy, but god,you’re so fucking beautiful,and not in the stereotypical boymeets girl meets fairytale way, butthe kind that makes my heartbleed a million miles quicker.I just wanted to cry on allyour scars and wash them clean.when things are bad for
NaPoWriMo Day: 1I’ve got 30 daysto defy Icarus:teach this rose thorn hearthow to fly.[ All I want to be is the space between the stars. ]But, I’m here,ripping holes in blank pageswhile nursing nebulae knuckleswith white plastered walls.
It is 9 in the afternoon& I have forgottenhow to write in poetics-tongue kissed & gaping likea siren missing from her sea.I have been coughing up blackfor days. Unable to clean the tastefrom my mouth, these brokentypewriter keys sewn into myfingertips scream something fierce.They ache with longingto tell of a storythat left themfor a better highyears agoa story that never deservedto make a home under the skin,to crawl breech through anunsuspecting womb.-& out through the wristsof young girls much too ripeto fall from their beds.I am so damn tiredof looking over railings& wondering whatit would feel liketo fall.
NaPoWriMo: Day 10 Have you ever been so cold, Sweetheart, your knees q u a k e d like that Jenga piece that buckled just before your whole foundation t o p p l e d over? I have. & no matter how many times I've restarted your heart, one would think I'd grow tired, eventually; I'm still writing you in poetry (in the most inappropriate of places.) You forced yourself beneath my blades & my fingertips, Licking unstable knees, you were death on my tongue: angry apricot eyes, unforgivable sin scaring my limbs & haunting my dreams.Cardiac arrest & I'd still try to save your fucking life.
in which I become beautifulI drown my conscience inthe holy water of my wrists,I carve hearts from emptypaper for my galaxyboywith stars written in his skin,and I swallow moths tomuffle the emptiness andhelp me fly away.
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.