heart felt blunt words
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
In the beginning I was shy and bashful,
Not knowing what I wanted or what you knew.
We were quiet and in love,
The symphonic sounds of crickets and frogs at night in the hayloft,
I had my first drink with you.
I kissed you and it felt amazing,
Your neck kisses made me so warm.
Now I hate sleeping alone and being alone,
and thinking alone.
Who will I tell when I cant breathe,
I cant breathe now.
I am repressing thoughts of you but they scatter the city.
We have spent years together,
I’m drinking again.
I really don’t know why I did it so fast.
I feel sick and I cannot eat,
I toss in my sleep only waking to think of a moment we shared and cry.
I wear the bracelet you gave me and I cannot take it off.
I feel your touch on my skin and I want to hold your hand,
I know the memories of your touch will fade and I will have nothing left.
I know your body better than you do,
Is this really best for any of us,
We were fine,
We got in some fights but we still loved,
We have different personalities but we still loved.
And yet we both long for the hypothetical love of another,
What, are we suppose to meet another and everything will change ?
We will have all this perspective and knowledge,
Perhaps that won’t happen,
But if it does I want you to know you own my heart,
As stubborn as we both are we have to admit that we learned a lot from each other.
I hate to write as if it is over,
I don’t want to type it,
It would make it real.
I want to live in the cricket fantasy land,
Live a thousand years in your loft.
Surrounded by movie posters, sleeping bags, and your body.
I want to live in a daze.
A fever dream,
But that can’t happen and we have to come to reality.
I love you,
I love you,
And thats why it hurts.
In the end I’m cold and vain,
Not knowing what I want,
Quiet and out of love.
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.
And without a word they touched their bare bellies together,
Making slurping sounds.
Anna, with a drink in her hand said,
“It just made sense”.
“It just did” she repeated.
A ritual? A greeting?
Who knows.
And my neigbours are old but they are up later than me.
My spelling is bad, yet I still write poetry.
Personality, personality, writing needs depth,
No rhyme scheme no syllable counts no breath.
My bare calloused hands killing flies,
With sheets of polyester, pizza boxes and zip ties.
That line was hard to swallow,
Like cum and medicine and pills and sorrow.
Maybe I need eternal sleep,
Or, maybe I am just too weak.
I like to be alone.
Decomposing their bones.
Steel toed boots in November sun,
Fist fights, pity sex, and dad’s gun.
Hold your last breath,
Distracted death.
Staving and sick?
Take your pick.
I’m having a blast,
I’m too cool at last.
I cut your manicured lawn,
And fuck your mom.
I’m a suburban serial killer,
Empty and looking for filler.
I am perpetual depression,
And major in constant aggression.
I am obsessed,
At best.
I clean your shiny pool,
And play you like a fool.
A glimmer in my eye,
Watching your family die.
I make minimum wage,
Get high off rage.
Trophy wives,
Wasted lives.
I vacuum the pastel rug,
And sell your son drugs.
He can be just like me,
Trapped in suburbia eternity.
I wish I had giant eyes
The kind of eyes that are so glassy
And so glossy
that they cannot be real
I wish they would take over my sight
Allowing for hyper sight
Seeing through
Seeing over
Seeing who I am
I wish my eyelashes went further than my brow
Catching tears before they descend
Cupping the salty liquid
Returning it
Carving raw designs into my forehead
Telling me who I am
I wish the crook of my neck
Was large enough to consume my family
Store them with me
Even when they are long dead
Decomposed
Their bones would become mine
Intertwined
Infinte
Showing me who I am
I wish I had a buzz cut
So short
You can see every mark
Every scrape
On my scalp
The kind of hair that makes you question gender
They can decide who I am
She has covered me in her sticky adhesive again,
Latex free?
Love free.
It impedes my vision,
Tugging at my eyelids.
Forcing the tears,
I have held for so long.
Sterile heart.
Sterile mind.
There is nothing sterile about me.
I’m tarnished,
No amount of latex free adhesive can glue me back together.
Glaring, I can see her smiling.
Ridiculing me.
As if I wanted,
The sticky tentacles of her caring.
Starrfishing 