Your lips are crimson roses
Struck by a winter chill--
The blossoms gather frost,
Waiting to thaw
UntitledSometimes I feel like a criminal,
waiting to be caught
in the act
(full of nerves)
He looks at me and his bland black gaze
reads me a lack of rights,
and everything I do
is a liable offense
I confess, I regret
being born to meet you
Sometimes I feel like an animal,
scratching at her feet
But I bark too loud
and I hide too much
and I eat so much
and I ruin every toy you buy
(what made you bring me home
My home is a garden,
not a pen, not a cage,
and never have I known any else
But I hiss and mewl and curl and whine
and wander in the night;
I'm hopeless, helpless, mindless, and
one day, they'll lay me down
Sometimes I feel like a nameless thing
(couldn't be named more than trash),
filled with wanderlust and aches and need
for more than dust can bring
MargaretThe woman tossed the frazzled red hairs out of her face to reveal a vicious expression. She let out a long, slow breath, shoulders thrown forward and up against gravity, her arms pulled back and down, bent awkwardly and no doubt painfully against the metal slate on which she was bound to. After the exhalation ended, she breathed in, quickly, sharply, and said, “With God as my witness—”
As may be expected, that wasn’t what the vile creature slapping her wanted to hear. It wasn’t quite human. It probably crawled out of hell. What did it care about the man up top? It slapped her again, this time striking on the right instead of the left, and the grotesquely coiling fingers snagged on her cheek, talons sinking a mere millimeter into the skin and catching there. She let out a little shriek, which then deteriorated into a thin hiss of pain.
The incident, quite inappropriately, reminded her of a cat she’d had as a child, a nasty thing, like this monster bef
thick and thinwe aren't like the couples
resting on thin ice;
they'll be sweet and simple anywhere
his promise not to die alone
and mine to pour two cups of tea
it took a faulty string of yarn
and staples, tape, to hold us
close (but that was all)
he runs a hand through my hair,
short like small town phone books
now, and says to me:
"My house is empty
but it needs another book or two,
a toothbrush; would you mind?"
his hand is warm in mine,
smooth and flat, form-fitting,
like a glove, and I say:
"Not even, but I'd love a little help
tonight: an extra seat at dinner,
would you join me?"
an effect like watercolor running into
one another, daylight bleeding
into night, while stars burn out
lips drawn straight like hot wax
but the smile's in his eyes
a dance around the implied
(let's see how long it takes
'till we're washed out
dried like autumnal leaves
in the sun, crisp and crinkling
under our feet
or cold like the tide,
like winter catching up
between our breaths)
Suffering"So that's what we're going with," he says, voice smarmy and knowing, expression broken with a wide and yellow smile. It is disgusting. He is disgusting.
I look at him, our faces mere inches apart, it seems. I rarely find myself so close eye-to-eye with someone; it is more in my inclination to keep my distance, from him and otherwise. I dislike him half the time. Hate him the other. "No," I say, and my voice is calm, but bracingly cold and dry, low enough to give my words the barest whispers of enmity. He is stupid, and I know he is stupid. He is more than stupid. He is repulsive. "Today," I begin, quietly filled with loathing, "Justin was the only one who played. We watched. That's all. So, no, that's not what we're going with; it's what happened."
He laughs, beady black eyes crinkling though not straying from mine. It is a slimy, warbling laugh, and it is a little too high-pitched, a little too loud and self-serving. That ugly, smug smirk settles down again. "Sure," he says, h
OrientI think I saw a cardboard coffin
once, and it was strange:
(and they were crying)
and the dying had been finished
I think I heard a man’s last words
once, and in my disregard,
I looked to find him dead
(and missed what had been said).
I couldn’t very well say,
and wait for an answer
(from that man died of cancer)
but my mother would turn
with that delusory eye
and a loud, knowing cry:
“The dead speak to us
through the phones;
nothing goes unsaid
and often have I heard
I think I felt oblivion
once, though I slept at the time
and I woke with it present, abiding,
still hiding in the houses where
sentiments once lived
(a finer death).
I think I dreamed of oceans, then, and a girl
aboard a plane that skimmed the surface
(it was nighttime)
and as I swam to save her,
she said she dropped her phone,
which long since disappeared
beneath the waves.
And though I helped the girl
(who couldn’t swim)
PhantomPeople say it's like a missing limb
(and you can feel your fingers clenching,
but nothing's there)
Or it's like a dream, fading each morning
and you want to remember, but
I've heard it's like something sharp
and broken, in your chest,
But I would just forget,
Ladders“Hey,” I say, but no one seems to hear me. I come out of the bathroom, stringing a hair between my fingers. It’s frizzy and abnormal; my dexterity is twining the mass of identical threads into a passable braid.
“Hey,” I say again. It is loud in the living room. It is inorganic, the noise amalgamated there, blaring from the pointlessly hyped-up television and my mother, shouting—or, in her case, talking—into the phone. It is not necessarily a bad thing. It does not bother me very much anymore. It only gets in the way of me trying to say something. I am the quiet one in the family, alongside my brother. My voice is like a normal person’s.
“Drive safe,” I say, a second time, the first having been released into the bathroom, door open, looking dispassionately at myself in the mirror as I lifted the burgeoning braid behind my head to accommodate for the long, long strands. It can be so very awkward.
I don’t know why I say tha
SepiaShe looks at the floor as though there she should be a mirror there. There is only a puddle, murky with rain and dirt.
There's something wrong with her face. Something black about the green of her eyes and something yellow and sickly in the pallor of her skin.
The floor is really very far away from me, isn't it, she thinks, and in thinking so, falls over. Looking at the floor is like looking at a tall, tall building--you look up and up and up and suddenly your legs simply must come out from under you.
She turns on her side, thinking of sleeping. Since she's thinking about it, shouldn't it come true?
There are shoes there. As if they've come out of nowhere. She looks up. And up, and up, and up, like she's looking up a building, but she can't fall down anymore because she's already splayed out on the floor. A hazy, nondescript color like blue, she thinks, but it's really grey. It's a pant leg. A jacket. A face. An unperturbed face.
"What are you doing on the floor?" His voice is like som
You are EverythingYou are amazing.
You are the smiling face,
That gave that kid
Better hope for this place.
You are the helping hand,
Even if you didn’t know it,
That helped everything turn out
Better than planned.
You are the voice
That helped someone
Make a vital choice.
You are the joke
That made them laugh
And gave them that stroke
Of happiness that they needed.
You are the bright eyes
That light the way,
A lantern of hope
Through the fog of lies.
You are their push towards
Their positive afterwards.
And you are far from worthless.
Are the most important person
In the world.
We are all characters
In someone else’s story.
That pivotal point,
That pushes them from misery,
And leads them to their glory.
I Will Love MyselfSilence was at my doorstep.
Rain fell from the storms of my eyes
and hit the cold earth of my cheeks.
Sunlight fell down my face
in gentle waves.
And blood tinted lips
smiled only slightly.
The gentle spring
that bloomed inside my chest
had begun to grow
and replace the winter
whose frost had held tightly
onto my heart.
Silence was welcome.
Tears were shed in joy.
Sunlight was here to warm
and blood to live.
This was it.
I had made it.
I know who I am.
Eat Something, PleaseIt's your fault, you know.
It's you who's spewing your guts into the toilet,
like powdery snow.
Every day you hit the bathroom floor,
grasp the porcelain rims,
and your vomit echo through the door.
I hate it! I hate it, more than anything in the world.
I wish you could just tape your mouth shut,
and your noises I could ignore.
It's all about you, and the agony you've been through,
but through your selfishness and saliva,
I hope you realize I suffer too.
I stay by your side when you treat me like crap.
When you scream at me and yell,
I've always had your back.
How I wish I could purge when life gets too tough,
I wish I could be weak like you,
but my strength is just too much.
How wonderful it would be, if you could take my place,
and when you saw your broken form,
then you would see the pathetic look on your face.
But “plop, plop, plop” your vomit continues to roar,
and through the repetitive screech,
how I wish I could slam the door.
I wish I had the strength to leave your
I Won't Let You Become Like MeI saw you fall to the floor.
Because you couldn’t take this anymore.
You laid there and said to me,
Through tears that fell from your eyes,
“Who cares if I were to die?”
Reminding me of those hundreds of times,
I’ve seen people bend and break.
I’ve gotten so used to smiles that are nothing more than fake.
I remembered standing by silently,
Watching everyone collapse around me.
Seeing bottles scattered around,
Broken glass covered the ground.
And I wondered to myself,
“Is he ever going to get better?”
And I watched you as you died,
Slowly tearing yourself apart from the inside.
Memories are still flickering,
Behind my eyes.
I suddenly remember my own cries,
For someone to save me.
Because I was so close to falling,
That the abyss seemed more inviting,
Than trying to hang on for a moment longer.
Because my arms were too tired,
To hold on.
I am back in reality,
Watching you fade away.
And I see myself,
And the countless other people I’ve wit