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I was not alive but I was living,When I say that I have Lived somewhere, it does not mean that I slept in a house in that somewhere with my parents and little siblings and a dog, and rode the bus to and from a school in that somewhere every weekday morning and afternoon.
I mean that I Lived. To exist does not mean to Live. To be alive is not always to Live. To get stoned and also drunk in high school on cheap vodka or horse piss in red solo cups while grinding up against that guy from your second period class is not always to Live either. That is being stupid with the side effects of severe headaches and vomiting and possibly losing your virginity.
We are dying more in ev
.antidote.You are my vital signs,
the infallible machine
by which all other beauty
You are the salt I gulp,
trying to kill myself with your skin,
the taste of your sweat
as you pull me close,
I'll never admit
that loneliness tastes
like rotten oranges:
you can't ever really
spit them out,
so how do I reconcile
that there has never been
and there will never be
So when they call me a whore,
why don't you make them stop?
You saved me, once.
And you have no idea.
Because I am not allowed
to tell you.
Because I don't know how to
I do not
some kind of necrophiliaWe are a society of secrecy. Everyone's thoughts are tucked away, under creaking floorboards of the mind.
Prying eyes only scratch out splinters of our full selves before the resident senses the intruders and shuts the blinds.
She was no different. Everyone thought she was only a quiet psychologist. Nothing interesting about her.
She would always say,"everyone's got a psychosis."
Everyone but the patients; her additions mumbled with a sarcastic tongue.
"I'm not crazy," they say. Well neither am I, she'd nod and sigh and write CRAZY in the tiniest font. It was just a small scribble to them, just another analysis.
She would stay late for her patients though. If ever they needed her, but no one needed her. Not anymore. She would stay overnight waiting for someone to call or show up hazy in their mild hallucinations. Nobody did.
These days were like a dream, or more a nightmare, in which each flowed into the next with little change nor excitement. It was
Not For Meshe holds the letters tight against her chest
tight but careful not to crumple them
they are the only words from her missing aunt she has
and they're not even hers
"i want to see the kids
before they get married"
her aunt writes
she doesn't know how her grandfather, the recipient of the letters,
feels but she knows how she feels
out on a boat in the catalina islands,
her aunt is working on unhooking fish from lines
and she doesn't like it because she knows it hurts them
i memorized the letters in a single night
i don't like it either and i want you to know
that and so much more
leslieleslie folds her fingers over each other
& lets nothing in or out;
hoping someday to hear the sound of butterfly wings inside,
instead of a suffocating sigh.
Untouchedquestion marks rest
on his parted lips in eternal curiosity -
unconditional love's open-mouthed kiss;
flower petal cheeks
and poster child eyes for the hopeful -
I pray he never sees the world for what it is.
lonely godsyou were a lonely god with strong arms
and too many things to do.
it felt like my heart was a stone
sinking through the bottom of my ribcage
and you were diving into my depths to retrieve it.
you were quintuple-checking the locks on our doors;
i began carrying good-luck charms, praying to an empty sky.
we didn't speak for days.
sometimes our words hissed out, syllables took hours to complete.
i couldn't listen to music for fear that
the rhythm would carry me away.
"i'm an artist" i joked once, flipping my pen into the air
laughing when i failed to catch it
"that's why i'm so miserable all the time."
"no" you looked me in t
ghostsyou can't replace a poet with a playwright
and i know, i'm drawing parallels between us just
to see what you were thinking and i know, honey,
she has my eyes but hers are dimmer, greyer
- same sort of hair but lighter, duller.
same body type same height
even the same goddamn mouth,
it's a little sad
but she isn't me, is she?
has it really been so long that you
no longer know how to exist
independent of a woman with curves
a cunt and a smile? are you really so
lonely and so
that you can no longer
look me in the eyes,
give it just a day to
bleed and heal?
you are tying your own tourniquet and
there's nothing i can d
they get married without a wedding cake-can you hold it against—
a sycophantic apparition in the daylight
you've got patent leather heels toeing through the ash
he's a blight in the night with sky stained black
ink and glass slashed in the middle of a map
in the pouring rain
waiting for the call
where there's blood there is love in a
casket or a house that was a museum before
and a store or a bed and breakfast
in the guise of a business arrangement
instead of splendid cavalier
he's your romeo and you're his new perspective
wrapped in contract wax and gauzy continuity
wonder what it feels like to ride on Saturn’s rings. We would be
spinning around and around and around and around and
around. Never stopping.
could be reaching out for the stars, plucking them off, one by one. I
would give you one. Two. Three. Four. Five hundred ninety-six
stars. Would you like that?
Maybe then you could be more than just a fantasy.
on the outskirts of joliet,
i saw You between red glowing streams:
weaving the horizon like a tapestry,
recycling gold beads from a pale morning sari,
dyeing blue-violet fever, shivers
leaking from my head down my arms,
resting in my belly beside You—mixing veins in the night,
embellishing the road with thoughts
of creation: You spin a thread and it unwinds,
fraying at the ends where the cars break the asphalt
and i convulse,
spinning out of control—You doe-eyed like the kid
who crashed his mother's car and dies heavy beneath
that semi, stuck in the pitch dark, oil blearing opalescent
under the gaping taillig
no time for sleeping dogsunsilenced mind,
can't get a thought down on paper
that belongs there anyway.
bored but with nowhere to go,
alone but with no one to hold.
i think i'll just let fat cats lie.
allotransplantation my chest is hollow after he scraped it out with his tongue and fingertips. his movements were sharp and intricate, like a surgeon, removing a tumor. i could feel pieces in me break under his touch, yet he swallows the fragments as if they were lost travelers trying to wander out of his dark, cavernous interior. i'm being stripped bare, inside and out. he's filling himself with me, a bag of bone fragments and blood clots for his consumption.
he left with my insides, left the hole gaping open and prone to infection. "i'll return them in a week," he says, referring to the pieces of me that he has hidden himself in. but a week without par
I dream of DamascusDearest anon,
Kindly claim that bejeweled dagger and, as I feel the cold blade keenly on my nape, I ask you to cleanly cut through
Liberate me from my crowning glory, my shackles called femininity
At long last, I am released, relieved of my braids, my chains
Finding my own, I set free the nightingale caught up in her cage,
Hoping that someday I will once again hear her bird-songs of my bit of Bilad El Sham, my Suriyah
Desert me in Damascus,
Allow me to wander and totter to quench my thirst, solve my hunger and salve my wounds
Permit me to, as my vision blurs, simmer from sand and sun and sink myself in my own mirage of an oasis meant only
After so long, the hymns forget to sound differentshe is nothing now that she has no ocean to lap at her knees
and drowned her underunderunder
"you won't turn into anything, breezy. you're not a caterpillar."
she turned from love and hope to cruelty and smashing
smashing all my images of her--all those pictures of happy girls with smiling teeth and exposed insecurities.
she never swims anymore
the water is too cold for her
she told me once, after the ocean stopped eating at her toenails,
that I was made for halloween, and halloween was made for me. i took it as a compliment then but only later did i realize it was meant to sting
and then it did.
"you're not a caterpillar, breezy, y
Stucki can hardly believe i've
been pushed this far back.
never thought getting out of bed
would be so goddamn hard.
never thought i'd feel this way again.
you think you've gotten rid of it
but really it's just tucked itself
somewhere between the bones of
your rib cage, waiting for the
perfect opportunity to crawl back
out and up your spine and into your
pathetic self destructive mind,
because you can't live without it.
it kills you but it's the blanket
of security that you've kept
wrapped around yourself all these years.
it's the only comfort.
the only thing that has stayed the same.
the one thing that never left.
you need i
why time isn't timeless, but love is.i still remember when we were five years old
and would hide in the grass until dusk,
where we would tell stories under the hum
of the crickets and the sound of the creek,
where he told stories about his mother when
she was sixteen and alone with some boy
when she moved to italy, where he said they had
the best food and the best lights and the best buildings
but only when it was dark inside,
and he would only wither when he would look to the sky
welling over the sun, a golden mess: yet-
i remember when we were in middle school
and we would sit on his old rug and play video games
until five in the morning, ignoring the clutter
Obscurity of Silents:thumb331749840:
The obscurity of silent's holds this rambling heart, length of time calls to its worries, saying it has ended; there is no more growth in that fond friendship I held so deeply inside. Your sensitivity has fallen to self blame; you must have done something wrong to cause such a quiet despair?
Again, regret has captured you, thoughts has said it's too deadly to share never ending love for her talents or of his beautiful works. You could write pages upon pages about insecurity, self flaws, and hopelessness on your part, but dear saddened one, life goes on. It's fears and circling wishes that keeps you in the same place. When the same situatio
to the gunman of a school shooting in newtown, CTthe black man on the television screen spits reform,
but parents of dead children plea gun control in the
wake of the destruction of 20 children, 26 lives total.
adam, don't you realize it's christmas time & these
parents will be burying bones instead of caroling songs?
the black man on the television screen admits:
our heart is broken.
but there is no beauty in the unity that follows robbing
of innocence. adam,
you sprayed the school with bullets bursting into shrapnel
off the shattering skulls of children.
20 little bodies hauled off in white sanitation bags,
stained red with crusty blood and shouting mothers screaming
PixieI never had enough faith in you,
my best postmodern pixie friend,
who presses herself against my shoulder
killing her fall with leaning.
You taught me something new
about anxiety today:
how to wake
up when it's morning, how to miss
dactylic illness with the parched
indelicacy of a crinkled sun.
In the eternal rendition you say
your name is always in the vocative
case, and only vocative:
says the girl
who taught a smaller girl to sing,
a girl of thirteen, with the same
nimble character we shared, the same
calderical eyes we shared.
The girl's voice
Nannaweak tea and
ginger nut biscuits
silver side roast
fruit cakes at christmas
meeces for possum to catch
fireweedi have planted my city heart in the dust
and set it aflame.
my new one can taste the wind's origins,
it knows how to ponder heavy thoughts with dark clouds,
it knows the motives behind the rain drop's dances.
the sun was eating my skin but
no matter, i can regrow.
i could feel the quivering earth in the bees' hum and
the rhythm of each passing second in the ants' march.
i wanted to tell you i love you because
in all the beautiful expanses of raw earth and passion i have never seen a face so fine.
it is four at dawn and the world is tumbling,
lights and numbers are exploding,
we are dying,
time is not waiting.