Survival of the FittestHear me read itI am crack'd. Open to the pitwith the nub and root exposed.I am silver pierced and puncturedwith holes and protruding piecesof rocked raw wounds rubbed open.I am barely shattering my lungsby inhaling the same air as youeven long after your departure.With a bile-laced smile I paveand fill in crack and crevicesI am more than disfigured limbsand disillusioned heart muscle,scraping a breath down my trachea.More than the mess you have made.I hold in my innards, and survive.
Something(someone) Smallmy curious ivoriestucked between these lipsbeg to see what kisses taste like,to feel what love looks like,but dampened downbetween safety and soundthe tiniest bones in my body, in my ears,vibrate with a fake smileand the nod of my dainty doll headas i lie (with you/to you) againand grimace; i'm okay.
CopperThe underside of my hearthas rusted through the shell.Smooth tissue hangs, sodden,through the ring of oxidised needles.The frantic muscletakes on water, tries not to drown,in the body of fluidsyou spat into my chest cavity.Heavy barnacles of regretcluster cancerously 'round 'til,like all else, they disintegratewith the acidic memory of you.
WhoreI thread a vein out through a scalpel notch;and use it as a ribbon to present my heart to you.I cough a little spare blood. I didn't need it.I lick the copper from my silenced subterfuge mouthand it reminds me of the prostitution of my soulas I pour myself over other men's empty handsin the dying hope that someone might hold on.I smear my wrist against a digital canvas and cry;I give it all to you freely, and nothing in return.You smile. I break. You hear but you don't listen;you just throw another single penny for my thoughts.
Beneath the RoseI can't burn the street down, the tar will fill our lungs,I can't fix the bridges, or the bolts bedded in our tongues.I can't explain the constant, buried deep beneath the rose,with all the other things I broke; death and all erodes.
SpellboundI am not enchanted.The dreams comebut they are not dreams at alland I am not asleep.Your hand sliding up my thighand your groan slicks itself onto my neck,embeds itself into my skin.I wear the remnantsof your ecstasy in my flesh still.It crawls when any other nears it.It came to be that your bed-side clockreplaced my fearful heartbeatas I laid in stasis and hoped -for a passing; of time, of fingers, of life.I cannot sleep with ticking in my ear anymoreI don't think of time running out, but of paralysis.I think of lapses of concentration,of tongues,of temperaments.I think of those slow burning momentsthat stretched out longer than I wantedand lasted longer still. I think of the tears.I am not enchanted.The days passbut they are not days at alland I am not awake.I am pacified by the numbnessof lobe or cortex that controls memory,a self imposed strike out against you,a strike my hand should have made.Regret is buriedsix feet beneath my fingernails.Every tim
Double NegativeI have never loved you.I did not love you from that mistySeptember morning when we met.I did not love you the first momentI gazed into those saccharine eyes.I have never, in fact, loved the roughnessin your soft voice when it says my name.I have never loved the look on your facewhen you smile over your bagel at me.I don't love the cocoa streaked in your hairor the way it ruffles its feathers uprightwhen you fall from your warm bed-nest,half asleep, vulnerable and shy in the morning.I do not love you.I did not love you in that very momentwhen your breath snagged against my lipas it finally brushed yours - no, I did not.I did not love you the first, second, or last time.Listen to me carefully, my sweet -I have never loved you, I will never love you.I will not love you until my very last breathand the absences of breath beyond that.I will never love you for all that makes youthe warm, compassionate fighter in my corner.I won't accept you for all your innocen
The WallI punched the wall.The paper broke, a split lipped frown.That was the thin veneer of joy you painted over my cracks with.I punched the wall.The paper bloomed into a paprika tulip.That was the rusting screw in your jaw swinging off its hinge with your lies.I punched the wall.The paint broke into a smileand I chipped out its teeth. They were the over polished hopes of our future.I punched the wall.The plaster spluttered out a storm.Smooth and sleepy; I scratched at its eyes for promising to look out for me.I punched the wall.The plaster coughed hard again.My anger was a consumption and its tendrils spasmed out from the source.I punched the wall.The plaster caved into a hole,reminding me of all I'd given you and would never get back.I didn't punch the wallWhen the dust settled and its small red brick heart lay exposed, vulnerable, afraid,I couldn't.You punched the wall.
IgnorePeople used to love me.There used to be something interesting orexciting in my darknessor maybe it was just that we were all younger thenand they didnt know what I knewwhich was that the world is a horrific place to beand so I must have seemed wise and new,but now I feel so aloneand it hurtsand I can't do this anymoreand I look around for a friendly faceand when I can't find one I wonderwho the hell I was looking for anywaybecause I wither in agonyand half of it is loss, of her,and half of it, is knowingthat no one will ever witherfrom the lossof me.
Losing my BreathIt's 2amand the calling birds are hatching in my heart, I feel it crack and they emerge. Feel them drilling on my ribs, the steady anxious thrum of a flight risk waiting to happen.It's 3am and I can't breathe, memories of you are nesting in my throat and now I can't work around them. It's cutting off the circulation, and my frantic heart tries to keep on.It's 5am and tears scratch their directions into my cheeks, they flounder and meanderand they erode. My skin and soul is scraped down layer by layer to nought.It's 8am and another day is heralded by the angry flutterings in my chest. I try to swallow my pride, dam the tears and crawl through the dark again.Coughing up bloodand inhaling iron filings(The remainder of what used to be my life).
For JDBA lot of people talk about when life begins. Some say it begins at conception. Love, however, can begin a long time before that. You can love the idea of a child, the notion, the plans for a future. You can love the dreams and the hopes. Similarly, although a life has a definitive ending, love does not.Even when a child is taken from us far too early the love remains, the traces that they were there remain in our hearts and minds, because love is not tied to a finite space of time. It doesn't know days, weeks, hours. All love knows is the beauty of another being and the pain of the loss of them.The only comfort we can take from all of this is that if our love for a child is not linked with how long they are alive for, it makes sense that neither is their love for us. That is how love endures, and surrounds us all everyday, and helps us survive the difficult business of living on without them. So today is a day for tears and healing and remembering the spaces in our hearts where those
MutantHear me read itI am a mutant. | My skin does not sallow in the sun and I do not blush jaundice through my cheeks. | I do not have extra fingers, or toes - although my spine; it boasts an ironic vertebrae, it is a long tally of the hearts I have broken and when I straighten my spine the bones Pop out of place. I am out of place. | I do not have a super power, I lack exceptionality in all but my ordinariness. | there is a vengeful bacteria feasting - on my shoulder places; betwee
CradlingI lay my swan heartin a nest of feather fluff;sanguine, sweet and soft.I lay my swan heartin a frame not strong enoughto keep my love aloft.
ShameSat at five am eating a cheese burger with a knife and fork - my mum walks in. She doesn't question it but nonetheless it's suddenly impossible to swallow as my throat fills with shame and contracts with the strength of my self loathing. What are you doing? I am not sure, I was anxious so I couldn't sleep and suddenly the idea popped into my head and then it was all I could think about until eventually I figured I wouldn't get to sleep unless I got it over with.Sometimes, often, I cry when I eat. As I put larded handfuls to my lips I hear someone in my head screaming; what are you doing?I feel nauseous now. Not intentionally, although I am certain that my binge eating is both emotional and disorderly, but as a pool of disgust wriggles in my flabby stomach.I try to be honest, in fact I am known for it, but every once in a while I write something so true that the thought of releasing an inventory of my flaws into a starscape of eager critics makes me sick to my eyeballs, so I close th
Broken Birds and Stark PhrasesWe slip and slide and falldown curves and carrow places.We cursive at the wallin our undefinéd spaces.Disjointed limbs extendto strumpet our arrival,to warn who are not friendswe will kill to survive all.Hung upside-down hauntershug branches in the Forrest.Merry nightmare monsters,Cheery snarling chorus,Arachnic children know;you can run but you can't hidefrom this disparic truth,darkness waits for you inside.Although you seek the sun,as all creaky spinsters might,the night can't be out doneand it has you in its sight.
Star-writHear me read it!It is nebulonic fate that we should dancetogether in this burning bald ballroomas the flames lick up the sepiatic wallsand drip curled paper down upon us.It is our right to spin each other herein the torrentous reign of flames and ashas the chandelier, already hanging,spits and sparks at us, trying to take us too;and as everything we ever loved or cherishedin porcelain veneer or hand-crafted sycamorecrumbles to a close, still the thought remains-that it is our star-writ fate to dance on.
For every boy I ever kissedi.you took my hand 'neath the magnoliaat a christmas dinner party I held.your mouth was cold. so were my affections.ii.you were the first man to listen to me.i let you listen to my heartbeat; butwhen the day fell away, you bruised me deep.iii.you were my safe harbour, and i your stormturning your misery to naught but airbut i squirmed away from your tongue, repulsed.iv.you were my cradle, when i couldn't sleepyou would hold me close and pray for something,anything, to keep me safe. (it was you).v.eleven months spent sleeping with my phone,i still couldn't believe when you kissed meeven after midnight struck us again.vi.i don't miss those guitar-player fingersyou wrapped me 'round. i loved enough for youuntil i realised you didn't love me.vii.we fell into our love by accidentand like one, there were some fatalitieswhen you said you loved me using her name.viii.opposites attract. i fell hard for you.you kissed me in starlit castle ruins.we par
Chalk OutlineA chalk outline waits for mesometimes it slips into bed with my shadowand I can do nothing but roll my eyeslike a mis=abused and weary parent,but every night when my shadowmerges with the edges of the day's pageand blurs into a dirty midnight orangeI lie in bed and shudder;without my shadow's protection I feel it,a chalk outline waits for me.
Teaching Summer to BreatheSummer will always remind me of hot, sweltering nights spent drinking sangria, through the dripping fairy lights of your bedroom window. A sticky, starry sky looked back at us, the glow of the moon almost golden in the heat. Fourteen meant we weren't growing up fast enough and a liquor cabinet key seemed to hold the answer to that problem.You taught me how to drink that night.(You also showed me how beautiful it was to just hold your breath till your head spins and reality seems like it is going to fade further and further away.)-Six summers ago I met a boy who liked to tell me how much like summer I was. He was big boned and thin skinned and the first time I told him he wasn't mine to keep, he left handprints on my skin that reminded you of a canvas covered in autumn leaves that you saw in New York. Then you proceeded to break every single window in his house (Yes, even the one in the attic he loved so much.)You taught me how to smile through heartbreak that night.(You
I wanna..I wanna cut myself, but I don'tI wanna scream, but I don'tI wanna run, but I don'tI wanna lose it all, but I don'tI wanna walk away, but I stayI wanna start over, but I stayI wanna disappear, but I stayI wanna hide, but I stayI wanna cry, but I can'tI wanna fly, but I can'tI wanna fight, but I can'tI wanna take revenge, but I can'tI wanna be who I amI wanna live my life rightI wanna be lovedIsn't that alright?Here I standDon't know what to doI feel so lonelyWithout youI love youI miss youI wanna hug youI wanna kiss youKnow that I'm thinking of youKnow that I'm waiting for youI would give the world to be with youMy love
binge eatingi have a buildupof black holessuffocating my arteries,having swallowed downthe bitter taste of too manygirls with galaxies travelingthe length of their spines.i ate them in mouthfuls,gaping & sad like a bingereaching for the skies-unable to hold them all in.i don’t think the universeis as vast& wondrousas it used to be,thrivingbetween theintercostal spacesof my ribs;i am hungry.& with a collectionof moon sighsas a reminderin my pockets,i will just have to learnhow to calm this swollenindigo pulse while eating.
Thoughts of YouI wonder how many days I spent dreaming,Of all the things I could never say.And just when I'd written it all in a letter.You showed up smiling in front me.And all of a sudden, the letter didn't matter anymore... (^_^)
Love Beyond the WindowWhen I was young, I believed in fairy tales.I believed that if your heart willed it,That love could overcome anything.That one day, two lovers could always be together.But those were simple lies I think...After all, how does one reach across a window;Reach across a screen...To hold someone on the other side,Before they slip through your fingers.Like a lonely dance between air and water,I can only stand on the surface of the lake,And see her smiling on the other side....Sometimes, I would draw pictures on the surface;These thin useless arms of mine scrawling tiny doodles,And she would smile and reply to each one:Including a heart, for 'I love you'...And each time I would feel,As though I could soar through any distance,As though I could run a hundred miles.If only so I could see you;If only because I missed you...But enough I say...Enough of this life
Song of RaineShe scatters the seeds with her tiny hands.And pictures the sunset in a distant land.She dreams of places, where she'd be free.With clouds as far as the eyes could see.And there she'd dance to the song of the rain,While I would watch from my window pane.With a smile befitting such a lovely girl;The daughter I lost, to a cruel world...
.she calls down angelsjust to burn theirrighteous wings,to see them rise thenfall, those flailingdovesshe tells them, thisis what it's liketo be humanand they say judgementwill arrive for you, mygirl, you will becleansed by burninglightand i strike another match
tocophobia.the world of pregnancy and childbirthhas been boiled down to the white,neurologically healthy babiesin pink and blue knit caps.“that one,” says the tearful father.“she’s beautiful,” says the nursewhile the mother rests.but why is itthat the default image of motherhoodis a white middle-class couple with a picket fenceand a golden retriever?“hey honey,let’s postpone that cruise to the caribbeanand make a baby.”what about the prostituteswho get pregnant?what about the girls in africawho carry their rapist’s babies?what about the babies left on the firehouse steps?what about the welfare motherswho runbecause they can’t pay the hospital fees?who have heroin tracks on their arms(like stitches that can’t hold them together)where the patient bracelet is snapped on?what about the 500,000 american childrenwaiting to get adopted?what about miscarriages and womenwho can never have kids?we preach for the
CopenhagenLet’s meet again in an alternate universewhere your eyes are brown and I dyed my hair blackbecause I hated being a natural blue.I’ll teach you to play guitarand you’ll show me how to fly,scholars caught in an intellectual love affair,a tandem bike going nowhere.I’ll know you by the gentlenessof your fingertips and you’ll needno identifier but the slant of my handwriting,because, world to world, some things don’t change.
DesperationYour spine is a secretmy fingers can uncode.Your vertebrae cracks open,your secrets are exposed.I suck out the tender marrowand scrape flesh off the bonehoping; if I absorb youI will no longer feel alone.
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