Broken Hearts Still BeatingThe lightning-spliced sky illuminates my bedroom
and I'm crouched in the corner, embraced by the dark,
thinking of how there could have been a chance
for me to wake up next to you, your emerald eyes
webbed with emotion, your body limp
from jerking in your sleep. I imagine ruffled sheets,
broken lamps, and permeating heat.
I think of how we could have jogged together
along roadsides and doubled over with thorns
in our ribs at your feeble attempts to whistle Dixie.
I'm collapsing inward, reminiscing on the truths
I should have told you and how every boy I pass
has your face, your dark brown hair, your lips.
And I cry. Oh, do I cry.
I saw you hunched over one day, exhausted
from nightmares, sipping Gatorade and reciting
poetry about there being beauty in decay,
and I couldn't help but think that you
were living proof of that phenomenon.
I wanted to cry for you and tell you about that time
a lady ran into me at Barnes & Noble and I'd had
no earthly idea that I was alive until she turned ar
dear deathdear death,
i went to visit my wife today, in the building where i have to breathe through my mouth because it smells like a slaughter house. i don't buy her flowers anymore, because they are almost as dead as she is and giving them to her is like putting flowers on a grave. i don't buy her chocolates, because she'd just vomit them up in a shit-brown wave and she never had much of a sweet tooth anyway. no, i just go by myself and hope that it's enough.
today i realised how much her eyes scare me. they used to be green. mossy green, not emerald green like they say in books, because in real life nothing could possibly be that perfect. but in the sunlight they used to sparkle and that never failed to steal the breath from my body. she always said that her eyes were her best feature. she never could see how beautiful the rest of her was.
her new eyes look like giant cigarette burns. whenever i'm sitting at her bedside in the pink chair with the stuffing leaking out like blobs of decomposin
dutifuli used to make boys light houses but your ocean eyes are what keep me on land.
i used to use boys as an excuse to not eat but our sex makes me ravenous.
you are the music that i sing in the shower, you are the ink that my fountain pen
salivates onto virgin parchment.
you are the kind of boy i thought of back when i had reasons to wish. every dried
up dandelion i exploited; when i closed my eyes i was blowing kisses to you.
the v your stomach makes when your hungry is enticing but i like running my
fingers over your distended abdomen after a meal we made together.
you are the reason why i do not need to carry a thesaurus around with the rest
of my 'baggage'. your pallid skin is a palette to me, bashfully vapid, and i take
advantage of the canvas. i leave finger trails and bite marks to remind you of me.
and then there are the days where i amstranded on my island of anxiety, i always know you are willing to listen to me cry.
and when there are days where i am
selfishit takes a b
when somebody says your name for the last timeone
one of the first things she learns is that ghosts cannot cry.
this does not stop her from trying.
there's a house.
not a home. barely a building. just beyond the part of town parents don't let their kids near after dark.
it's empty. it's been empty for as long as anyone can remember.
in the upstairs bedroom, there's a queen-sized bed and a chest of drawers and a chandelier. they are covered in dust and cobwebs. they are rotting. they are bug-infested and falling to pieces.
in the upstairs bedroom, there's a girl.
she wears a long, white dress, and a shroud of grief, and a bullet wound in her chest.
she is rotting. she is sorrow-infested and falling to pieces.
in the right light, you can see straight through her.
one of the first things she learns is that even if she could cry, it wouldn't make much difference.
no one can hear her.
no one can see her.
no one even knows that she's there.
he runs away, and she isn't quick enough to follow him. she doesn't know if she can haunt
you and i are just walking disastersif your skeleton is home
if your ribcage is the fireplace in the living room
of a house weathering out a storm
then you are haunted
your bones are haunted
there are ghosts howling down your chimney throat
there are ghosts rattling chains in the hall of your spine
the electricity running through your veins is flickering
if your skeleton is home
then you are a haunted house
you are dark and uninviting
even in broad daylight
the doors of your kneecaps slam shut
without the help of wind
your organ furniture goes flying
the ghost in the fireplace of your ribcage
howls into the chimney of your throat
and you are haunted
you are home to more ghosts than you have room for
if your skeleton is home
if your cracked and splintered bones are home
then it's dark and uninviting, even in broad daylight
and you are haunted, you are haunted, you are haunted
BurialThe mud caked my fingernails.
My hair slipped from inside my hood,
blowing across my face.
The wind shifted the leaves on the ground
a collage of yellow, red, and brown
and the earth crawled around me.
The rain fell hard
and the wet grass grabbed at my ankles.
The hole I dug with my own two hands
was between two trees where you and I
used to sit and talk about superheroes,
videogames and high school bullies.
I thought the location fit.
I pulled from my coat pocket
the heart necklace you gave me
the year before you said goodbye
and drove off, leaving skid marks
on the vacant street.
I dropped my heart into the hole
and buried it.
As I walked away,
the rain still pouring,
I picked the mud from inside my fingernails.
I'm Sorry, Daddy...Hes walking home alone again today,
With the bruises on his face,
Hidden by his fair blond hair.
Striding up the path,
Preparing for another painful night.
He thought, If I were stronger, I wouldnt have to fight,
It shouldnt hurt to be a child.
To be so young.
He knows hes not the only one,
Even though he feels he has no one to talk to.
The kids they stare, but they dont ask.
Sometimes he wished they did.
And soon enough hell have to give in,
To the weight of his Fathers iron fist.
And no one will ever know the secrets that he hid.
A boy is never too old to cry,
A boy is never too old to fall.
On his way to bed one evening,
When his Father had been drinking...
He pushed and he shoved,
And yet he couldnt get up.
He cried. He screamed. He hoped and he prayed it would go away.
But so many bones had broken,
And yet he was glad he stood at the top of the stairs that day.
His Father demanded he stand,
apatothe ocean air is selling
moist and salty caresses
there is a metaphor to take
in each skimming wave
but I am tired so I
so I will
will let it rest
my turning mind
with the tides
with the gilled creatures
below the rhythmic surface
gulping gaping gas-gasping fish mouths
mine will open too and
open till wide enough
for the cry clenched in my
throat to caw-claw
its way out till I am
chorusing with the seagull
and if I fall
into the water now
it will envelop me
wrap its foam arms around
touch its crest to my head
kiss me dead
I will be complacent
in its sea indoctrination
this is how I will stay
above the darkness
infinite below me
Drinking in The AfterlifeFor someone who had killed herself, she was awfully cheerful. She was sitting at a small, one-person table in the corner of the pub, twiddling her hair and giggling. There was a bottle of beer on the tabletop. If I hadn't known that it was untouched, I would have thought she was drunk.
"Something amusing?" I asked, having walked up to her.
She jumped and looked towards me, her eyes finding mine. She smiled somewhat sheepishly. She was such a pretty girl. Why she'd killed herself, I couldn't imagine.
"I just can't believe this," she said. "Who'd have thought there'd be pubs in the afterlife?"
I nodded in understanding. "Indeed."
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then reached out and touched her beer. She picked it up, then set it back down. "I was worried there for a while," she mused. "Suicide being a mortal sin and all. Thought I'd end up in a lake of fire or something."
"If you don't mind my asking," I said, "why did you take your own life? If memory serves me right, you ha
this is the safest place we've foundyour skin is the only thing i have found
that doesn't taste like ash
not even the tiniest bit
not even the hint of an after-taste
your skin is the only thing
i can bear to touch without worrying
it will catch fire beneath my fingertips
fire has followed me everywhere
but it will not follow me here
it will not retrace my fingertip footsteps
down the length of your spine
your skin is the only thing
i have yet to burn
it is the only thing i have found
that i can bear to touch
mad houseyou are a moan that
crawls like a tarantula
down the hall to my room.
papier-mâché girls dance
in the garden, wild women, burning
with their dreams of becoming
skeletons, and through their
parchment skin i can see their
wasted hearts struggling to beat.
a dead boy visits me at night.
i lie rigid in my bed, paralysed
while he stands by my window, white
as the underbelly of a fish,
still dripping with water
from the ocean that stole his life.
and i can still feel their hands
as cold and rotten as the hands
of a corpse,
the prick in my backside while
they fill me with their venom.
they rape me of my life
and i hear someone wail
in the darkness, as godforsaken
as the howl of a dog who has discovered
its owner dead.
i vomit and it comes out black
my heart is the ugliest part
of me, but no one will ever see...
and these walls,
oh sometimes these walls scream so loud.
i'll huff and i'll puffyou are made entirely of harsh lines
elbows like knives and a jaw like a promise
that there's always worse to come
i pressed up against you
as your fingers tugged on my hair
and your voice shivered down my spine
and i'm sorry, so sorry
that i had to leave like that, but
you were making me want things
i shouldn't have
the morning star1 - he is everything i do not want
dark blue eyes and dishwater hair and a lightning strike smile
the sight of him makes me choke
2 - he is everything i do not want to need
breathless laughter and carefree posture and a lightning strike smile
i have never choked on happiness before
3 - he is everything
lightning strikes and pounding heart beats and a dormant volcano smile
there is too much of this, of happiness, of him to swallow and i choke
4 - i do not want everything, just him
and his lightning strike smiles and breathless laughter
he is too much, just enough, a dormant volcano
i have never choked on happiness before