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
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
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.
What a terrible thingSometimes life is painful,not for a discernible reason.Not for a route to something betteror a perversive remedyfor a wound long forgotten.Sometimes we drown in it,in the not yet,the not quite,the not at all.Sometimes even our eyelashesare too heavy,and keeping our eyes open enoughto see the truth is asking too much,and other times?Other times the truth isthe bacteria binding in your bloodbeneath your skin- it's inside -and it knows how to feed off of you.It tugs,it wretches,it wriggles until at last -it lets its forceful pair of handsslip tenderly under your ribcageto compress -down,down on your lungsuntil they are flatand stick to themselves,and leave you gasping; oh, oh the truth. What a terrible thing!
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.
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.
BriefLife is full of fireworks;a brief moment of artimitating the stars -They are not stars.Stars are born, they burn,they die.Fireworks are merelypromises made andnot kept.When a fleeting timeof light and beautypretendsthat the darkness is not so.
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
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.
Circus: The Bearded WomanI do not conform,this is not by choice but by condition.When people look at methey see a freak, a travestya mistake.As do Ibut not for the same reasons as them.Those who gawpand gape and gruntgruesome words at me.They see my wiry beardaffixed to my delicate jaw and cheeks;they laugh and laughand laugh-laugh,and laugh at The Bearded Lady.They see imperfectionon such a superficial irrelevant levelas they spin me in my cageto get a better lookat my flaws.Hair growing on my facedoesn't make me broken, or damaged.The cysts do;popping tiny kernels in my ovariesand flushing hormones through methese are the things I worry aboutwhile others mock me for my features -and take photos for mementosof their time at the circus.I don't care about the beardI care about the children,bearded or otherwise, I'll never have,and the ache for their limbsentangled in my arms,their breath on my skin.Who cares about a preconceived --( unable to conceive ? )- notion of beautya
The Boy Who Wouldnt EatIf you can flutterI have failed you,for you were not forgedto be so insubstantial as thatYou were writto be an epic fableof endurance,of endings ignored,of outlasting your bodythrough the sheer willof a writers starving heartpumping geniumthrough a broken, bowedbut bravely abiding bodythat fights the soulto comprehend Beauty.
Sweet CornHe shuckedher cleanto the spine.Broke off the gold untilnothingbut the stalk remained;bareand broken open.The ribcage spilledher secretsand gushed her painupon the sheets.She lay in the bloodand wept, for the lieshe had lost.
.i dream of drowning inlakes, belly up, a petalshaped bruise of your thumbon either wristi dream that what laysin my bed is so muchmore terrifying than whatlurks underneath it
I do not like you poetsI do not like you poetsbreathing into my sorry headlike the air hasn't been wasted a half-a-million timesfolding up my lungsto place them neatly into a wastebaskethow can you make me stop hurting& then just leave mea limp lettuce leafon the backside of some dirty napkin verseI am not the jealous typebut I'm going to call up Melpomene & ask her where she's beensend her drunk textsall nightbecause I'm too tired of filling up my skullwith cicada skins instead of ledwhile you make it all too easyto sleep through a heartattack or twomy pygmalion, my god, my thing of legendstell mewhen you were being taught the siren's songwas I writing myself a migraine?
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.
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
I wish...I’ve been sitting on your doorstep for three days.Here are the nothings I left under the mat:i.I do not feel like a lion anymore,an alpha wolf, a hyena orany other strong-willed beast.ii. Today,I want to take my scarsout to lunch,feed them your eyes,& your tongueuntil it bleeds sorrow,and “please forgive me’s”.iii. You wish I never existedas you grind those wordsinto my wrists like they arered hibiscus blossoms.& I’ll have you knowI am a flower, bloomed,rooted deep into the soil.You are just a combinationof 26 letters-an “I wish…”
His queen, my muse.Pomegranate seedshave the mostbitter of tastes.She is morethan a myth,you know;unsulliedand untainted,a spring'sbreeze withthe mostarabesqueof lips.There are moreflames beneath herskin than in all ofHades. With everybreath she takes,winter cries outfor redemption.She is magenta.A maiden ofjasper and agate;lily eyelashes andlocks of supple ivy.His goddess:eternal,unwavering—a hyacinth amongweeds and sweetharvest amongthe wretched.
ellie.she was always agalaxy, and i am not allowed to touch stars.
shetar-tongued;sea-brittle sugarbones & star-stitchedwitheringwaste offever burns &blue lips
Vertebraewe dressed oursalt burns;purloined ribbons& bone crownsspitting static throughour buzzing t.v. teethyou're a silent migraine:blue-blooded, honey-soaked[& i want to be somethingtoo pristine totouch]
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... (^_^)
Writer's block.A thirteen-year-old poet,Whispers frolicking among her tongueAs a ballet dancer across a stage.What to write, oh, what to write… Her fingers wrapped around a pencil,Gently tickling the pageWith a language between herselfAnd her imagination.Thoughts race through her mind,One,Two,Three,Quick!Three,Two,One,Gone.Frozen hands on a silver clockTurning moments intoD r e a d f u l h o u r s .What to write, oh, what to write… Crickets stop their chirping,Birds start to sing.Five thirty in the morning,And not a single word on paper.What to write, oh, what to write… She begins to scribble across the page,Doodles and anything that crosses her mind.Words begin flooding her thoughts,As she wrinkles the paper and grabs a clean sheet.“A thirteen year old poet,Whispers frolicking among her tongueAs a ballet dancer across a stage…"And just as she nears the endOf these words,These messy,Crazy,
What The World Is AboutHe said "Daddy, you're the best."He said "Son, I love you."He said "Mommy, hold me close to your chest."She said "Come here, Baby."He said "Sister, Why are you so mean?"She said "Because you don't know what it's like to be me."And every Christmas, he'd get what he wanted due to his father always at workEvery Spring, he'd play in the sun even if it was just him aloneEvery summer, he said he wanted a brother, and mommy said noEvery fall, he said loved going to schoolHe just wanted to have funHe was only five and never understood what the world was aboutHe just wished to be happy foreverHe said "Daddy, why are you so mean?"He said "Because, you wouldn't understand."He said "Mommy, when will my brother be born?She said "Soon. Come feel him with your hand."He said "Sister, Why don't you love me?"She said "Just leave me alone, I just want to be free."And Every Christmas, he'd get clothes for presents because Daddy got firedEvery spring, he'd play outside by hi
Broken Sleep, Red LipstickI am only an insomniac when it rains. The pitter patter of the raindrops reminds me of the pitter patter of cat paws.(He liked to sleep at my feet when I could barely think, just to make me feel better. I think you used to tell him to.)I wish I could wrap your memories around my spine and wear them as a backbone, because they are stronger than the arch my broken spined back seems to have developed of late.(Spines are oddly brittle, and a lot like wrists. Easy to break and forever to heal.)But I cannot depend of any of that anymore. So I wear red lipstick and high heels and go to parties and tell strangers how amazing they are to be wearing red lipstick and high heels and how different they must be to come to this party instead of the other one.(All because you would hate parties and think nightlife is so stupid.)It is what I do with my insomnia. Because my spineless back, the memories of you incessantly looped in my sleeplessly addled brain and the raindrops
Take ThisTake this kiss upon your hand,For the ones who starved themselves,Because "ugly" was written all over their mirrors,Because "fat" was the only thing in their way.Take this hug around your shoulders,For the ones who cried themselves to sleep,Because, unlike everyone else,Their pillows kept their secrets.Take this wish for your success,For the ones with wounds blanketing their wrists,Because physical pain gave feeling,And feeling was so hard to find.Take this whisper in your ear,For the ones who live through pain,Through sorrow, through regret,Through loneliness in crowded rooms,Through nightmares and judgement and hatred...Take these words, darling,These words I say to you.Stay strong. Never give up. Keep breathing.Continue inspiring.Let's keep going,For the ones who starved themselves,For the ones who cried themselves to sleep,For the ones with wounds blanketing their wrists,For the ones who live through pain,For the ones forced to survive...And for the on
two-fifty an hour.let me save you the trouble:because what i'm trying to say isi'm not a good person.--i don’t tell valerie about how i planned to rekindlemy friendship with charlie’s best friend last yearjust so i could get to him and hurt him.(i don’t tell her how, in the end, i ended up likinghis friend instead, and charlie dated anotherfifteen year oldbecause shit happens and what was i doing,expecting things to go my way?)there are certain things she doesn’t need to know,certain things i can’t say becauseputting it into words what it was like waking up,that sort of shame that came with it –it was like – it was like looking into a windowand swearing there’s a monster behind itbefore, slowly, i realizedit was a mirror.--what therapy promises me: love yourself, forgive butnever forget, tell us your pastthen let it go.what i learn in therapy: nobody has all the answers.we certainly don’t.-
How CharmingI'm desperate to find herto steal another kiss.Catching Cinderellashould be simpler than this.
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