Jun 15

to myself; when i am not feeling like myself

remember
1. that even when you don't recognize the person in the mirror, they have
your mom's eyes and they look a little bit like your little brother. their heart beats
with yours. their fingernails are purple too. 

2. that although you don't feel like you belong to anything or anybody,
someone is thinking of you and someone is missing you. he loves you,
believe him when he tells you.

3. when you don't feel pretty or thin or any of those fucked up adjectives, remember
that you bleed and that you are full of blood and plasma and smooth muscle, among
other things. you are alive and you are full inside. you know this for sure.

4. that just because you look like a real person and not the barbies on the internet
does not mean that you are imperfect. believe me. 

5. to breathe. you gotta do that sometimes. 



6. to always write.
somehow writing helps you to find yourself.
Jun 04

a kind of love

our love is buried deep in things that
dont ever die.
a kind of forever without an
end in sight
(or in mind)

our love is cardiovascular.
between flesh and blood,
and beneath bone you dwell.
if i bleed enough, i can feel you,
i can see you in the crimson pool
at my feet.

i am stained with bloody fingerprints
smudged intimacy,
and god, i don't want to wash them off.
i don't think i can.

i am scoring your words into my
flesh, messy letters gouged into
superficial skin.
i am tearing muscle from bone trying
to seize the parts of you that
i hid within myself.

i am clawing caverns into my chest
and reaching my hands inside,
sometimes i scream your name just to
hear it echo inside of me.
i am searching for you between
the beats of my heart.
cracks in the cardiac foundation of my being.
May 25

the monster that hid beneath his skin

her father was killed by monsters before her birth,
or at least that’s what her mother always said.

sometimes her mother would find herself begging
her daughter to sleep beside her in order to
fill the empty space to the left of her in bed.
her mother often whispered stories of her father
when the daughter was supposed to be asleep,
the daughter would hold her eyes closed and her ears open,
she would feel her mother settle down on the side of her bed,
barely disturbing the sheets and begin to use her
satin voice to explain in the only way she knew how,
what happened to her father.

sometimes her mother spoke of the raw hands
with fingers as long as tree branches
that grabbed him in the middle of the night,
packed up all of his things
and took him,
without a sound.

sometimes her mother would whisper,
and explain that her father was strangled,
Mar 29

dare

March 24th, 2018
Montpelier, Vermont


for the first time
i felt it rise up within me.
without hesitation,
without shame,
without fear.
my own voice, crawling out of my larynx and
escaping out of my mouth,
begrudgingly pulling itself along,
weak from the journey,
but perservering.

for the first time
it demanded to be heard,
not asking for permission,
instead taking a seat on my tongue 
and resting its head on my lips,
showing its face and bearing its scars
from being told what it
could not say,
what it
should not say.
it enveloped itself in the sun and joined
with the thousands of other voices in
filling the air with vibrations.
first you see us, the people.
now you see our voices, now you feel our voices.
and oh,
they taunt you with inspiration,
they unnerve you with education,
and they
Feb 26

dear hunger,


its been a while.
how are you?
i just wanted to write and say
how fond of you i have become.
in fact, i long for your touch,
i long for you and
that bittersweet sickness you bring
with the aftertaste of triumph.
they tell me you are bad for me.
they tell me to love myself instead,
but i'm not so sure.
i've never been into drugs,
but i think this is what addiction feels like.

this body is a cruel time capsule and i am counting 
down the years until i will be released.
i am screaming to be let out,
but no one seems to hear.
in a time when i can't seem to feel anything,
you are a welcome sensation.

you have made me so much better at math,
so thanks,
i guess.
i am constantly
counting
down
the
numbers
until i don't feel you anymore.
until i don't feel anymore.
130 pounds, ugly.
120, never.
110, impossible.
Feb 26

i don't want to be afraid anymore.

I

i remember sixth grade
with a certain sweet sadness.

i remember flashes of
sun between branches- a strobe light
as we raced past evergreens
and hemlocks. we were free then.

i remember art class with Mrs. Bird, and the
bookfair, and the library, and the broken swing
on the playground, and morning meetings,
and i remember the man who came to my school with a knife.

i can’t help but remember Mrs. Gray’s shrill laugh,
cartwheeling through the hallways and rolling down
damp hills, the scent of grass wafting through the air,
the pine needles stuck in my hair, and
huddling in the corner of Mr. Tessin’s room.
i remember it was dark as he rushed to lock the door.

i remember October 2nd.
the calm voice over the intercom telling us
to stay where we were.
i remember the worry that settled in the bottom of my stomach

Jan 23

bittersweet

while we have this time together,
i want to waste not a minute of it.
the petrichor nights and 
the delicate days,
i want to spend them all with you.
i want to breath in the moon and its 
white stagnant light while our
fingers get tangled in the 
constellations.
i want for nothing but to write odes
in the black ink of night and
steal words from
the lips of the earth.
i have never liked the ocean,
but i want to swim with you
through the night sky
as the darkness washes over the
horizon like the tide.

goodbyes gone unspoken are always 
the most bittersweet,
so if you must leave, do it
without saying so.

 

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