i have been writing ever since i learned to hold a pen in my tiny toddler lefthand, and i figure it’s about time i utilize the means of sharing the thoughts it jots down, in hopes that the words may touch you in some way, let you know you’re not wandering alone out there, or perhaps to reassure you that there are way more fucked up people than yourself in the world. the emotions we feel run deep and no matter our age, gender, ethnicity, religion, or how we’ve grown as individuals, these feelings are significant. you are significant. and so am i. so i’ve taken this responsibility on for i feel these words and my warmth are the only things i have to offer this universe. if you are struggling, if you feel alone, if you’d just like to speak to someone, please reach out. thank you for reading, and i hope you enjoy.
we try to be thin
because we are told
all our lives
that our existence
merely takes up space.
see me for what i am not
rather than for what i am.
(i am not 300 pounds,
i am 130.)
both of the body
and the mind.
home is a foreign concept to me,
something i once thought i had
(a thing i’ve since learned to live without)
calling dead gypsies through
ouija magic to ask them for advice, and
they told me, “find fulfillment in being alone,
find solace in being lost,
find freedom in living without a home.”
when you love love
you don’t know if it’s real
if it’s worth it
it: the fear
it: the giving-your-all-to-someone
and the not-knowing-if-you’re-going-to-get-it-back
it: the potential for heartbreak
or the living-as-a-heartbreaker
it: the after-love
and the after-losing
you never know if you’ll have the strength left to start over;
you’re not sure you’ll have the softness to love again.
the bad people are cold
and the good ones warm. know this.
i learned the fact after my innocence was taken
by the right one, he cradled me before he set me on fire
– it felt good and wrong in the best way.
then I turned to ash dancing alone. i fell into cold arms
that lied so sweet or maybe didn’t even care enough to, but
my eyes frosted over white, too bright for me to see clearly
– it was different and felt very much so. i mistook it for better,
found my way around dry-ice-castles and explored heart-caves
no one invited me into. something happened to me there,
the cold spread hypothermic and quelled my bubbling blood,
dyed it blue. i forgot my own name from lack of hearing it,
it had been so long. in fact i forgot everything, left my love
for all sunstruck things in the folds of that antarctic fortress,
lost my light behind closed doors. now i can’t feel warmth at all
and everyone to me may as well be stuck, too, in this ice age
where the thermostat is perpetually broken
… There is beauty in the hurt ones no matter the cause because sometimes we can’t even identify the source of our own. The beauty lies in the experience of pain and the ability to express such. Beauty erupts in the realization that the before only took place so the after could occur. And the after is lying in bed speaking sweet nothings to my everything until five in the afternoon, almost night again, where we’ll lie and learn the things no one else knows over cheap wine and gas station snacks, touching places no one else has with their souls (though many hands have tried). We feel like nothing alone but we are each other’s everythings and we won’t rest until we’ve stacked all the bricks that will make up our own universe, away from the others and the bullshit expectations of past generations, living only as each other’s everythings.
Night and day, day and night, we think only of each other and that language we speak, the one unspoken through eyes warm only for one another. I don’t want to be cold anymore and maybe that’s why I revel so deep in your chest cavity, a cave in the dark where I can dress up in happiness(?): a content-like feeling I’ve never really felt before. Even though I still feel the forever-lonely in your arms it’s okay because I know you feel it too. I think it’s love because you dance to sad songs with me until I feel that hollow happy and though I don’t ask, you won’t stop until I smile – your only mission, reached, breaches my privacy (privates stripped naked) crying drops of vulnerability and old mascara which stain my cheeks until they are kissed away, a residual shine left lit by moonlight on the August porch.
so many question marks soil my pages because (i can admit)
i’m just living life like the rest, trying to figure it all out.
i’m not sure i ever will; a body waiting to hit the water,
apprehensive and anxious for death,
black ashes dancing down toward the earth.
i can’t dance without concern for my countenance,
not even alone, not even to my favorite songs,
busy watching my movements in mirrors, impaired by inhibitions
the cowardly lion can’t love himself
let alone anyone else
all I want is you to know about me is that I live in my head
and you live in my sex. can you handle that? (I don’t think so).
all I want from you’s a letter and to be my distant lover –
that is all that I can offer at this time.
you can wait for more but I don’t make promises I cannot keep.
I won’t give you forever but baby no one will and
if they say any different, they’re a liar.
I can give you a lifetime in five hours,
lying in bed tracing world maps on your back
finding lost civilizations in your eyelashes
pushing each one aside like the branches of the Amazon. I am a
venus fly trap lonely and beautiful. I’ve got you in my name
I’ll consume you whole, flaws and all, each one a different flavor
the more diverse the better. I’ve got eclectic taste
and I thrive in wicked waters, guilty for wanting more
always guilty always wanting more. you’re enough
I just want more of you. always hungry
I’m never satisfied.
the sun is honey on her skin (where it is midnight all the time)
its drops hang on the ends of her lashes drip onto her lips,
the rays sweet like tooth decay giving life
to the universe around her blessing her like the
God she doesn’t believe in, a flower ashamed of her
fragility (a fragile being ashamed of her flower)
ashamed of the her-ness she feels and that midnight skin, too
she doesn’t realize how beautiful life could be if she forgot
(just lived it) but she remembers it all in flashes with the sun
bathing in light drowning in it until the seeds in her lungs
explode, sprout ferns fresh with the air she breathes
(where it is morning all the time)
the vines slipping around the knots of her stressed spine
releasing botanical scents that intoxicate those around her
(meanwhile she stands immune to her seduction)…
the leaves of poison ivy that separate us from nature
caress her instead, nestle into that soft stroke of midnight
fondle the rosebuds lying atop her ribcage,
and she knows of this immunity (revels in it)
savors the connection like a secret no one else knows
whilst she stands resistant to those insensitive cities
the slabs of grey granite unmoving-unwilling to grow
(suffocating the wildflowers that try
desperately to break through)
and she knows
it is because
one of them:
your tone is laced with nostalgia
but i’m settled in my present tense
finally finding sanctity in synonyms
lips like cinnamon cinnabon
trade a taste for twenty five cents
they say the best things in life are free
so i lost myself in our infinity
dancing vagrant through nonsense
i poke the heart on your sleeve and watch
it shatter, fall into a fit of laughter –
i never was one for false pretense.