Her fingers uncurled
like a flower in bloom
as if beckoning
to touch her.
The lines in
were like a sea
and she hummed
that he would be
when you held the cigarette
between your fingers
that were dwindled down with age,
like embers from flame
did you ever imagine
your family sitting in
hospital rooms and church pews,
lingering over your ashes
boxed up like a pack of smokes,
you withered like flowers
with wheelchairs instead of stems.
they tell me
when i was born
you were afraid
you'd break me,
gentle enough for a cig
but not a baby –
they tell me you loved
the way my head fit in
the palm of your hand.
i watched you
on those last few days,
red and yellow tulips
on the shelf
to brighten up the room;
there's nothing like a death
to bring a family together.
your grand daughter
swelters like pavement
under the summer sun
from the smell.
being a bird means flying (i'm afraid of heights)they tell me to be a phoenix
do not want to go up in
i must admit that
i don’t like the heat;
it’s all too much for
me to handle,
you're bugging metwo hands raised
in silent surrender,
a passive repression
of an infantry;
a brooding anger
stirring in her chest
like a nest of hornets.
with every little
she must have swallowed
a cicada because
she could feel her heart
beat so fast
it buzzed out
a humdrum song.
Nightlights1 - Where art thou, Juliet?
Paloma’s fingers rapped against the window of her best friend’s first floor bedroom three times at first, and when no response came, she tapped out a soft little beat.
The curtains parted to reveal a teenage girl, blonde hair fallen uncombed around her rounded baby face. For a moment, the girl squinted at Paloma before prying open the window with her long, piano player fingers.
It squeaked and complained as it slid up against the wood, the glass rattling. She had one of the oldest houses in the neighborhood, and it showed.
She propped the window up with a wooden slab and stuck her head out, only to be greeted with Paloma’s deep voice, “Juliet, my fair Juliet, there art thou,” she reached up for her Juliet’s hand and brought it to her mouth, gently kissing her knuckles.
“That’s not how it goes, Paloma,
white outShe hated the blizzard
In the way that she
Was apt to speak,
tongue rolling over
snowballs down a hill;
it would cause
PapercutsIt is said god took
seven days to create the world;
it took me less than that
to fall in love with you.
I found myself folding
the poems I wrote for you
into origami hearts
in hopes that
when you saw them
you’d think of me.
Somewhere down the line
I must have lost myself
because the only things
I have left to
remember you by
are paper cuts.
burial groundsher stomach is hollow
like an abandoned church
left decades ago
for a greater faith,
a higher calling.
she is still
Notes on Being Mentally Ill and Fully Aware Of It1. she felt guilty for the things she felt
and the times that she couldn’t control it,
hands clasped together
asking god for freedom,
her empty body;
do not pray for salvation,
2. “go outside and do something,”
says her mother,
as if sunlight would burn away all
of her sorrow;
happiness wasn’t so easy as just
passing through an open door.
3. “a butterfly can’t ever see the beauty of
her own wings,”
they tell her.
“thank you,” she says,
“thank you for telling me i’ll never know
On Having a Wolf Over For Teahe smiled with white sharp points, maw gaping wide to gulp black tea. my tongue swept over cracked lips and i swallowed hard, forcing down the knot that was forming in my throat. he saw the apprehension and snapped his gnashing jaws shut, rattling me. bloodstained paws tapped and clicked against the dirt caked tiles of the kitchen floor, his eyes following me as he moved.
the wolf wove circles and circles and circles around me, circles and circles and circles.
i want you to bleed
i set out my finest shining chipped china, the kind with flowers on the edge.
smiling a sunflower smile, i told myself to remember to pick the briars out of my teeth.
I can see right through you,
my fingers shook and clinked spoons against teacups; masochism tasted sweeter with cream and sugar.
Out of TimeCan you feel it, I wonder?
The sand that slowly slips away.
The inexorable march of time,
Ticking away at you,
Piece by piece.
Regret, anguish; there is no joy in what comes.
All you have left are 'what if' memories,
Eating away at you, like maggots on the skin.
So deep was the pain inside of you,
So bitter the desire for change;
You even came crawling back to me,
Begging for another chance.
Shall I give it to you?
i'm sorry for only writing sad things,but saturday night i wanted to offend god
into listening to just one line- needed to drag someone
into hearing the roar between my ears with me.
i'd like to write something you can put music to-
lyrical and pretty. funny. maybe irreverent.
but today what is most real to me
is not laughter. it is feeling short of breath.
empty of poetic language. unfunny. too long
for a limerick. unsuited to sonnets. musical only
in the slamming of my heart. an erratic beat
at best. endings. comparing crises of the mind
to someone throwing up in the bathroom
after too much beer pong and hard rock-
both are shameful to repeat in therapy
and i feel like i cannot stop ruining parties.
needing steady hands for these atlas shoulders
that will not relax. staircases white like
imagined hospitals. thinking i should say
call me an ambulance. crying. not calling
an ambulance. not calling a taxi, i can't call
a taxi, i don't have money for a taxi, holding
my breath. 4, 7, 4. 4, 7, 4. in.
Feel like shit? Read this. Hey you.
Yeah you, reading this right now at this very moment.
You are awesome. No, really, you are.
You may not believe me, but it's true. You don't see it because you're upset right now.
Whatever you're going through right now, whatever has upset you or turned your life upside down, just know that it won't last forever. Nothing good lasts forever, that's true, but nothing bad lasts forever too.
Eventually whatever you're going through will pass, you'll move on through healing over time, and you'll be able to be happy again someday, don't worry. As long as you don't give up. You may never completely get over it, or it may take years or more to move on from, but I can promise as time goes on the pain will become less and less.
It may feel like no one gives a fuck about you, and you may want to give up on living, but please don't. I can promise atleast one person out there gives a fuck. And if no one does, then I do.
If you have no friends, I ca
They'll Write Dysphoria On My HeadstoneIf the journey to happiness appeared
as easy as we make it seem,
then I doubt our entire world would
Happiness is not a drug that can be forced
into our mouths,
when our situation is doused
in fire that erodes us from the inside out.
It takes a village to mend a village,
a home to mend a home,
though when the house is against one,
they start to feel alone.
Happiness can't be achieved,
when you're not acknowledged for you.
When your pronouns are erased,
when they start to misgender you.
Suddenly its your fault that
you suffer from anxiety.
Suddenly, you're to blame
when depression seizes you tightly.
Suicide is around the corner,
you want it every day,
but there's that one important
And for them, you must stay.
Though love can only last so long,
and our light will eventually fade.
Because though you continue to fight,
depression can take you away.
Your “parents” force you to be their minions,
strip you of your independence.
The beings that should accept
DoneI'm done with being who you want me to be,
Cuz I can't be that person anymore .
I need to spread my wings,
I need to be who I really am,
I'm done with being the doormat,
I'm done with saying yes when I really wanna say no!
I'm done with hiding behind my walls and mask,
I wanna fly,I wanna fight for who I am inside .
I won't bow down anymore,
I won't break if I fall.
I will rise.
FineI walked home in the middle of the street again,
with the listless pumping forward that comes from muscles hollowed out -
I didn't care if the cars hit me.
I wasn't seeking death I just stopped actively avoiding it again,
I just walked
with the restless wondering about headlights and obituaries
and the questions about whether or not I'd be loved once I did the world the favour
of not being so inconvenient as to continue to breathe.
If I could swim home in the malaise, or if I could be struck down
into a sudden and permanent state of something other than depression -
either would be fine...
Either would be fine.