Hunger PainsIt begins with a bang.I forget to eat for a few months andI drown in cheap ideas with pretty names,the ones they fill books and barren wristsand stormy heads with, and soon,moonlight shines from insidemy ribs and I am a lighthouse.Thank you for the things you gave me,intrinsically, a knowledge ofhow to properly wearmyself. Thank youfor not fixing me.I used to write about the colorof your voice, always blue-- the skybefore I fell asleep and the morningdragging me back; I wonderthat you could’ve loved me betterif you explained who theSomething was that shared your bedat night, or why insincere wordswere your favorite.My poems still cling to my skineven when I sleep. even whenI wake, an anchor. even whenI boil myself alive and unfoldlike a pallid lily inside yourheavy hands;and after enough time,I forget to say goodbye.Today,I pick the scabs on my hips,kiss the sorry out of your smile,and breathe like this airisn’t already a million years old.
nineit's funny how carefulwe are aboutdamaging ourselvesproperly
fall in love with (splitting hairline fractures)we swallow blues insteadof talking them out. oh,kids like us are specters,spectacles: boys countingrib(cage)s & (de)composing don't you hate (this body) is a vesselwe're deities or tomb-raiders; noin-betweens for writers these days
even in death, i will not find peacei lost my faith the wayi lost my virginity -clinging to a girl like shewas all i'd ever have,bathed in darkness and shame.it's been years since then,but i want to lose my lifethe same way.no motion could raise mefrom my coffin of sod and sorrow,to pull me from my bedof dirt and disgrace -but i would wake up withblood on my hands,i would wake up with deathcurled up like a dog at my feet,resting with nothingbut the waning hope thatyou ache for me with a fireburning in your bones thatnever ebbs, never relents.
gossamer loveyou will love a womanwho uses the wordgossamertoo often. she willdiagnose dead artists' descentsinto madness and laughtoo loudly at jokesno one understands.she will braid crowns offlowers, she will write poemsin constellations, she willtry to walk like a dancer sono one can hear herleave. she will bean ice sculpture, and whenshe cries, you'll convince yourselfshe's melting, she loves you, you'vechanged her, you'vechanged; she will wear youlike a comma, likean incomplete thought,likeapausein her story, andshe will leave you wonderingwhatyoudidwrong.
drinking gamedrinkever since I've been thinking a lot,I've been spending too much time on the internet,not enough reading secrets from parchment lips,see, something sinister happens when the sun fallsasleep, when darkness dances to midnight with the monstersinside of youand lately I've been writing too much, or not enough,or somewhere in between because sometimes lettingyour words do the screaming for you just ends up making things louderdrinkwhen it rains, the insects dig themselves up from the mudto keep from being washed away,and lately I've been drinking too much, hoping I can drownthis siren song of lonelythe bottle is a shipwreck sailing in the depths,the blade is a shovel, a set of cold handsso you better start digging, the bones are buried deepdrinkit hurts hearing your voice elsewhere;you were a songbird once and I remember, I'm not sure if you dobut sometimes I hear an echo when I cut the voicesout from underneath my skin,and we all bleed the sa