is it fall? —outside the madhouse windows?i have not showeredin three days, but i would liketo let the air cut me, the trees loose — danse —the new and old risingtogether: foreign dramasin dead worlds, patchinggardens, spirits in oldbooks, old spells —the split apple on my lip,wet like sex,dark and strange like innocence. i would like —to wash myself… Continue reading poem: september mental illness
alternatively titled: "buffy, season six" i am New York in the window,i am Paris in the glass.can you find me, i amlaughing—can you find me,i won’t last.cities in the stardustmake shit inside my head,can i sleep with Prague?with the adolescent-dead?the boys are saving nothingthe boys are going madi am just an illnesspathetic, never had.can you… Continue reading poem: emo song where the boy saves the girl, actually
my heart is a hole,the picket fence tornup and stabbed through,the thief leapingfrom the window, holding—the I, the past,my old myself. whydo normal words not fitin my mouth, their edgessharp and snapping—the camera catchingthe stripping, and Ithe old, new girlstanding naked by the sill.
something inside medoes not wantto get better. i am violently addictedto my own self-destruction.
when i last heard this song i was better, i was in hell but i was managing: i would not have stabbed my arm with a fork because i forgot where my knife was kept, i would not have spent the next day staring at the small break in the skin— thinking about nothing, feeling… Continue reading poem: disenchanted
she was in her room and the moon was hung capriciously outside and she was sitting on the heater, her legs curled inside herself; she was crying and she wanted to pull her veins out of her too-thin wrists and eat them, letting the wires tangle in her throat—like her emotions used to tangle in… Continue reading poem: i broke the skin but it didn’t hurt (everything is a disappointment)
she is leaning out the window, considering— the view. she cannot hang here forever, she will either step away and keep the sky a separate god or she will lean into the inevitable, her fingers splitting in the air her head smashing into damp pieces. her skull is a throbbing lump hanging on a broken… Continue reading poem: suicide is metaphor
it is four o'clock: we are fucking in my head. it is eleven-thirty: you have left the room, the lights are off. you did not talk to me, you smiled with an odd, dripping darkness; I am ripped down my inner thigh the pooling coming faster, I put my hand inside myself and I become… Continue reading poem: even the angels are damned
keep him as an unknown, do not soil him: he is nothing yet, he is just shy; the infinity of possibility in glass lights, in small smiles. do not drain him out, or make him (yet another) overly-constructed fiction living in the city of the dead, whores cheering for rat fights and love sold like… Continue reading poem: girls alone go mad
Welcome To The Bottom of the Erotic. The Mood Swings Pure Chemical Hormone. I lose skin and I am watching the curtains make double-colors: the red too fresh, too fake the black like insomnia, the artist's friend, climbing in for psychotic kicks. I make my reflection in crescent nails I find that (once again) I… Continue reading poem: I do not want to mistake another boy’s kindness for love