welike the endless hazeof cigarette smokeon a friday nightlike the smiles and laughsof a thousand bitter girlsthat dance and make youwonder if they're realif you're reallike boys with their handsand their tongues andeyes that speak in a tongueyou don't understandbut he's gorgeous andyou're lonelylike a thousand bottles of liquorand the bitter taste it leaveswe are dyingwe are forever
on panic attacks and anxietyhow many times doesshe have to kiss yousoftly andhold you tighthow many times doesshe have to whisperit's okit's okit's okhow many timesbefore your mind stopsaching and yourbody stops shaking
dawni keep dreamingabout a boywith dark circlesaround his eyessmoking cigarettesat 3 in the morning
on habits and addictionsi've got horrible habitswhich i need to stopbut i keep pulling andtwisting and thinking'one more wouldn't makea difference'
on little truths i search for ways to voicelittle truths in words unspoken,locked behind shy mouths and averted eyes
weekend plansI convince myself I don't care and it works perfectlyuntill it's 3 AM, I'm home alone and I'm finding myselfwriting about you only
old scars//stronger skinIf you want these words to hurt meto choke meto bruise megood luckthere's no room for youunder my skin anymore
genie in a bottlei guess i got what i wantedyou writing about mebut never like thisi guess they were rightthis time really wasbe careful what you wish for
colapsocalypso couldn't keep my lover cagedhis sail has set but his ship has sunk
you never taught me how to sleep.one day you'll unfold your bedsheets, and i will still be in the creases.
all we ever wanted was the world.it still feels like summer.the rain tastes like late nights and cigarettes,sliding through the back door,still damp with the could-have-beens,our past loverstugging at our lips. we sit in downpourand watch the trains roll past,metallic stardust spilling from our mouthswhile we talk about how we could get on one of those trainsand just get off at the last stop."and we'd never come home."
.i've written so many poemsabout love and luck and theunbearable sadness that surfaceswhenever i think about you.but you isn't a person,you is a metaphor for thebirds suffocating in the clouds and theleaves fighting off the wind.and when i see flowersall i can think of is death;because i am a poet,and my kind of poetry is thekind that keeps me up all night,as i memorize the ceilingand count every minuteuntil the sun rises.it’s the kind that makes mewish for a bridge because thenmaybe i could finally be free.my kind of poetry,it’s the kind that kills me.
.sooner or later,the tooth fairy picks up ahammer and chisel
Fill in the blank.Sometimes people leave these why-sized holes in our livesafter they depart.
confessionsometimesi torture myself with the pastjust so i have something to write about
forgiveand dammitthere are ghosts where my heart should be.they don't know how to die.
To GrandfatherI lost himin the ruins of his lungs.EverydayI go out of myselflooking for himin the mirror& autumn eyesfilled with dirt wateris the only resemblanceI struggledto paint his facewithDear grandfather,I go out lookingfor you everyday in the cemeteryhoping your soulcould knock at my eyelids.I lost everythingin the ruins of your lungsbut your handsare the only thingsI yearn for.
we promised not to cry.you cut yourselfwith the burnt out ends of cigarettes,and drown yourself inside of my eyes,because i cannot helpyou.when did you becomejust another messof strong liquor andnicotine promises?we swore that we'd stay by each othereven with the face of Hellclawing down our throats.sometimesi want to shake you and screamthat it does get better. it does and it will andit always will, you foolishchild. i love you. i say thisbecause you are my heart and how can a woman livewithout blood in her veins?
.and they knew,they knew i'd gone -when they found me outside crouchedwith a string box and stick, singingi'm going to catch me my death,make him sick -now i sit in a gown that is whiterthan white, doesn't suit me,this ghost to myself -on the corridor bench with my kneestucked in under my chin, rattlingwith green yellow blue(i've told you, i know where i'm going)
you and I, we're alive (at least for a moment)left you painted on the wall,hieroglyphics, lacking the depthof fate and three dimensionalspace; constant like you couldn't be,pictographic, emblems burned on your skin,you were a dead language and hewas ready to wake up,fluency is somethingonly native tongues achieve
.my cat has ninelives and i fear he willspend each one doingthe same fuckingthingstaring out of thewindow at the birds onthe fence, when he could beout there, sinking histeeth in
advice for a stranger do things to regretthem in the morningthen sleep until noon