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.
A world of porcelain peopleWe live in
a world full
is a living
day and age:
pick up your
at daybreak and
drape it over the
we are all
eyes open but
we are all pretty porcelain people
living in a pretty porcelain world
but our masks
(and reveal the ugly truth)
LightLight pooled in the floes of her flesh
the warm tone of polluted amber
it ran down the window,
the stream broken in places by silhouettes
and other such distractions
it spilled, soundless
and flooded silken sheets
setting adrift the skin and breath and whispers of her
to steal away into the polluted dark
her sighs overflowed, sonorous
pouring into the amber and black
the constellations dotted along her
disrupted in places by the shadows of trees
and other such poetry
stardust. (you're beautiful)he's
out of orbit -
dust in his
veins rise and
each word that
drips and pools
defined like the
ribcage of a
baby bird, his
were not made for
this earth but
for the stars.
some days he
fades in and
out of reality like
he never really
wanted to be there
on those days
i just think
my god, you really don't
realise how amazing you are.
DisappearSometimes, when I'm sad
I remember that one time,
All I had to worry about was
If the bubbles I had blown, were about to
Sometimes, when I'm sad
I remember that one time,
I began to worry about the day that
My childhood would simply
Sometimes, when I'm sad
I remember that some day,
When I'm sitting with my husband
In the old old house... my days will simply
And that day,
The day when my heartbeat is
The day when my breath
Truly gets taken away.
That's the day
When my worries, my concerns, my fears...
Little GirlThere sits the girl with the things in her eyes
Monsters, destruction, and sweet butterflies
Hopscotch and daisies, surrounded by screams
Beautiful dresses now torn at the seams
Crayons and paintbrushes, villains and grins
Young, gladsome innocence, hatred and sins
Little red houses on roads left to fade
Gorgeous moonlight shining off of the blade
Blood pouring out as she cries her own name
Knowing she's forced to take each bit of blame
She could have stopped it and left it behind
All of these things in her troubled young mind
She could have saved them if she dared to try
Rather, though, she left herself there to die.
Now, others watch as she sits on the ground
Keeping their distance and letting her drown
In her own worries and things she won't tell
Waiting for her mind to kill her as well.
your poemyou tell me on a thursday that you can’t find
the god inside of yourself anymore, that
you think that you are finally
too much honeycomb and not enough human
because lately everything has been slipping
through your fingers, and you don’t know how you can
keep holding yourself together anymore.
if today is the day that you look
at the stars and you no longer
feel their burn beneath your bones,
i will show you the blanket i tried to make
when i was eight, and i will tell you all i know
about the string theory, which isn’t much, i admit,
but i do know the basics,
and that’s that everything in the universe
is composed of strings that somehow
loop onto each other infinitely.
so whenever you feel like you’re
walking a tightrope without a safety
net below you, know that you are
thousands of tightropes strung together,
and one fall will not kill you.
i have never told you about the way
i can feel my pulse skitter to a stop
in my wrists whenever i hear you laughing
Depression Isn't RealDepression isn’t true, my dear
Depression isn’t real.
It’s just a silly tragedy
You’ve forced yourself to feel.
Anxiety is fake, my friend
You wonder why it’s there.
But others have it worse than you!
Stop forming false despair.
Cutting is dramatic, love,
It’s ugly, and it’s dumb.
Why not just get over it?
Is the attention fun?
Suicide is stupid, dear,
And selfish, if I may.
Get over yourself, darling,
Can you hear these things I say?
Why aren’t you replying, love?
Oh, where could you have gone?
I never meant to hurt you, love,
Did I say something wrong?
Why aren’t you replying, dear?
Depression isn’t true!
Oh, but yes it was, “my dear”...
Just maybe not for you.
For My PeopleAs far as I can recall:
I did not ask to be birthed
Into a cycle of stagnation.
I did not ask to be told,
That my dreams are achievable;
Only to see them limited by the scope of reality.
I did not ask for a failing system,
Passed unto me by half-dead corpses wearing suits.
Nodding eagerly at one another,
As they wait for an inevitable death.
This I did not ask for,
And I am certain that most of you did not either.
But it is for that reason,
And for that reason alone, I say:
That it is up to us,
We siblings bound by the chains of our forefathers,
To create a system that is better,
Than the bitter shackles of the past.
Justice is what I long for.
Justice for MY people.
An Angel's Promise'Thou art mine,
And so thou shall remain.'
I will not let you have any other before me,
Nor can there be any after.
For it is your soul that I have shared
And it is your soul that I do take.
Your worship is the blood that flows through me.
Your praise is the heart that pumps life into my veins.
I have accepted that which is torn;
And if you are not whole before me,
Then by my will and word,
You shall be made whole.
So fear not this frigid world,
Though its cold bites deeply into your flesh.
I shall take that which has been torn from you
And weep life into it,
Until only warmth remains.
For thou art already mine,
And so thou shall remain.