i forgot that you will hurt me

But you are
my unwithering shadow
-a ladder I can climb
like a beanstalk to rest
the soles of my feet.
If only I could touch
yours.

drowning pool

You are the ash
in my lungs,
and the split in my lips
[and that’s not a bad thing
-I like scars].

$aint

I don’t care if your world is ending today
I don’t want you to see
where I hide the hurt,
because I burned myself
when I tried to bleach
the ache in my bones

to the heart that held a raw, undying malice

On a paper sheet, she wants to hurt herself
in the same way a mattress bends
its spring to grope the slut
bleeding her morals.

say something i’m giving up on you.

She is topless,
a tarnished fountain
of marble despair.
And the world is a golf ball
with grass stains

tin cans and shooting stars

[ground control to major tom]
I wish you wrote me a love note,
and sent it to me
on a fragile paper crane.
I’d fly away
to be a bright and shining star
like her.

i love you really, wait.

Tell me something heartbreaking,
and turn my veins to paper
in your flamethrowing hands.
I wish your tongue could cure
the crack in my throat.

slutgarden

He taught the dying stars
how to bury themselves
in the barbed arms of a cloud,
because it’s where the sun ran
to fuck the moon before sunrise.

it’s the taxidermy of you and me

I don’t want to make sense,
because I lack the intent
of knitting stray English

   [and]

she isn’t what she used to be

I wish I could honestly express rage,
unwrapped like a tornado in summer.
The way you can unfold
and become verbally violent,
but I am too small
for courage.

just like hazy little pine needles

The earth can see you.
And I can see you.
But you see a mirror,
naked in your callousness,
with bright blue flaws
burned into your thigh.

you’re not a shovel, and i’m not your dirt

Before the week has had
its fill in misery,
an emptiness
you continue to leave behind
buries itself in my spine.
Maybe that’s why
I can’t see the scars yet

sundays are my suicide days

In the pit of your stomach,
miracle pills dissolve
to consume your liver
like a vulture.
When you die,
they will pluck your eyebrows
and turn your eyelids
inside out.

I never promised you a garden, you’ll just water me down.

I thought my throat was marbles,
and velcro was the lining
holding my organs in place.
Because I am cotton socks;
black and brittle heels
scraped bloody
to the corks in my bones.

somebody is dying somewhere, take a candle

The trees are taller than I.
Their leaves stain my hair
with the delicate decay
from dark chocolate autumn.

trigger finger and streaks in the wax

I am terrified of loving you, because it’s all too easy, and I wish I didn’t know how to aim.
Maybe then I wouldn’t leave bullet holes in your heart. But I want to love someone.
Someone who could define me without words, but maybe I was meant to be alone…
because I could hurt you. And all I can do is skin myself against the barbs of self-loathing
(I don’t deserve a single fuck).

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biting down on pure heroin

This is the glass divide,
where hours are molten lava
of time’s decaying wounds.

Here I am a myriad
of untidy horrors soaking
my tongue.
Caught inside a box,
and I am a contortionist;
heavy little bones
telling me how not to breathe.

this is where I dropped my pencil

heil, hitler.
Staccato hearts march
dusted in lint,
towards the slaughterhouse
in our palms;
smoking grass stains
from the pleats
in our lungs

Burnt Midnight (in collaboration with Sky Lanterns & Kendo Poet)

Beneath my eyelids
I am ugly
even in nakedness.
Calloused and vulnerable,
a raw replicate
of crooked lines
and potholes, filling
with the breath
of crusty love.

The night leaves a topsoil
of ecstasy to hide
time’s decaying wounds;
I am a plastic flower
on a wilted stem.
Don’t even say
the word
beauty.

Burnt Midnight (in collaboration with Sky Lanterns; Kendo poet)

Beneath my eyelids
I am ugly
even in nakedness.
Calloused and vulnerable,
a raw replicate
of crooked lines
and potholes, filling
with the breath
of crusty love.

bittersweet between my teeth

one wishbone for the ghosts to roll the dice,
We want to say hello
in prose with daisies
between our tendons,
to kill the sounds of rescue;
filling with anguish
[this is how we prove
our humanity].

good intentions don’t want my love anymore

Kidnap my attention,
and drag titanic raindrops
behind the curtains
of broken arithmetic

[one times zero still equals
a black hole and a bartender].

ii.
The kitchen clock
can’t wipe Wednesday’s brow
with epileptic fingers,
and the fridge throws hate
in the form of dismembered
chicken wings

dig right in me

Lay your tears to rest
in my skull like jewels,
to fray
my love for tragedy
and shake the world away.

..
This house is cold
inside summer ovens
of tar and butter,
where hammocks leave
crosshatched dreams
in my back.

I know that I can help you (I just don’t fucking want to)

It hurts to love her;
the broken girl
painting red in your eyes,
telling you to stop
[stop breathing, love].

She’s not leaving without
breadcrumbs and false hope,
because she’s got
the hands of gravity.

tessellate

They don’t want us
to last forever,
because living color
bleeds zebra
after the decade
swallows its own lungs.

like the dolphins can swim

There’s a heart in my hand
-a book full of words,
about trees speaking
muddled birdsong.

this old routine

They say a lot of things
-the saints among sinners,
masquerading as bystanders in
merely coincidental happenings.

They use big words
like skyscrapers
and jump-ropes,
trying to catch a cloud
in their cardboard fists.

malformations in the code

It’s a despair thing.
The rainbows, that is.
Where someone forgot breakfast
on the curb, with human trafficking
protruding from
a smile and some eyeliner.
Or maybe it’s a vocal thing.
The secrets, that is.
Where chili pepper-matters