Can I be your star-shaped lady
not your little moonshine call.
There’s things I want you to see
just not enough space left for me.
Just out of reach, still out of sight
There’s always one more.
The sun rises before I can lose you,
And the night bleeds so slow.
I woke up to the pair of us,
In a dream I had like this before—
You’re the only one in the world,
Am I the only one you think of?
Or are you still a whore.
I wish you were dead.
Does that make me a bad
person?
Maybe.
Anyway.
I wish you were dead.
It’s strange, you know?
Carrying around
this kind
of hate.
Because it’s not the
boiling burning bubbling
kind that wakes me up at night.
No.
it’s the quiet kind, the passive
kind. The kind of hatred
that sits in my chest
next to my other heart.
Thumps in my chest
with my other heart.
Only a whisper, but listen…
Can you hear it?
I can. On occasion.
Like when someone mentions
your name, and the hatred, the rage
skips a beat,
stops.
Then begins
palpitating,
pounding,
pumping,
so loud, my ears ring,
so fast, my chest
aches, swells, throbs,
and this rage, this hate,
leaks into my veins, flows
straight to my brain, wraps
around my brain, and tightens
until my frontal lobe is gasping
for air, until my cerebrum is turning
blue, until finally, my thrashing
hippocampus coughs, splutters, then spits
out a single sentence (“I wish
And as this single sentence reverberates
in my head he was
the hatred’s grip will loosen,
my frontal lobe will gulp
down mouthfuls of air,
dead”),
and my cerebrum will regain that rosy hue.
All because of that single sentence.
“I wish he wa-
I wish you were dead.
I wish you were dead.
Why?
Because if you died,
I wouldn’t have to think about you
ever again.
I wouldn’t have to worry
about you running
your slimy little tongue
across the folds of my brain,
pushing your slimy little tongue
into the folds of my
brain, pushing, rubbing, running
that slimy, wet tongue
into my brain, against
my brain, across
my brain again, and again, and
God, I know I’m a bad person,
but I need you
to die. If you did, maybe
I wouldn’t have to
listen to people
talk about you and what you’re “going
through.”
I wouldn’t have to watch them shake
their heads in disappointment
when I shrug, and state that I don’t give a damn
about your “pain,” your “suffering.”
Because as far as I’m concerned, you could swallow
a handful of pills, and die on your knees
with vomit dribbling down your chin, and your head
slumped forward into the bowl of your toilet,
and it still wouldn’t be enough
(I was a goddam-
It will never be enough
(A goddamned chi-
But it doesn’t have to be.
I’ll take anything at this point.
Anything.
(Christ, I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep).
And so, I’ll keep wishing
for your death
in bed, when the alarm clock
flashes 11:11pm
in bright red.
I’ll keep praying for you to die
at night, hands clasped together
while I howl at an overcrowded
sky.
And I’ll keep hoping
(cross my hearts, hope you die
cross my hearts, hope you die
cross my heart, hope to
You know I could do it myself, right?
If I wanted.
I could blow your brains
out tomorrow.
If I wanted.
But I won’t, because I’m an adult.
I can’t, ‘cause I’m still a kid.
My friend is dead.
One wonders why
A man so wise,
So generous,
So gracious that
His very life
Made better lives
For even those
Who only met
Him once or twice
Should not have been
A presence to
Outlive us all.
But he was old,
Which makes his death
Less tragic than
If such a soul
Had never lived.
They say it will pass
you feel it will last
forever
they say time will heal
you can’t stand their spiel
you feel it will never go away
know it can make you stumble, lead you astray
make you double over in pain
with no wish for your future, as there is nothing to gain
you know it was, is, all in vain
lonely and said
you no longer cry in bed
you cry no more
because you are dry to the core
you feel, or not
cold and hot
who cares, who is there to see?
heartbreak is a lonely misery
tender hearts wounded too often
will no longer care to, dare to soften
to kind words or open hearts
because this is how it starts
heartache
what’s to gain as it’s a given
how do you remain true to self, or even be driven
when pain is the only outcome in life
this is not living, barley enough to survive
loneliness, distance, being kept apart
this is poison for the tender, or the healing heart
rejection, complacence, indifference
sheer bad luck and happenstance
ways that were never meant to be
they all can cause heart misery
a change in mind, a change of heart
souls interwoven, drifting apart
guilt, and fear or shame
they are the starting point of blame
killing the flame that resides within
slowly, but surly the coldness sets in
makes you stumble, cry
in the end it makes you say goodbye
to all you believed in, once held dear
this is when love turns into fear
Heartache is a cruel master
causing havoc and disaster
but there is a cure to it
an everlasting benefit
and the cure resides within
and its magic is already happening
grace, the almighty healing unguent
is more than mighty, omnipotent
fills every crack, like a healing balm
restores faith, future, inner calm
grace, the word for every heart
that has been broken, torn apart
Grace will bring you life anew
love you, heal you through and trough
healing your heart, your soul, your core
filling you so you may want no more
stilling your hunger, quenching your thirst
giving you hope, putting you first
Grace that opens your eyes to see
that life is more than misery
it’s wonder, abundance, joy, and free
a beautiful road of reward and glee
hold out your hand and you will see
Grace instead of misery.
Don’t call me pretty, it’s not genuine.
If I rated myself
I’d say I’m a modest five.
But why diminish a person,
confine them to a number?
Someone who’s cultivated a life.
Navigating trials and triumphs;
persisting like a steadfast oak.
The dragged out hours studying,
endless hours of melodic pursuits,
hours immersed in written word.
Don’t call me pretty
forego the allure of mere aesthetics.
Declare! My poetry as captivating;
whisper to me how,
my stanzas enrapture you,
Inquire about my favorite novel;
ponder with me how the themes
relate to the contemporary.
Commend my fortitude
acknowledge the depths of my intellect,
sit with me while I unfold my genesis.
I transcend the confines of a number
as a rate, on a scale, on my pants, on my bra.
Immutable, it was inherited at my birth
don’t look for my beauty outwardly
you won’t find it.
Let me seduce you with the beauty
of my coruscation.
And in return entice me with yours
If you fuck me and leave me,
all you will be leaving is my body—
bare skin, glistening wet,
bone bundled in nerve,
knots of a spine that curve
like a cupped hand, fingers
grasping at air.
If you love me and leave me,
you will be leaving all of me—
soft words, citrus smiles,
emotional torment, and
hope-penned fictions. All
my courage to share
that strangeness,
and all that strangeness
given back.
Golden pig tails bouncing up
and down, giggling playing
tag, running—>>>corn fields—whack
he>tags me:) I’m it.
Prom corsage pinned
to my heart,
black tipped and
blue as his>eyes,
his>crooked smile;/
I cannot resist.
Tag:| I’m it.
Groundhog Day:(
breakfast – exactly at 0600 hrs.
lunches – packed
grocery
laundry
carpool – 0200 hrs.
dinner – precisely at 1800 hrs.
A dummy going through life,
with myhand up my ass.
Painting on my daily mask,
camouflaging my once beloved
corsage of chosen color,
that now permanently
adorns my reflection.
That crooked smile;/
had once birthed buoyant butterflies,
now breeds deadly hornets—stung.
His>voice deep, hoarse and
quivering with rage—
the paint drops from my
puppet hands,
Dinner… it’s 1805 hrs–
—whack;/ Lights Out—Wake Up—dummy.
Gasping for air,
golden pig tails tousled with sweat,
I awake from my freakishly surreal never-
ending nightmare.
Was this a prelude, fore tale, or
my guardian angel?
I>chose to listen,
I>didn’t play tag that day.
Beauty is not pain,
but love is.
Whether possessed, lost, or
simply never acquired,
each condition of love
breeds a new type of hurt.
The emptiness of one’s soul sans companion,
The heaviness of tying one’s essence to another incompatible
The burn of having it torn away
coupled with the aching hope it will return
and the pulse of sympathetic pain for
the woes of the right match,
The stabs of allegiance to the one others mock.
It all hurts differently,
but in magnitude
we remain identical.
Pain is relative,
and so is love.
A tangible illusion,
An invisible reality.
Buoyant, salty, sun warmed like a bath.
Swim until your heart is content!
Be wary,
the tides pull you from shore,
will pull you under to the dark, cold parts at the bottom,
mysterious creatures will pick the meat off of your bones.
If you tire, take a break on my beach.
I will change you, don’t forget,
The sun reflects off of my surface,
will burn you if you are not careful.
Only strong swimmers need apply.
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poem. The whole poem is below:
I love like the ocean,
Buoyant, salty, sun warmed like a bath.
Swim until your heart is content!
Be wary,
the tides pull you from shore,
will pull you under to the dark, cold parts at the bottom,
mysterious creatures will pick the meat off of your bones.
If you tire, take a break on my beach.
I will change you, don’t forget,
The sun reflects off of my surface,
will burn you if you are not careful.
Only strong swimmers need apply.
*
like the desert
And when I have finished with you,
You will be nomadic stumbling forward
from mirage to mirage
seeking oasis.
You will find no comfort.
When you find water, food, a home
you will always be thirsty, hungry, unsettled.
You will crave my warm salty water in your mouth
though you know it will make you mad.
Only devoted applicants need apply.
Reply
you have a brief affair with permanence
and tattoo your ribs 5 months in.
I think about the scars on your leg,
how you’re used to things fading.
I tell myself the memory is stitched in
with the ink
and stay within your eyeline so,
2 years from now, if a girl has placed
3 fingers on your ribs, you might remember
my warning. You exhale smoothly,
as instructed. In the morning, have me touch
the fresh, raised lines:
is this normal? will it stay?
This one
will hurt like realization
but you roll out of bed
and picture permanence as mountaintops
as birthmarks and not scars
as space instead of time
remembering how I misspoke
how I find everything
harder to wash out.
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