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
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!
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
Barkley and II used to give spare change to homeless guys when I saw them. Particularly if they didn't ask for it, because confrontation scared me and I didn't like people I didn't know speaking to me. It was my own little way of trying to apologise through actions to all those people who had asked for change and received nothing but a panicked squeak in reply.I never gave money to the ones with dogs though. I read somewhere that they drugged the dogs so they would lie down and look sick, and that way they got more money than those without dogs. It seemed like cruelty to me so I pretended not to see them.I loved my dog, Barkley, a seven year old black lab who likes cuddles, water and playing fetch. He had lay by my side as the crippling depression had swept over my life in waves, and he had patiently waited for me when those tides subsided and I tried to find my own feet in the world.I knew, with absolute certainty, that if I ever ended up on the streets I would give Barkley to a shelter. It wou
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.
A Rainy Night on 17thGlitter on every surface.I hate the damp way it shines& reminds me of those pretty thingsthat break your heart sometimes.It convolutes my fingerprintsas I lay them on your door,you'll never know that I was hereor what I came here for.It'll shimmer 'til it rains again,then wash down to the groundbut even if I was six feet awayyou wouldn't know I'd been around.The rain purifies this sufferingand washes me clean of crimes& reminds me of those pretty thingsthat break your heart sometimes.
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.
.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?
ellie.she was always agalaxy, and i am not allowed to touch stars.
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.
i haven't forgottentell me, boywho is your god.do not say itis the limbsthat spread youbetween knowingand comfort;do not tell me it ishands wrapping a headboard, nor a mouthtugging your namefor salvation.i want to know who it isthat makes you lucent,bent beneath the dark,weeping,because there is no divinitylike the one that makesyou bleed
shetar-tongued;sea-brittle sugarbones & star-stitchedwitheringwaste offever burns &blue lips
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…”
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
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,you are notthumbed bruisesor honey bones& you have onlyever been a godinside of your own head
Saltwater Burnsmend your brittlepoet fingers &nurse your static headsunwashed--cherry lips &blue, blue fingernails[girls like you areselenium-sweet &withering]
NaPoWriMo: Day 9More respect for hungry lions, than man's greedy fingers,she really, really doesn’t want to write this poem.As she forgets how to use words (on most days,)relying on curses like casting some witch's spell-with only ten dollars to her name.The oldest daughter:she’s still somewhere in the middle,filed under miscellaneousbecause they had no other way to categorize her.Getting her first gravestone at three-she prayed not to the gods,but to the lily stargazers in her palms.One day she would become a bird, fly south & never come back.She doesn’t want her deathlaid out like a fast-foodrestaurant menu-so, how does she begin to explainthe greenhouse cultivating in her breastbone?
How CharmingI'm desperate to find herto steal another kiss.Catching Cinderellashould be simpler than this.
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