CountedI am a number.
twenty times I broke, fourteen times I lied, six pieces of my heart lent
goodbye, two times I didn't want to make it, one failure
and countless broken things;
infinite words abandoned trembling and lonely and cold.
I'm so cold and it's spring and the ground is alive to make up
for the mistakes I bury; the cherry blossoms are wilting
black, drooping so low to the ground that it is a blanket
as far as the eye can see:
fallen flowers die like starsick soldiers, begging please, oh,
please take me home so
I can leave on my own threshold and kiss the walls of
my own making and see my wife for a final time, please,
take me home where there are lullabies and nightlights
and bedside wishes; where the air isn't thick with the
scent of sinning men, oh god I'm sorry
that life is inevitability and the failure before me is as set
ColorblindI gave away my name today
and it might be a metaphor, but I think
we only remember the quietest suicides
the walls are thin enough to listen
as the angels try to scratch free;
bloodied fingernails and God says everyone
screws up, sometimes
I'm waiting for a silent night.
I only ever believed in solid ground
and depressions' tides, and sometimes,
those little wounds I nursed deep
within my vocal chords (because
my voice is dying, too)
I can see the beautiful people, now
overdosing on their own opiums of
self-acquittal and dissolution
they ran out of ways to ask for help.
I'm fragile, but my glass ribs
aren't holding much
and I'm through trying to find something
different, because it's scary to know
what exactly's the same
yesterday I was someone else and
tomorrow I'm further into inevitabilities of
who I promised I'd never be--
I'm waiting for a happy ending,
but if you love something
you let it go.
resurgencelet's make small talk,
six month silence swelling;
sticking inside our throats,
filling the space between us.
let's make small talk
and skirt furtive eyes around
the absence we never quite
accustomed ourselves to.
this is easy,
but then it's always been
we move lightly,
an oh-so similar
let's make small talk,
stumble on faux pas promises
and the intimacy between two
who are no longer intimate.
orbiting the past,
we dance in words.
Hear No EvilI don’t know what you think you’ll find in the hollows of my lies
and cracks of my spirit but it’s not me; courage is the weak voice
in the middle of the night that says we’ll try again but
I am deaf.
truly, though, I clawed my ears out and fed them to the beasts--
an offering of all I had:
the words I’d never need.
I am a secret, can you taste me coating your tongue? I am
that lie you never let slip, I am every mistake you ever made, I am
I am the demons nesting in the back of your mind as you
mourn for lost nights; yet I am only chalk,
I will line your feet one day--
the paths you traveled dusting
out in the wind, [you will never
notice me until I am gone, you
will choke on my memories]
my eyes are open sores, now, weeping candidly.
I want someone to nurse these wounds.
TearsMy tears are falling, like raindrops.
But they aren't as beautiful.
My tears are salty, like the ocean.
But they aren't as peaceful.
My tears are cold, like snow.
But they aren't as pure.
My tears hurt, like pain.
But they aren't as vivid.
words, wonderlight has faded and words are heavy,
but there is a delicate magic
twisting between your fingers.
it is all a-scribble
melisma without music;
syllables stitching terra firma
to firmament in intricate
stanzas that require
neither breath nor sound
to echo, infinite,
within the depths
of susurrous souls.
it is cold and it is dark,
but there is a fire in you
and you use it with a fierce grace
that illuminates the shadows,
and ignites the demons
until not even the grey spaces
that haunt and harry
can hold dominion.
they are exposed
they are broken
into shards of sunrise
and rays of a quiet
you scare away the night
with exhalations that blow
away the fogged emptiness
inside, over and over,
sparking fireworks from
what was thought
to be ash.
things I learned at 11 am while I was half-asleepi
I’m spending most of my time
not crying, and I’m sorry,
but I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone
as much as aspirin, or lullabies,
or the cheap wine sold for two dollars a bottle,
or overly-apologetic letters bending over backwards
to make a point of themselves, or the pink petals
blooming on my wrists like flesh and blood miracles,
or the songs named after women
things may not change,
but you will have to.
I am most alone
surrounded by people
and the buzzing in my head of words
that should have lost their meaning
back when I discovered
they never meant anything
Dedications are only relevant
to people who appreciate shitty poetry,
or you. Insanity is writing the same thing
over and over and expecting it not
to sound clichéd.
and as much as anyone will swear otherwise,
I am a statistic. A number, an example,
a case study in the manipulation of
narcissism and moving on