NaPoWriMo: Day 8I was toldto slice through the thickestof scar tissue this evening.Let all my inner demonsfall to the floor& write them outin my own black blood.It’s not red anymore,even though needles& the bruiseslaid out like war-landson my armssay otherwise.I don’t think it ever was,honestly.Therapeutic,they said.My mind is a messof free versed insecurities,cat’s eye marbles,& untamed forest fires-but,I still don’t have the nerveto slice open my skin& bleed for her.
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.
NaPoWriMo: Day 10 Have you ever been so cold, Sweetheart, your knees q u a k e d like that Jenga piece that buckled just before your whole foundation t o p p l e d over? I have. & no matter how many times I've restarted your heart, one would think I'd grow tired, eventually; I'm still writing you in poetry (in the most inappropriate of places.) You forced yourself beneath my blades & my fingertips, Licking unstable knees, you were death on my tongue: angry apricot eyes, unforgivable sin scaring my limbs & haunting my dreams.Cardiac arrest & I'd still try to save your fucking life.
NaPoWriMo: Day 2sometimes,i have thissudden urge to cutmy hair.most of the time,i just wish I were anythingother than me.a rocket ship, a bird-the sweet flavored smokeI promised my girlfriendthese briar patch lungswould not in.hale.instead,i have fallen in lovewith the strangest of things-eyes that intimidategodless boys.the way my scarsplay hide and seekwith her hands. -the love lettersthat start and endwith kissespressed against limbs.i make promisesi know i can not keep.but if i were a liari would say i was tiredof writing to the stars.
I am trying to be honest,but I write so fucking floweryit makes me sick,rose scented stars & love.No.Her: helpless as a lamb,I want raw, achingbone against boneexploring the exposed, nakedpoetry of her universe-( warm, celestial hands forging sandcastle ribs. )Southern earth beneath her feet,wanderlust burned like Apollo's touchinto her spinal cord, please awakenthe empty space between her skin& mine.
No wander about it, just lust.You were a mid-morning train wreck,the embodiment of poetry.& my clavicles whispered too many nothingsabout your summer storm hands,folding like paper cranesto make wishes upon themselves.wishes are for the weak-stand up,do something about this quaking heart& freezing fingers.Anything.I think I found God then,lurking behind wanderlust eyes.
dear,when i first met you,terror chilled downthe heatof mylouisianaspine.i shivered& my heartbegan to buildwalls over wallsover walls-beating:fuck this,i won’t let themhurt you, again.i have a tendencyto get knockedoff my feet& not knowhow to get back up.i’m still crawling around,searching for your heartbeats under my bed& between my tangledsheets.i am pathetic.but,you were all crooked,misshapen insecurities& nights of forgettingto take your zoloft.i didn’t think I would miss that.i didn’t think I would miss you.you fell like a meteorfor him, hours afteryou demolished me.& i can’t hope you’re happybecause i’m still patching upthe war zone you left behind.i taste bile in my throat.but,i swallow it back down.i won’t get sick for you.i won’t.i won’t.i won’t.too late.
Sun Child,I am freezing& I am hungryfor fever’s lips-her inky fingerspurginga dry stomach.My body is an ocean,my limbs, but oars.My tongue & teeth,a life raftkeeping this madnessfrom sinking into blue.Offering up 102 degreesof skin;You would thinkI had something to say.
9729 kilometers away, to be exact.i have these bones like flowers-fragile and finely plucked,these lily stargazersare kissing ocean beds,making love to sirenswhile yearningfor a taste of herwander(lust).i want to tape maps to my limbs-throw caution to the windas i gather upevery love letter receipt,from every false attempti ever wrote her& forget for just a momentthat even stilllight-years away,she does not love me.
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?
NecromancyShe thinks there are nebulaein the rough of my gutter bones,some stargazing sanctuaryfor lonely outcasts to lay their heads.I am but a car crash,spellboundinside eyelids,& red inked correctionson crosshatched skin.Made up of moans,the clutching of bedsheets;I am contemplatingripping my ribs apart& provingI never had a heart at all.But my moon shy love;she is determinedto try & wake the dead.
( 4/04/2014 )Everything here is so fuckingloud and this dragon eyed girldoesn’t feel like filteringanymore.She doesn’t want to answerthe phone today, either, so-she stuffs her ears withsilence, andher mouth with newnamesas she kissesswollen knees.She’s ponderingsocks now toowiththeir mixed &matched indecency.Real ladies wouldn’tdare step outsidewearing one pink& one green sock,only,but she’s no lady.-A red lipped hermitholding a knife to herown throat, screaming-writewritewritewriteidareyou!maybe,who embracesthe sun andthe rain on her facefor the first timein weeks.Oh poets with yourpretty words andold souls,this is what truewriters blocklooks like.
Dear Poetry,You will find out that I am not a strong person. Dragons do not make a home beneath my skin to hoard their treasured princesses. I am not that lucky. For I have misplaced collarbones just as quickly as I’ve misplaced hearts, a pulse still rhythmic against my fingertips. I am a monster of words, devouring Cummings and Plath with no ounce of self control left in my body. I promised myself this weight would not fall for the sharp edges of stars ground into your knuckles. But, write air into my lungs, poetry. Give this wild thing a reason to learn the definition of tamed.Write me a poem, and I will promise to fall in love with you, slowly and then…all at once.
You do not whore around,You spend your nightsreachingfor Apollo’s robes.You’re as hotas New Orleansin mid-July, andas fierceas her gumbo.But, he is light-yearsaway and your fingersache with tiredinsecurity.-a disaster inyour ownmoon skin.Even if it fucking hurts,you can still tastehis heat on your tongue.Gods be damned,you’re a butterfly-( even if mountedto a bed. )One day,you will find yourselfand fly away.
Bones mend, but tell no lies.You have cataloged your scarslike your body is a library-to be read through &learned from.You think ofall the little boyswhose greedy fingersgracedyour pages.You are angry-nonecared for youproperly:foldingcreasing& breakingyour spine.They left youon a shelfto gather dust.& whyshould you everforget that?
Collection of poetic nothings.We were opal Tuesdays,mosaic butterfliestattooed into therose garden curveof my vertebrae,gliding me through this wild youth.But, like Icarus—I was a sky conqueror& these silk wingstouched the sun.-My inhalations are heavy,like the earth he bruisesbeneath his fingertipsas I chase silence."You've got a tonguemade for words." He saysagainst the arrogant thornsof my briar spine."Learn to love yourself."-How do I say I love youwithout saying I love you?"I want to replace my heart with you."-You are spider silk woveninto my harvest moonheartstrings, spiderlimbs traveling this road mapof songbird sin.You are not just in my head now,you are dancing in the lingering starsof my night-witch frame& setting me on fire.-You're not bruised enoughthey said,to write poetry.-Allow these bones to tell your story, Love.
It is 9 in the afternoon& I have forgottenhow to write in poetics-tongue kissed & gaping likea siren missing from her sea.I have been coughing up blackfor days. Unable to clean the tastefrom my mouth, these brokentypewriter keys sewn into myfingertips scream something fierce.They ache with longingto tell of a storythat left themfor a better highyears agoa story that never deservedto make a home under the skin,to crawl breech through anunsuspecting womb.-& out through the wristsof young girls much too ripeto fall from their beds.I am so damn tiredof looking over railings& wondering whatit would feel liketo fall.
I'm talking myself in circles,I screamed,"There is nothingwrong with me, not a damnthing.”I wanted to believethe big dipper on my armmeant something morethan sun marks & kisses.But, how can I trust wordsthat slip through my teethas easy as breathingwhen this starhas only ever learnedhow to f a l l ?
Prelude Nocturne;I conjure the moonas dusk crests, a wave across the sky I am lovely and lonely in the night, shadow- shackled to the mountainsideand the mothsunfurl their hamsa-wings asmama calls me in.
The art of self-destruction.I have spentmy whole life perfectingself-destruction,how to separate myinsides from theoutsides without ascar to show.My arms have beenweapons instead of shieldsand I have built no otherwalls to defend me.I grew up inthis house of fleshand instead of tendingto its needs I havebeen letting peopleset it on fire insteadof loving me.
constellations, ambitions, and things in betweeninstead of poetry,i want to live inthe stars;nestled betweendraco & orion,wrapped in nebulae.oxygen is toosuffocating. iwant to breathe ingalaxies.neither the godsnor my demons canstop me —i will make the universemy own.
i am tired of being told i will be okaysee,that's the thingsweetheart,all anyone evertells you is thatit's going to be'okay.'(you are telling methat you are leaving.)'okay.'they don't tellyou what to do withthe pressure inyour chest onthe dark days,or how touncurl your fistsfrom your hairor your nailsfrom your skin.'okay.'(you are telling methat you don't know ifyou are coming back.)'okay.'maybe i don't want'okay.'maybe i'm tired ofonly ever being'okay'.(i am building wallsagain and you are pryingmy fingers from my hair.)i want more than this,i deserve a word so full ofhope and safety that itweighs my tongue downwith flowers.give me a mouth fullof flowers and remove 'okay'from your vocabulary.i need more than this.
As luck would have it.I have visited thehalls of the mental wardsthree times in thislifetime.The first timeI was driven through.Herded.A deranged,unsightly beastwith two left feetand a thirst forits own blood.The second timeI was carried through.Cradled and cold,a child with wax wings.I'd flown too closeto the sun.The third timewas by my own hand.I was tired.I had had enough.I was ready to besomethingworthliving for.
Be gentle, love.Be gentle,please.Some daysmy body is too heavyto inhabit,hollowed out andfilled back upwith empty;empty sadness,empty anger,empty fear.Be gentle, love.Be gentle andlet me lay here,still and silent,until my emptinessempties out.
I cannot lie, even to save you.A road runsfrom my heart to my mouth,a bustling bypass ofthings I shouldn't saythat flood my mouthand crash against my teeth,wave after wave after waveof me until we are bothdrowning in the honesty.
Six lessons on love.One. Sometimes love will move so slowlyyou will stop waiting for its arrival. You will become anopen bar and you will be drained and drained until oneday you open the door to let last night out and love hasleft a calling card on the doormat.Be patient. Let love come to you piece by pieceuntil you are full to the brim with it.Two. Some days it will feellike love has come for you with a wildfireat its heels. Let it come; you weremeant to burn brighter than any sun orstar we care to name.Three. Growing back after burning downis a sign to leave old loves behind. Let themgo kindly. Wrap them up in tissue paper andribbon and give them a kiss goodbye. Be gentle butfirm.Do not use maybe. Do not look back.Four. Love can hurt and you will let itbecause you are in love. It will spit venom andthrow fists until you stand up and throwsomething back.Be strong, letting love go is notweakness.Five. Love will sometimes be too much.It will let y