Shy TruthsI spilled a cup of oceanand opened my handshoping to catch the truth.Empty seashells,broken clams,and a palm-fullof worn pebbleswere all I caught.I guessthe truthis shy.
Hanging SkeletonsDo not talk aboutthe skeletonshanging in your closet--bones bleachedwith wishesand mistakesare nothing to be afraid of.Prop open the doorand talk to them--you'll findthe answers you seekin their silence.
Hinging TimeAutumn's diarydances in the breeze--pages ripped from barren branches.My father's father's bloodwas the same color, once--an angry, untamed flame.My own blood is an oil-spillchasing the metal of my joints--each move creaks.
Space BlanketsPurple cloudsdraped over crescent hips--bashful twin moons.
Bashful SkiesThere will be nights you stay awaketo see, to count, to make wishes onthe stars...and they won't be there.The city lights will be too bright,the moon will take center stage for a tragic soliloquy,storm clouds will be thick and angry at you for not paying attention. They will get in your way.There will be mornings you get up earlyto see, to paint, to be inspired bythe sunrise...and he will disappoint youby wearing faded colors that wash him out,by being so late you have to go to work with unwashed hair and yesterday's wrinkled blouse,by deciding to wear no colors at allbut shrouding himself in last night's storm clouds instead.At these times, take a deep breath,think about all those moments you've had it rough,and remember this:even the sky wakes up feeling ugly...but the sky still tries to put its best foot forwardwhen the time comes.
Jean Pocket WeaponsYou hoard your emotions like weaponsin the pockets of your jeans,pulling them out and dusting them offwhen it suits you, when it's convenient,when you're trapped between a rockand a hard decision and you need an excuse to run...but I wonder if you realize you're only running from yourself.
Secret AbyssHold me.These thin cloud veilswill hide our dark secrets;don't think about those skeletons.Let go.Believe--I'll help you upif it means dragging you.Promise me you won't let the pastchange you?Forgiveall my mistakes--years from now, you won't carethat you shared yourself with a fool.Change me?ForgetI pushed you downto get what I wanted.I never put my heart intoyour hands.Let go.Those skeletons willbe our last. Don't think mydark secrets can be forgiven.Push me.
Stitching SeamsI've been stitchingpieces of myself together for years,trying to make me whole.The trouble is,I don't remember how to sewand sometimes,my hands shake so badlyI lose bits of myselfaround town,a breadcrumb trailto the hidden me.If you find a piece,study it.Put it in your pocket.Forget about it.Maybe,when you finally rememberthe misshapen objectyou picked up,I'll be readyto face myself as a whole.Right now,I'm too afraidof the unknown spaces--the things I hidefrom even myself--to tie my stitches off.
Gypsy WindA gypsy at heart,I weave colored feathersinto the braid of my hair,my fingersas deftand nimbleas my tonguewith goodbyes.I lovelike the wind--at timesgentle with murmurs,otherscutting with howls.I always leavewith no warning.
mutterings from over the cuckoo's nesti.it is dark. thatis a judgment. my roommateis snoring, and somewhere,a girl is crying becauseshe doesn't have a heartso she doesn't havea home. if we are time bombs,I think I must have detonateda little late. it is darkand I can't seewhy all problems are definedbut their need to be solved.I dream in color, but I livein black and white. I drownin gray faces that don'tsound familiar; it is darkand I can't rememberthe last time it was bright.ii.I am afraidof caring. we are a strangepeople, we, who love byhating ourselves, by bleedingout anythinggood. Iam afraid thatone day, I might start crying,and I won't be able to stop andit will be the second Great Flood,all the world will drown inmy mistakes. Youdraw that out of me,like a marionette ona string, you pull theseanchors out frommy stomach until Ican hardly breathe. youlive on the other half of the mirror,andI am afraidthat distance is toowide.iii.maybe,in the end,it's all the same. everyhap
The Problem With Elia.she could have been a violin;born a week too late, she hadmelancholy in her bones: doctor lizbettook time out of her schedule to pluck hernewborn strings - calloused sanitation againstmottled pink-and-yellow flesh & thrashing limbs.in three more years, she will havenothing in her bones at all: doctor estairdiagnosed her with iatrophobia to fuel herinstinctive chords - ripple-free shells of liquidlobotomy & a capsule to callous her pink-and-yellowflesh against the thought of just getting over it all.ten years after that, her mother willfind her face down and thrashing: her dustbunny bones will flex as she retches up her memoriesfor display - lawyers will spend the next few years pawingthrough them with clawed hands and heaving breathing untilone day, they find lizbet and estair huddled amid the rubble of her bones.
Counting LightningA faint flush of bluecrowded by angry coals;the sky holds her breath.
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
.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
NetherThe world unfurls:becomes a gemstone, sinkinga mirror breakinga thousand splintering realitiesand I am lost —forgotten who I ever was,forgotten how to breathe.
LiliyaBright-eyed,bird-bonedwhisper girl;dark-dressed,moon-backedmistress of light.
UndedicatediI wrote you a poem.skeleton smile-- moonbeamsdrip from your unharnessedhabilitations; you speak andravens tear through your throat(I will be there) you area catalyst whose ghost eyesdied for a better dayiiunaware promise bearer, takeme away. as you live thesebeautiful vanities, take meawaysomewhere refined and romanticlike the lies you languish, wherea heavy heart weighs up tosomething niceiiiprimed and pruned, I ama seedling: an exaltation toall that is youwe both cry the same kindof quiet, and whisper the same brandof please-don’t-listen-close; Ijust want to leave before I breakwhen you [do it first] decide there isa life worth more than the scarsI bear (though I mostly want to askdoes it ever go away?)ivchurning repetitions of anunmentioned time, I carry youwithin my mouth; tucked away andslowly disintegrating the thingsI barely speak:(you saw more of me than either of uscould admit) the time for letting gohas passed me by
.she wants to taste the moonbetween forefinger and thumb sheplucks it from the sky, and likesome great pearly gobstopperrolls it over her tongue,licks the dust from herlips,shuts her eyesand smiles
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
we're legal murderers.how to love a writer:don't. because we will turn your passioninto works of extended metaphors for death and decay,slipping you scarsserved sunny-side-up because, hey, we all want to befixed, right?not writers. writers want someone, anyone (usually the wrong one, because pain sells more thansmiles)to try and pour cement into the dents inside themuntil they realize that they're really justabandoned sidewalks located in the wrong side of townthat cannot be repaired. that is what we do.we break peoplefor a living.
dance with mewhen i told youon a waxed floor of broken glassthat i didn't know how to dance,i hoped you would noticethe way my voice shookor mention the hopehidden behind bitterness.i didn't mean itas a cue for you to walk away.i said itso you would lead me,and teach me where to step,and dance a pathwayacross shattered mirrors,telling me not to look downas we glide unscathed.ever since you left,all i do is hang my headand bleed.
Cliches I Have Datedi.Anna collected stardustlike pennies, exceptpennies are worth something.ii.Claire had inkrunning through her veins; dead,from an unsterilized needle.iii.Robin had birdbonesstrung together on windchimes.iv.Sarah’s eyes were alwaysto the sky, and neveron me.v.Lizbeth took my breath awaywith every punch to the stomach.vi.Rosalie had too many thingsin her ribcage; emotional adrenalinetriggered her arrhythmia.vii.Emily left mefor a boy with starrier freckles.viii.I am one cat awayfrom a stereotype, or one girlcloser to a happy ending.
To My Biology TextbookOn page 159 of my biology textbook, it reads,“...cancer is the uncontrolled growth of cells”as though that could explain everything,and I thought it did for a time.But my textbook never warned methat his skin would paleto a point where I could seethe blue freight trainscarrying eighteen pillsthroughout his frail body.My textbook never warned methat his watery irises would freeze over,that he would hurl insults like knives,and that he would clench his jawas tightly as his fist clenched his wine glassbecause the only person to blame is himself,and he can’t swallow that as easilyas he can the olives in his martinis.And my textbook never warned methat it would be this difficult to breathebecause of my acute awarenessthat his breaths are limited,and that there would be nothing I could dobut soldier on searching for that silver liningclinging to these foreboding thunderheads.
Floored PetalsHe drowned the cheap motel roomin smoke, back in ‘53,when I was just a bud of seventeenwho had watched herself bloomin the mirror in her mother’s closet.I had seen the bloom and the budand had wished to be deflowered.So I had leashed myselfonto the back of a busand roared into New York Citylike the little dragonfly I am,falling into deep dreamson the laps of strange men.A pale girl with a patched-up suitcaseoff on an adventure in the citywith nothing but a few dollarsand a fear of the dark.The hotels were mustyand the dollars digested,but the lights loweredas the jazz flew upwardinto a shower of sparks,and I, a flower shaking off her petalsas she swung into his armsand into his life.A life of roads and roaring,and sitting half-still in the smokeas he mused long into the nightand down the drain, saying,“Poetry is daydreaming on paper,”wiping his grey lips on discarded poems, andcrashing between the waves of sheets.A life of racing
p-o-e-t is but four letters.I'm not a poet.I am aIbiologist:dissecting lifeand reconstructing the deconstructedinto impossible architecture,extracting the right chromosomes,inserting into paper plasmids:linguistic engineering.IIdancer:In a tango of typographywords will flowto the beat of pens,stomp of the keyboard,typewriter's applause.IIIsacrifice:watch as I take my blades of inkand bleed the truthinto the cosmic bathtub,muddy the water in melodrama,trap the world in a vermilion spiraldrifting downwards in blank verse.IVcreator:I doodle imageryin the sketches of complexity,paint universes in abrush dripped in metaphors,simile-based watercolour dripping off notebooksin tears, laughter and literature.VYou can't contain this dance in one word.
Over(dose).she chews onlive wires in the hopesof kick-starting her tired heart.
Today, I am DrowningSome days,the pastweighs nothing--snowflakesfloatingin a tiny glass globewaitingto be carried awayon the wind.Other days,the pastbreathes with the sea--kelptangling about my anklesbeneathturbulent waves.