i did bad things to you
and like a poor abused puppy
you keep trying to warm up to me
but I am the hand that hit you
that is trying to feed you again
Category: grunge
bagged salad days
a real artistic type
wet and red and sharp
is it now or never?
down and flooded and alone
eye contact
yours or mine?
bloody and beautiful and shy
is it her mommy or daddy?
gutted and depressed and soft
ignorance, or bliss?
pu$$y Power
I have dead and stale insides
liver rotting from
too much drink
my blood is black clotting
circulation has ceased
my lungs collapsed from the smoke
breath rings out in
broken gasps laughing at the
sick joke
my glorious pussy
it keeps me going
the lines of fertility and sex
my sparkling symbol of femininity
my pink palace of
life or death
the punch line got lost in
falsehoods and pride
I want to press my sticky fingers
consensually inside
until they stop laughing and
realize
the girls are getting sick
realize
there is no one to blame
if they keep passing left
it will eventually come back
fader
Arteries and Vessels close
stopping the blood from running to my brain
crunching bones beneath my toes
sliding into frame
I stumble through the wood
hoping to go home
Branches cracking
Like sticks and stones
A moment of clarity
Shining through the thick
Hurtful and old
It’s short and sad and something I cannot face
Beautiful and bold
Crisp airy meringue
With red berries on a pastel plate
My heart icing over
Right back to being tight and cold
Together and alone
Clarity hiding
The moment is gone
Lost broken and disowned
To the blood racing
The crunching muddling my cold mind
Polar air in the warmth of night
left behind
Who is Counting?
6 bracelets
and
4 tattoos
and
13 piercings
1 manic girl
with
4 hookups
and a
900 dollar pay check
with
200 on the way
1 broken heart
and
5 shots later
with
2 missed meals
and
12 reps
1 night stand
and a
20 year old heartbroken baby girl
We are
Wet single ply paper is sticking to the counter,
and we are counting empty soap dispensers.
But who is washing their filthy hands anyway.
Her apartment keys are on a department store key ring,
and her expensive rings are on worthless fingers.
Painting the town with our rusty personalities and body glitter.
Yet we feel our best when we have been stripped down to nothing.
Stripping for anyone and everyone,
we are claiming empowerment.
We are messy girls in velvet dresses,
and well dressed girls in messy situations.
Buying shots we cannot afford.
Spiralling out of control in a city far from mom and dad.
We are starving and haven’t eaten in 17 hours.
We’ve been up all night smashing our delicate faces off the wall,
and grinding our weak yellow teeth until they crack and crumble.
We are swallowing parts of our teeth with little pills
and this help our stomach contents stay down.
We are going down on our friends,
and feeling utterly used.
We are painting the sheets with worthless fingers and broken toes.
We are practicing and painting , but getting no where.
Wearing out the brushes,
and brushing out knotted and dyed hair.
We are dying to get out of this fucking place.
biblic@l bb
in the garden of eden,
adam just is not right for eve.
adam is drinking bleach;
the forbidden fruit is premature suicide.
feast
her heart wasn’t steady
a ship in a storm
your constant tugging of doubt
porcelain in versace heels
shining and talking politely
medication and daddy issues
is this what could have been?
dress never wrinkled
reasonably educated
a muse for your artistic endeavours
manic
pixie
dream
girl
shes falling and
grasping on bodies and trying to get back up
tripping and slipping and
holding onto the warmth of blood to blood
spaced out
close to death
close to pain
raw throat
wishing she could go back to those times
slamming on the cement
in the bathroom you are trying to stop her
knuckles bruised
bleeding and blacking out and bleeding
not back there
she cannot go back there
you wont have it
matters are tough
and feelings are sharp
shallow pangs
you feel nothing
she is rotting
flies on the meat
swirling and feasting
winding
Inflatable dreams at needle point aching to be popped
The angry pro stitchers fingers are getting sweaty grasping at the tiny needle
Their milk crates are dented from constant pressure and continued sitting
Thick dreams at night with orgies and oozing glitter
The stiff buttons are hard to press
Yet so satisfying to touch
And take-out fries are never the same as crisp virgin ones
Mouths salivating at the thought
Anxiety builds and the glitter orgy ends
Run your hands on the picnic tables getting as many slivers as you possibly can
Slur your words from the pain of the wood chips embedded in your skin
Wooden floors drip with blood
An endless search for the first aid kit
Iced hands that feel as heavy as blocks of wood
Those cigarettes are eaten for 20 dollar bills and the party begins to pick up
Grayscale nights with a bossy little personality to match
Crisp floating memories weighing heavy on your chest
your head
and your back
shards
I sit in the ladies changeroom again and again
cursing the broken glass in my fingers
when I grab something the wrong way
pain shoots through my hand
but I can’t find the shard or the invisible pain
I want blood
not this tiny sharp intruder that hurts when I twist
I have this glass in my finger
hiding me deep in the changeroom
Starrfishing 