...i stand facing the windso i canfeel the world hitme at a 1000milesa minute,to provei can take a blowstronger thanyou.
...Wind up my heart, butlet it go.because it's Clockwork,and i'm running out oftime.
...and everytime i flipthroughthese empty pages,alli can seeare the blankstares glaringbackat me.[i have nothing to say .]
...i'd like to see the stars, falland kiss themoon.i'd make a wish as they'd shatter its glowinto a million little pieces, andscatteracross the seas.one day, these lights will goout; one day, that wish will cometrue.[shut your eyes and imaginethe end]
...Well cupid missed his mark, struckthroughacold dark shadow. Chased afterit for a while incircles, realizedit wasn't a game, itwasn't"real life." Took thearrow and pierced cupid'sheart.But cupid's not realeither,can't dieand circles never stop running
...bet you can't understandhalfthe words ispit out atyou,cause they're venomand onlyi'mimmune.
...what's the point of china, if itnever gets used. just sits onthe shelf, collecting dust.that's all were good foranyways,the looks.then we break.[i'd pour you a cup of tea right now,but it's really poison .]
...Tension, is building betweenour bones; crackingthese boundaries that bindus.[lets not get lost in the momenthere. ]
...I like to dance in the sun-kissed fields. andreally, the way it feels is,Warmth...scattering dandelionsacross raysof gold patternedgrass.[whether its bright out or not, you'llalways shine like the sun .]
.and this beating in my chestmight just be the banging of someonetrying to break free.
.Every night I praythe miles of nervesbeneath my skinwill melt away, sothe lash of yourtongue canno longer sting.
32:3I poked holes into my palmswhen it came time to pray.Hoping that maybe some of the holy liquidwould drip into the cathedral floorsand into bones holding up sinners &saints. I thoughtGod would understand my sentiment of knowingdeparted people and the segmentsthat drove them mad. The Sundays that stood churchlessin the yard, outside by dad's overpriced toolsalways told me stories of the whalethat swallowed the man that swallowedhis pride that ate his faithand ended up a new whale with handsas big as baskets. To this day he hands out breadin his fresh-baked book of poemsand waits for me to poke moretiny holes into my tiny hands. Half-praying a please.
The Love Story You Gave MeI, We kissedYour lips tasted like heavenBut you left traces ofBurning hellDown my throat.II, We lovedWhen our skin brushedthe wound on my thigh somehow rooted into buttresses of your veinsIt poisoned your heart androbbed your breath away.III, I leftThat night when your eyes burnt in liquor wildfireI could smell her perfume on our bedYour lips tasted like vanillaAnd my tears tasted like bitter blizzard.(G.L)The Love Story You Gave Me
I saw the tornado in your eyesSo you learnt to hide your hurricanes,You hushed your storms silent,And hid the seams in your bruised heart,You found cracks beneath your gentle smile.(G.L)-I saw the tornado in your eyes
Crash-landing lovershe was the kind of boy who flewwith iron wings,and she was the kind of girl who swamcarrying an anchor,there was no way he could stop herfrom drowning.there was no way she could stop himfrom falling.
.as if murdering a suicidalgirl would make you a killer,if anything - - -- - -you're my hero.
overflowI tried to show you all the broken bones in the cupboard,the cobwebs beneath the staircase;all the schisms, and chasms,and chinks in my a(r)mourbut your finger touched my lipsin a curious sort of way, and you saidhush, darling, don't say a wordnone of that matters anymoreso I tried to shut away the ghostsbut now they're out and aboutand coming for meand I have no hope of escapingwith my heart so chipped and faded.
day seveni. melodrama please, please, please; i cannot take a moment more. you know you're making a scene with your wallowing, with your wailing, and with your near-constant wellaway and i cannot help but collect your chaotic complaints for later use; i'm just a shudder shy of shattering and all my shards are ammunition.ii. dispassion some souls shroud themselves in clouded cloaks unfeeling; i suppose apathy is all the rage, but i cannot fall for nothing some souls are blank below the surface just moving through the motions and i, i'm one for conflagrations not those who are naught but embersiii. entitlement i am no p
quirks.when i was a child:i loved to steal.i would go around my neighborhoodand steal lawn ornaments.at daycare, i would steal moneyand toysand food.once, i stole my next door neighbor’srabbit statute.when my parents confronted me,the lie was smooth and solid:i saw so-and-so take it.--when i was a child:i loved to lie.i would make up storiesto get reactions out of people.to see if they’d believe me.for fun.once, i convinced my friend charlottethat i had twenty-four hours to live.when she burst into tears,i had to bite my tongueto keep from laughing.--when i was a child:i loved animals.i would lock my dog in the closetand in the bathroom.a lot of my neighbors left birdcages outduring the dayso i set all of the birds free.once, i imagined what it would be liketo kill an animal.then, i imagined what it would be liketo run over it repeatedlywith a carso i did it with my scooterto a rose i foundbecause it was redlike blood.--when i was a
Things I would Tell Her--C.I want to tell her the thingsI'll tell her when she’s older,but the information terrifies her.In order of importance:she has luna moths in her head,monarch butterflies in her stomach,and a feral fetus in her womb.Her handsare collapse-clasped and foldedin her lap;she holds her elbows like wingsaway from her ribs,ready to flap,to flutter,to fly.I want to tell herto keep one hand in her purseso she can always find her keys,to keep an eye on the doorand the door always openso she can run if she doesn't feel safe,but her cheeks are rorschach-splotch redand the tension in her shoulderswarns me she's not readyto hear this.And there is the possibility thatmaybe I’m not ready to tellthis fourteen-year-oldnow woman,I’m just as devastated as her;that she is surrounded by friends and familywho are violated by a communitywhere no man can say yes all men.
Lost and foundI used to fall for boys who were lost,wandering aimlessly between the mountain-folds of reality.nomads, they spent the days counting stars and the nightslooking for the sun. their eyes roamed and their hands travelled,staying in my heart for days or weeks, before continuing tosearch for the way to their various destinations,to the clouds or to the groundleaving me in place, in a city I could traverse with my eyesshut.Until I met a boy who was found,had the universe tattooed on the back of his hand.he read me like a survey map, knew his way aroundmy tangled forest of a mind, could trace paths throughmy bramble eyes and he could follow the bluerivers of my veins, would not fall into the railwaytracks scissored across my elbows,but he was a city I could not traverse with my eyesshut.I went from being found to being lost,swimming in his mouth unaware of which way was upwhich way was down and I pitched my tent in his heartone night when he was telling me the way to rome
The RainSometimes it feels likeThe rain is only fallingTo disguise my tears
happily ever after? not really.cinderella is dead,prince charming,because you read other storiesand just couldn't keep your handsfrom tangling in rapunzel's golden hairor caressing aurora's sleeping face.
i don't call my scars black holes. even though my scars are swallowingme down their spiny throats i continue to call them stars because you cannotsee black holes( & these wounds are far from invisible )
Being Okay Is The Hardest Thing We DoBeing Okay Is The Hardest Thing We Do because being okay is expected,if we’re not okay, that’s not okay,what can we do to be okay?we can scribble illegible wordson a canvas made for by paintersmasquerading as notebook paper,and hope that we can sell the burnof stinging emotions for some paper.but the funny thing about that thought?is that american money isn’t paper,it’s 75% cotton and 25% linen fibers.so even the money you'd earn from your misery,isn't anything you can write onwhen you realize your money isn't made to heal. even if it does talk. but it never really ever says enough, does it?But that's okay...being okay is the hardest thing we dobecause sticks and stones do break bones,but you can hide the scars with a jacket or longer sweatshirt.or put on pants as opposed to athletic shorts.words kill, words heal, and words are so much more.and you can't hide the scars that riddle your face,the way your
BulliedCold words on my mindLike grey waves tasting a beachWashing me away.
three stages before an eclipse.i.my tears are scalding, bringing back old wounds from the dead& letting them paradedown my wrists[ and my thighsand my stomach ]like my pain is somefestival the demonsin my mind canall enjoyii.my muse is sick& i'm beginning to seestars for what they really are: burningballs of gas that i will never reachiii.never before have bridgesscreamed at me so loud"you should really try to fly"& if i stand close enoughi can almost hearthe countdown burningthough my ears 321
...You struck a chord in my soul.Now it rings in my ears,a sicklysweet melody that deafensthe painscreams louder now can't hear it's ownvoice.