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.
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
these catastrophic disastersThereis a storm inside herchest; a miasma ofthundering insecurities andflashes of despair. The ironyis, she hasastraphobia—but inside hermismatched veins there lies atempest awaiting to beset free. The most beautifulpeople have the ugliest ofscars,and hers just happen to be ahurricane of chaoticdoubt marring the insides of hersoul.
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.
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).
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
Metaphorically SpeakingPeople are like books;full of stories and easilybroken at the spine.
free birdit’s a need to feel the suns golden fingersteasing figure eights along my back,& the wind on my cheeks.i must have beena bird in some past life,a swallow or a hummingbird.because, i swear on some nightsi can feel the growing pains of an atlasready to burst through my skin like wings.i just want to be free.
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.
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
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.
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
Dancing- SwitzerlandxReaderYou wrapped the blanket around you, pinning it with the antique silver brooch your mother gave you on your wedding day just a year ago. You smoothed down the blanket so it fell flatteringly around your hips and looked at yourself in the full length mirror propped against the bookshelf. A girl stared back at you, (e/c) eyes dull and hair falling about her face in unkempt (h/c) locks.You sighed, bending over to retrieve some bobby pins from their little cup on the nightstand conveniently located but a foot from you due to the size of your tiny apartment. You piled your hair up on top of your head, stabbing it full of bobby pins and creating a fragile mimic of the hairstyles of all the rich, beautiful women you saw in magazines and on posters.Your gramophone crackled to life with a piano concerto from your husband’s favorite musician, Roderich Edelstein. You swirled about the room, humming along to the sweet, somewhat sad sonata, closing your eyes. With the gentle swirling of the
Imperfect Assembly LineIf you were to mass produce and sell humans like, let's say, electronics, what would the perfect product be?One that does it all?One that cooks, cleans, does any kind of work and does it well?Never complains, gets sick, makes a mistake?One that isn't too old, so it can't do anything, but also not too young so that it can't learn?No human meets all these requirements.So is there no perfect product?(Of course not.)What would make a bad product?One with any kind of illness; be it depression, cancer, AIDS, ADD, etc?One that is nervous and shy?One that doesn't know when to shut up?One that can only do one job, even if it's one you disagree with?One with a mind that may not always work right, but is its own, with beliefs and feelings it's willing to fight for?I have many of these faults.Am I defective?(Because I'm pretty sure my warranty has expired)Did you know?Our warm, bright sun has freckles?Our gorgeous, romantic moon's a crater face?Our Earth, our home, has body iss
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.
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.
UpliftzzzWake up, dreamer--your broken < heart 3demands ! reasons ?why we're falling ap a r tAnd so the symbols fadewith my simple point made--never thought it was hardto call a spade a spade;no matter what we say,we'll give ourselves away--please let me lift you upto where the angels lay;and as you touch the sky,we'll soon ignite inside--always meant to beliethe day the music died;and they'll be taking notesto spin into new songs--they'll use rhythmic quotesto right eternal wrongs;we'll let the wounded showthe scars that no one knows--where mankind's piercing wordsgave way to exchanged blows.This is our revolution;such is our evolution--unbounded predilectionfor clear absolution;let it be our intentionto uplift each shattered soul--and to defy convention.