|These words are my heart.|
damaged goods.hearts don’t comedamaged goods. by neonsquiggle
with This Side Up stickers
and this metaphor is nearly
too worn-out for words ;
but I was bruised by the time
I landed on your doorstep, darling,
so every fight felt like
a forest fire, and every new compromise
tasted like cardboard ;
I had FRAGILE tattooed
all across my collarbones,
but that doesn’t mean
your hands were any less
couragethe day I realisedcourage by neonsquiggle
I may never taste your mouth again,
I threw myself
into the first cigarette I could find,
sputtering through the smoke
and greedily inhaling my death wish.
today, my hands smell like nicotine
and lighter fluid ;
and I wonder if you were aching
you would still let them hold you.
isn’t always sacrifice -
sometimes it’s just alcohol,
or far too much loneliness,
or far too little.
I could have loved you forever,
if you’d been brave enough to let me.
chaos theoryI soaked your butterflies in vodkachaos theory by neonsquiggle
and buried them alive.
I planted yellow daisies in the 20-proof dirt
and waited for the sunshine
to make us all
Sometimes when the winds are angry where you are,
I think of your butterflies and wonder
if we're all still fighting to get out.
If they ever named a hurricane after me
I would call you up just to say
I told you so.
conquestthrow back this Thursdayconquest by neonsquiggle
to a lifetime ago,
when my bridges were too young
to be fireproof
and I didn't yet know the words
you were my Columbus,
my twisted Magellan,
hands hardened and hungry
for any part of me
that could bear your name.
you sought me and wrought me
dead in the water,
every bloody fingerprint a flag
that marked each brand-new territory
upon my skin -
I was greener than grass
and you sent your victory marches
all over me,
steamrolling my rugged edges
and calling me all the kind words for
throw back this Thursday
to a lifetime ago -
people aren't supposed to fall
you aren't supposed to pile them up
and burn them.
throw back this Thursday
to a lifetime ago -
before ache upon ache
was tattooed on these bones;
before my voice knew how to beg
and even now,
I say grace when I am called
to remember you.
and even now,
I am naive enough
to still be so grateful.
|These words are my heart.|
i'm too young to be running out of dreamsthe brave kidsi'm too young to be running out of dreams by insomniaplague
tore them in half
& the pretty
but it was a secret for us
that the other
was really blue &
there was a note
in salt water & drowning
for the benefit of the
so we came with a solution:
tear the wings &
bleed them out
|Lovely works of art made by lovely, lovely people.|
it is summer and i want to write you poems
about how it is fifty-seven degrees and i am shaking.
it is summer and i want to crawl through your second-story
window and tell you about the butterfly i saw and named "cloudcityscandal,"
but you are always asleep and dreamless.
it is summer and whenever i sleep i only dream about you, so how is that fair.
it is summer and i don't go to church but spend all my time confessing.
it is summer and i don't discharge static before pumping gas.
it is summer and where is my paradise. where is my sanity.
where is my personal weight-loss consultant and complimentary iced beverage.
it is summer and i am already wishing it were spring.
when i was five i made a green and purple
friendship bracelet at summer camp.
i don't know where it is,
but sometimes it's all i want.
you and i hike up past the clouds until
the rain and cold can't touch us.
we have three bruised shins and two quiet
arguments between us, and we name them summer.
(you climb moun
Fourth of September.1.estallidos
I am writing a poem about my birthday and candles and alcohol and dead people.
And how I have a really good imagination and every time I walk by that stop sign I see the car slamming into her and spreading her across the asphalt and every time the lights flicker I imagine his brain swelling against the confines of his skull and every time I walk in the front door I am reminded that my baby brother is dead.
I am writing a poem about balloons and dead people.
It is the fourth of September and I am full of longing. I want bare knees and raw elbows, untied shoes, green grass that bites into the tender palms of my hands. I want summer to roll into autumn without numbers. I want to pick wild strawberries. I want birdsong sunsets, lowercase letters.
I want Cooper's pond at night, where there are no atomic bombs or doctor's charts and you can slip beneath its cold surface and live forever.
Tonight I am supposed to celebrate growing old by getting drunk and pretending tha
.you are a walkingoaklungs
coffin; there are sentences
buried alive inside you, all the
things you could not say
and they will fester there
like maggots, eat you from
the inside out
sticks and stones.broken people like to write poems about how they are broken.estallidos
they like to turn people into words because no one's heart
has ever been punctured by parentheses, but by god it's not
for lack of trying. in a poem, broken people can have hangnails
and they never have to brush their hair because the tangles
symbolize the time they lost their virginity and there are no mirrors
unless they write about one and force themselves to look into it.
broken people also like to use cliche metaphors
but that is okay because when you are broken
sometimes cliche metaphors are all you have left.
"i am a rose and you think i'm beautiful so you
keep ramming me into your eye, thorn first."
"i am uncut grass and you roll around in me,
joyful, shaking, but when you stop to catch
your breath and look at your forearms you
see that they're covered in hundreds of tiny cuts."
"i am a dandelion. i don't know why but goddamnit
i am tender and damaged and i've already written
a poem where i've mentioned turning into
Last WordsIn the beginning you never want to let her go,estallidos
and so you don't for a long, long time.
You commit to bobby pins underfoot, mismatched
plates stacked like landmines,
long hairs that circle and clog the drain, filling the tub
with stagnant water.
You tell her something that you love about her
each night before you fall asleep,
until one day you look at her and realize that you
don't know what to say anymore.
“I am not happy.”
You whisper this to yourself once and then try to say it louder,
but the words won't cooperate.
Maybe a whisper is as loud as this thought can exist,
or maybe some words weren't meant to be spoken aloud,
but you still think them, and yes,
you whisper them to yourself
when she isn't listening.
Perhaps this is what you should have been telling her
each night as her hands searched for you in the darkness.
This isn't happening, you think,
unless it is.
You wonder if you owe her something,
like your heart, maybe, your red hooded sweatshirt,
paper cranes and picket fencesi am folding you one thousand paper cranes because it is all we have left.estallidos
legend says that if i fold one thousand paper cranes, i will get a wish. i could wish for a pair of iridescent wings or an ocean in a teacup or just to finally be happy again, but i don't want any of that--with every crane i fold i am imagining you. one crane for the circles under your eyes, one crane for your jutting ribs, one crane for every seizure.
i love you and you're dying and i will run out of paper trying to fold your broken pieces into birds.
you drew me a picture of us in the future.
our houses were next door to each other and a white picket fence separated our property and oh god, it made me curl into a ball and ache for hours. see, in a perfect world, the clouds would always be fluffy and our mailboxes would always be full of hand-drawn pictures and our smiles would be lopsided but permanent.
i hung it on my refrigerator as a reminder that there is still hope, but paper is so fragile and i am afra
neverlandi'm giving myself ten minutes to grow up,estallidos
and with every minute that passes i am remembering
balloons and party hats and streamers
and the second star to the right,
straight on 'til morning.
every year i write myself a poem for my birthday,
but this year i think i'll write a poem about
peter pan and he'll die in the end and everyone
will be sad. i'll be the saddest though,
because there comes a point in your life
when you realize that you're not peter pan,
or wendy, or even a lost boy.
(how sad, i think, to be lost but not a lost boy.
it doesn't matter though, because neverland isn't
real and now look, i'm another year older, and what
have i even done with my life?)
today i'm twenty-three and peter pan is dead.
my ten minutes have passed and i still haven't
grown up. people around me forget how to talk
to mermaids, and no one claps because no one
believes in fairies, or flying, or themselves.
today every birthday candle looks like a bone
and i still have so many wishes left to make.
to map sunrises...one day I will tell my daughter to touch herselfthis-epiphany
before she ever lets a man do it for her, to learn
her body-secrets and the shape of pleasure. I will
tell her that San Francisco always keeps your heart.
that her skin is a blank canvas, that hair grows,
the value of the right kind of disrespect. that the older
we get, the more we need the people who knew us
when we were young. I will tell my daughter
to give away the secrets that keep her up at night,
and that there is never a wrong time to love someone,
but sometimes a wrong way. I will teach my daughter
to travel without makeup; that sometimes forever means
morning and sometimes the ends of the earth means
Africa or one city over. that it's okay to be afraid of
I will tell my daughter that life is teetering across
the bridge, that the panic building in her chest is okay;
that good love is waiting on the other side; that better
love is holding her hand; and that the best love is her own
voice in the back of her mind, saying "
You should never attack a poet,we are the best at exploiting weakness.DearPoetry
the night you took a scalpel to my chest
& fed my heart to the stars,
you told me i could hate you
if i needed to.
with an exorcism
i tried to cast you out
of my body.
i was contorted limbs:
the language of tongues
trying to find myself
in the cosmos
of lit kerosene fingertips,
& the kinds of habits
that only choke me at 3am -
when my eyes aren’t yet heavy
enough for sleep;
my mind tells me to do awful things.
between fucking &
you are the calories
in the mathematical equation
i think of shy moons
and i don’t eat for three days.
you only liked me
when this poetic tongue
space shrapnel aside-
you’re too far down now
for even the stars
to graph you into their maps.
stop ruining autumn.listen:estallidos
fall makes me think of leaving and of apple cider, though i never liked apple cider.
but i liked the idea of it.
two years ago i met a boy as fragile as dead leaves who called me his little spring girl. (i'd always liked autumn the best.) he kissed the two soft dimples on the small of my back and told me helikedme helovedme hewantedme.
and oh, by the way, "everything good must come to an end."
on our one year anniversary we picked out two pumpkins and i drew elephants on them for us to carve. he cut his out so aggressively that it lost its shape.
lopped off tusks and broken trunks became just a large, jagged hole.
he put a lit candle inside, and we watched it flicker, illuminating the raw edges.
"what is it supposed to be?" i asked him, taking his hand.
"my heart," he said definitively.
like an afterthought.
after that i was too afraid to carve my pumpkin at all.
the leaves changed, or maybe he changed, or maybe i was b
I lack sleep. I like good food and pretty things and making people laugh. I love a boy who writes and listens to good music and still gives me that butterfly feeling.|
I write when I can, and I hold nothing back.
Architecture student now: I want to see the world and live it and break it and build it from the ground up.
Potterhead. Skinny bitch. Klutz.
Dramione, Zutara, Dalek, Literati, Rumbelle!
These words are my heart. Forgive me if I bleed.
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