the moundthe Heights in full sunmy room a meat lockerthe house a heat sink, a car radiator"If you're with a person long enough, the two of you develop your own secret languagenot unlike the wordless vocalizations and touches preverbal infants use to communicate with each other."the Heights in full sunSaturn in the house of Scorpio
priklyucheniya holmes and watsonsometimes I get to wondering what landfill houses the time I spent on yousometimes I think of all the origami cranes I folded while I was in London and the British countryside before I met yousometimes I think of Total Wipeout and the Russian Sherlock Holmesthat hot little rooma title you did not deservesometimes I get to wanderingwhen life becomes a tunnel,I leave my stalely air-conditioned sanctumI pick basil or walk to the corner storeI buy another novelwhen I forget I am a human being,I try to speak with people who swear I have valueI lie next to the man who loves me and,though I still have fear,it is because I can see a futurewhere before I saw only void
cognition, re-cognition, not-re-cognitionrecognition but not-recognitionAndrew's face is Daire's, but not Daire'sI walk a street much like a street I have walked before,but it is not the same one
sleep of the bentskin small violinflash of red hair in closed eyechipping out a brown bruise
safer detergentloofah and bathrobe and bedroom meant for anothercomforter meant for daughter of manthe sheets here smell of you, though here you have never beenthe sheets and blankets smell of a rental house in Hawai'i in 2003three thousand miles from homefour thousand miles Septemberfive thousand miles before I knew you
urban oceanThe wet roads are my urban ocean.Some men see God in the break of foam--I see God in the freeway.I see God in the spray off the backs of eighteen-wheelers hauling consumer garbage to southern Maineas I walk along the side with my boots soaked from puddles.The sea reflects the sky and Route 2 reflects the skyand the waves go shush, shush, and the cars go shush, shushand the clouds roll over,the clouds roll over.The wet roads are my urban ocean.
a rotating restaurant on the top of a hotela rotating restauranton the top of a hotelneon below you,like you're going to falla girl in a suit meets a boy in a dressmeets an enby in redeveryone in nail polishsome need
it's just a bodymy body is not a templenor is it a forestor an oceanor a waterfallI am a person,not a landscape
never mistake another for a metaphorI dreamt of her last night for the first time in a yearshe condescended and disparaged and claimed I'd made hurtmany came to comfort herblueberries are the sweetest just before they rot
i forgot to remember you this yearaugust 24thwas just another daythis year.i didn't buyyellow carnations andi didn't cry.i don't knowif this means i'mmoving on or ifi'm forgettingyou were everhere.
slow burnand your shoulders fill with lava,dirty fingernails making sweaty palmsbleed, your heart is jumping so muchyou swear you can hear the adrenalinepouring into your veins,swimming eyes, fighting against the tide,battling every ounce of your being to just -god damn it, do not cry -inhale exhale inhale exhale,and you wonder, will there everbe enough oxygen? and you rock backwardsand you rock forwards, teeth clenched,ground to dust
onyx crowns (headstones and the brush of winter)she credits the metal barsfor finding footing in sunday soils,the stone slips down the fronting steps,slick in rain -(and rock, and rock, and rock,)there is a fading kind of shout;the clouds are the sky in her muted,mystery-failed militia, and to armswent the ploughshares, not to returnuntil the evening tone of the cathedralbrought them homethis skin is paltry, the eyes, the eyes -a phantom carved into the brushed-steelof these ancillary altarsthe winter wrought everything,and struck it from her hands:"fresh out of ploughshares, dear" -not an apology, justthe truth
i always was the girl who danced with thunderthey've issueda flash flood warningand i am thinkingabout our legstangled like treeroots beneath thesheets.the screen doordoesn't latch anymoreand the wind istrying to tear itaway and i amlistening to itscream and hearingyou say my name.the roads are wetand treacherous andall i am thinking aboutis you and yourwet lips slippery tongueroadside teeth in myskin and the sky isfalling down aroundme and----all of these warningsare just another metaphorfor you.
beauty is a state of mindforgiveness is thescent the violet leaveson the foot that stomped it;I am beautiful in remembrance:I am beautiful in a body two sizes too large, in eyes dilated with questions (eyesyou cannot name; gray like the ocean, blue like the heart, green like the fever dream I cannot wake from) I am the hair of a lion, a wild thing, ignition upon tempted glance. I am the skinyou cannot name, always fleeting; the chameleon you always see but never truly take in. and I know a boy carved of ivory silence, &
Bitlets 104Roadkill in the potholes,potheads in the rabbitholes.
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.
i have forgotten how to forgive myselfdo you remember?i was the first toshow you the shape of yourown heartbreak.i carved myinitials into yourpericardium and leftyour chest gaping.you, a fish out of water,your soft belly exposed tothe fisherman'sblade.i left youdrowning in love forme.
i don't miss you, but i do.when it rains idrive like helltrying to find you on thecurb.how many nights did welose parkedon the edge of town? hell,i had memorized the wayyou looked in thedark. your eyes shone like thestars (but i should know better than tocompare you to any sort ofgalaxy).and sometimes when itstorms, i thinkof calling you and telling you thati'm sorry your mom's adrunk and i'm sorry your brotheroverdosed, and i'm sorry thati left last fall–see, i had to burn this bridgebefore i jumped off ofit.
the presences we carryI.I think that there are more ghosts in this housethan there are people.I am a ghost and my illness is a ghost,my brother is a ghostand my mother has a ghostly aspect about hersometimes.she has ghosts who hang about herin the dead of night, and so do I.she can’t see them, but she can feel themon the back of her necklike a sudden chill.I can see them, and I don’t know what to tell herwhen she asks.II.among those of us who see our ghosts,it’s become a daily pleasantry—“how are your ghosts today,” we ask,and we wince and nod at each otherin tacit understanding.these corpses rattling about behind ushave become a matter of course to us, I suppose,though if anyone else could see theirstark figures and dead eyes,they’d likely be frightened halfto death.III.maybe we never really lose our ghosts—maybe they fade over time,their steps behind us less heavy,their bodies less and less substantialuntil they trail about fro
i shouldn't existyou are in another roomand you cry for a personwho is not me.i only ever cry for you
on loving a memorymy love, he haunts the night;he visits, wide-eyed and weary,in the azure hours betweeninsomnia and sunrise,when all is silent.he watches as i scribblelove letters in the dark;i am certain that he knowsevery correspondence belongsto him alone, every word ietch into paper, into skinis his name and yet, he never speaks, we never touch--though i often yearn for eventhe slightest moment of respitefrom our enforced isolation.my love, he exists in the shadows;and i often wonder if he mindsthat i may only love himthat i can only see himwhen my eyes areclosed.
flower crowns for young loverswhen we first metyour hair was a tangled messof curls and too manysecrets, too soft for theworld i lived in and so iburnt it into order.you cut it shorter,and you kept burning it flat,forced it into a straightnessthat i started tohate becauseyou were wild wheni first met you.you were free with your wordsand you would pour your feelingsout like melted honey.the boys madefun of you for a yearbefore they realisedyou were more than theywould ever be,that your honesty wasa quiet strength that theywere not born to carry.young boys posturing asmen around you and still yousat gentle, making daisychains when i made daisy chains,reading poetry when i wrotepoetry, speaking honey whenmy skin was raw with bruises.it has been eight yearsand you have stopped burningyour hair into a shape youdo not fit.you are stillthe quiet strength inmy life that keepsme standing.it has been eight yearsand we are still making daisychains together in thestreet.
Mastering MeIn another universe, I have green eyes, curly hair,and paint smeared across all my fingers--a war cry of artistryinstead of needlepoint scars.The pooch of my bellyand the lumps in my thighsmight be from anything elsebut the insulin I inject four times a day.I grow up a child, not a parent,the master of my destinynot running away but running toward;I'm a little bit tallerin spirit and stature,in all the ways that matterwhen darkness creeps under the doorand phantoms howl.I shave my legs every dayinstead of once every monthonce every three monthsonce every only now and again when I feel like itand I'm confident--a goddess with the stars around her neckinstead of pearls--in any type of heel.In another universe,I still trust myself behind the wheel of a car;I have mastered winged eyelinerand smokey lids;I gave up chocolateor caffeineor whatever it isthat brings on migrainesjust because I could,just because it's better for me,just because.
seastormI,a wreck-age wearingat the sea(m)sof tidal vacancy;I am the ocean, andthe moon hasforsaken me.tocling to reason,I stumbled onabsence stagnant,abrupt. bedridden yetever chas(m)ing, I fell to salt-soakedground from adon’t-leaveprecipice.threewords were all it tookbut all you do is take.I am wakingand I am shakentsunami waves that breakin empty frantic fury;you aregoneforthe briefest reposeor instant of stillness,I yearn; insteadI am abandoned by language,I am bound to languish beneathmountainous (n)ever-resttempests that swell,that quelleven the most desperate of breaksfor the shore.
wrists that roarmama sayspull down your sleevesthey'll see, they'll seebut no-one's even lookingi say mamatigers are proud and strongand tigers show their stripesso today i'm a tigerand who saysi can't be a tigerwhen razors made me fierceand secrets kept me lonelywho saysi can't tiger-roarwhen everything unsaidripped my throat rawi made my stripeswith tiger-claws and tiger-teethso damned if i'm not a tigerand damned if i won't roarmama, i'm a tigermama, hear me roar
the end of our storyThis is the last poem I will ever write you;this is a week spent bleeding myself ofthe memory of your touch,ripping threads of you from my smile,until I am no longer yours -until the words I write will never again livein the shadows cast across your chestby jutting rib bones in the early hoursof the morning, by morning sunfalling through dusted windowsThis is my goodbye, writtenfrom the corners of suburban trainsthe depths of the dark nights;small hours betweenthings that have made me smilewhich I dedicated to you, becausesometimes you deserve my sadness-Your whole life has been a storyof losing yourself in a worldyou never really understood andbeing fleetingly found again, at homein the arms of a strangerwho you convinced yourselfyou could lovebut you were in love with being lostmore than you were everin love with meand I am afraid to writeabout how I loved you morethan I ever loved anything,because i know that it wasnever the samefor you,my dear.and
I willI will love youall the way to the place where ladybirds go to die,to the lushest corners of the earththat hold the secrets no man was meant to seeand we will find them, and know them together.I will love youall the way to the place where bubbles are madeat the bottom of a glass of ciderthat blisters the glass with condensationas we trade hats and laugh at the way the air smiles.I will love youall the way inside a branch where buds dream of Becoming,where those one-day-flowers stir wooden heartsinto an uprising, into a blossoming lifeand we will plant our ambitions there, in the blooming place.I will love youall the way to the square brackets that hold our boxesbecause you are my best friends, and you will beas we fold papery hands around paper-cut wrists and cryand mourn eighty-odd years flown by too fast. Even then.Even then, I will love you still.
agbc, god, othersyour face is hazier nowbut I carry you in me stillas long as someone remembersyou are not yet dead