heart felt blunt words
I wont gag
when pus fills my mouth
or when they scream
about it
I won’t do it
and
I won’t drool
at all
no saliva will meet the floor
or saturate the sheets
on my feet
I won’t do it
and
I can get through it
needles hooking skin
sinking in
I won’t do it
I’ll get through this
little pretty one
glowing skin silk, nothing but
rippled protection
pretty one left years ago
with teeth lined up in a smile
I have a war inside my eye that
feeds my mind and the drops I cry while
I’m hiding wasted and
fighting
the drip in my brain that’s roasting the veins in
my legs while I’m starving tasteless and
hearing
these chimes in my ears that
have been ringing for years I’ve
been pumping the white noise through
to make it clear
still
I’m hiding wasted starving tasteless and
fading
be madly in love with someone who drives you crazy
latenightscoveredinblood
graspingatthetoiletcrying
not knowing what to do
the kind of crazy that just has to be accepted
ifyouleaveme
i’lldoit
i’llfucking
do it
and just has to be followed
endlessly
handcuffed
until it’s just you two of you left
shelostthefuckingkeys
forever
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
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
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
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
Feasting on the wind
Only to preserve a pile
Picturing what it would be like
to be preserved
We are choking
Intangible
picture that
thick spit cascading from my chin
trying to swallow
they won’t take that
I hate myself,
and you hate yourself.
mutually
marbled and cool to the touch
The hungry bed waits for you,
with its sheets twisting and its pillows stiff.
Just take a bite of the apple,
let the juice run down,
dripping and sticky.
Warm milk in a plastic cup,
Just like grandma gave me.
The perfect temperature,
no bubbles or steam.
The bed is restless,
it wants to be full.
I cut the poached eggs
you watched the yolk spill out,
beading in small yellow drops.
Dribbling onto a spongy bed of rye.
Sleep my little angel,
tell your mom you are in good hands.
The bed has you now,
twisting its cotton sheets around you,
like little tricky snakes.
Starrfishing 