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
I'd Rather Be DeadYou're always asking me if I had anything worth dying for.
I'll pose the opposite to you and ask you this:
"Why is it that you find life to be worth living?"
Is it so interesting to go through each day feeling anxious?
To the point that you feel nauseated enough to collapse.
Is it so joyous to spend each night staring at a blank ceiling,
Hearing the clock tick on toward morning,
And yet you lie awake.
Tired, but awake, emotionless, but awake...
Do you truly get up each day, facing it with optimism.
Or do you look at the news and the state of the world,
And genuinely fear for your safety?
Now, if it were me that you had asked my dear,
I'd tell you quite honestly: That I'd rather be dead.
At least I would not have to hear the white lie inside my head.
That tomorrow will bring me a 'better' day...
But of course, you are welcome to believe that.
Stripping MeYou may take what you want from me,
Be it my pride or dignity.
You may throw insults at me,
And burn the shredded pieces of my sanity.
You may belittle me, as much as you want,
If only to make your meager life worth living.
But even if you do all that...
No one will protect you when I pull you into the dark.
No one will try to search for you, as my leather ropes tie you down.
No one will hear your screams as metallic screws drive into your face,
Etching an eternal smile, since you'll never leave this place...
"Now then, my dear sweet James, shall we play our favourite game?"
You are someone's reason to liveShe had skin like a cactus-
could only hurt
anyone who got
she held what
it is dark, unfamiliar,
but your fingers seek out his,
and you know then
that you are at home
in his harmony
even if just
he's incendiary, sure.
a veritable (volatile)
molotov cocktail of
watch as he emerges,
ashen-limbed from a cocoon of you
to entwine with the threads
that hold you sane.
want nothing more than
to hiss and steam;
than to cool
in your stillness
redolent of broken-record risk-
taking chances until
there's nothing left
but scratches and
glitches in the wordwork
i mean woodwork,
i mean, skin.
but oh god, he loves you
just like this,
this is a choice:
you may destroy him,
extinguish his flames
and half-bury him in
the ashy remnants
of his own conflagration
but it's an impotent power
that is granted,
i'd haunt you if you'd like.my hands are paralyzed and you're waiting for me to touch your face,
but that doesn't really matter because i'd rather touch your soul
and if you close your eyes long enough i'll read you poetry as we lay atop the monkeybars
in this old and rusted park
you can pretend to know the constellations and point them out to me and i'll tell you they're all beautiful, but nothing compared to you
if i'm lucky you'll blush and laugh at me,
tell me i say the dumbest things but deep down it'll register in your soul just how much i love you
and i know they say you can only save yourself, but darling i swear if you'll just have the slightest bit of faith i'll save the fuck out of you or i'll destroy myself trying,
because i honestly can't think of any other purpose for my life
or what smidge of it i've been able to hold on to.