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but sometimes it just
doesn't make sense.
i forget how to start
and pick it up
from the middle
and go back after.
blueshe became my beginning
and she will be my end
i will softly
with that ocean
i will stain my will
the colors of her;
pull the blue from her eyes
rub the pale from her hip
dance my fingertips
across her collar and
waltz her blush til dawn i will
erase lines between our skin;
we are the atlantic in a frame
small doses small dips
but it's never enough
they say if one loves the ocean,
they never really leave it
and empty my lungs she is
an ocean and i have fallen
and i will softly
i quoted youflushed
i'd written it down once while
still you slept:
"under penalty of law"
buried it somewhere between
the springs of our beds
and never thought to look
along the lines of mattress tags
for the pink we pressed
against each other
once upon a time.
but dear god i remember
i was head over heels for
sky eyes with thoughts afloat
pacific eyes and
margarita eyes with
on your tongue, we
used to use the countertops to
balance ourselves after losing
our air to each other's lungs and
now i like to think that there is
where the pink went.
tell me your mattress tag."
and you'd meant it once.
i you we used toi remember an autumn before last
that drank up the august haze and heat
and spit out tree clothes.
they were orange before red
but layers never did you any good;
you were always blind before
so what difference does it make?
we used to draw on them in blood,
make people with smiles who lived
across the world, and we let them
live that way because
that's how we wanted to live, too.
i remember finding one stuck on my window
with a soul and smile in your handwriting,
clutching at the glass
and i thought, oh i thought lovely,
you sent it as you to find home.
but by the time it reached my hand
you declared it out of season
and it writhed and withered,
leaving smudged smiles on my palms but
not one on my face.
cedreki used to dance to the color blue
in my childhood days,
when footprints crawled across the yard
and noseprints stared out of the window
and fingerprints clung to everything
that wasn't my mother's hand.
i devoured my freedom from restraint,
let it in through my pores
and out through high screams and cries-
i'm sure you could hear down the street,
my Indian cry.
we smoked cigarettes together,
got high off the sugar
and rode off for hours
pedal round to pedal
metal magnetized when we didn't even know
what that meant
our faces met the pavement and we
couldn't smile anymore.
those blue days from osborne street
have long since found their ways
into those cracks in my neck and temple
and i'm sure they'll still clutch my bone
when i'm withering away and
dancing with my fingers to the color pale and
telling boys with brown eyes
about how that cowboy from washington
ran away with the girl with face paint
but never got far enough to leave
his mother's hand.
thoughts over dinneri wonder if you can taste
because i'm being swallowed up
by that void behind me and
i'm sure i taste horrible,
or at least very salty.
you love hospitals and
how people gather in one place
to say things they normally
you love the smell of alcohol,
lazy along drag of heels and
fingertips on the stair railings
steel cold and clean.
but you hate waiting rooms
and hallways with chairs across
from rooms occupied and
signs that aren't promising a
teary welcome home.
right now there's a man and
his wife you can guess and
he's holding her hand and they're
both looking at the floor.
and across from them is a door.
you want to say "sorry" or
"i'll hold your hand"
but any sound will crack
the glassy tension budding from
the meters of the floor;
you've your own place.
so you carry on using your head
as a battering ram to
escape from the weight
but before you've gotten out of sight
there's the doctor with his
high head but weary face
and he walks right past you and
behind there are feet hitting the floor
to throw bodies upright
and that goddamn
even you stop with a
hand pinching you
[untitled 3]there is a point where my memory halts
where the cicadas quiet in the september air
and i clamp my hands between my thighs
bite the inside of my bottom lip until i
know it’s the equivalent of pale and
not cold but close
i feel the rug under my ear and in
and my earrings catch and pinch by my hairline,
a sloppy faultline of segments, and
my eyelids are sandbagged,
drugged, tethered down with leather cords
my elbows worked in tight
they nearly touch as i coddle close your
small form, line your cheek bone with mine
i’m breathing in your exhales
and inhales as if life itself was dependent on me
sleeping and falling and sleeping and falling-
you brush back my fears from my hair,
run your calloused knuckles past my eye,
and my memory halts before the cliff
like a suicidal child who reconsiders
permafrost patchesall i've got is
a blanket to keep the cold out
you would find it best
(blue fingers blue toes,
yet i'm the one who knows)
to curl up behind unless
the world's got some mindless bout
in controversies large and little
that sit on the sidewalk,
eyeing the legs around
that leave deep imprints in the ground
and leave the snow to talk
with crystals whining, brittle
with half bucket list success
i had married you blinded
by screaming snow and hail
when you clutched at my collar tie
through the rising questions of why
the cold causes light to fail
but by then i wouldn't have minded
since my ankles (in terms
of snow) were decently pleasant-
i saw neither yours
nor any incessant
crowding of the flakes: i learn
now they were fine
and finely pressed
page by page
on backs of doors
in this unsmartly dressed
because in the end,
all i've got is this cloth
on this bench outside of boston
and a few recollections that weigh most on
me; and up above i
Keys At The DoorWhat should I do? He asked,
with my hand
on his collarbone;
What can you
do? I said.
let dinner run
and tell yourself
that she's late
He is ArtHe is art.
His hands are the right size,
and his smile is perfectly lopsided.
His eyes are dark,
but in the sun they're brighter than you can imagine.
They draw you in.
His abs are defined the right amount.
His arms are long enough to wrap around you,
and hold you.
He is art.
He can make you laugh when you do not want to,
but make you want to so badly.
You come to him when there is no one around,
even when there is.
He lets you borrow his strength and if that's not enough,
he lends more help.
He gives me everything.
He is art.
Two AngelsClouded eyes.
Her innocent anesthesia. Her
Her cut. Her caramel hair,
tumbling down her back. The last
I saw of her as she walked away.
Left me off guard.
A topaz heart rebuilt
by a chance. Her dark flash
Whispered wordsJust a few words whispered to you
In your ear is what I want to do
Words you have heard often now
and you keep hearing if you allow
Words I will repeat and repeat
Every one for you a treat
You know what you will again hear
The words I whisper in your ear
Spoken soft and slow
My voice creaking low
They are only a few
I whisper: "I love you"
asphyxiashe broods in her bubble bath
spindles with her slender spider-limb fingers
a soap-slickened scythe
she's mastering the solemn art of
like the faltering fowl she is,
her failure of flight was
besides, she had long lost her feathers
along with her sleep
and, since then, it has been
seven slow years
he was phosgene- born from light
he was phosgene- a merciless mass murderer
her long lasting war with him
had always ended
but not really,
as it never really ended at all,
not really, no
she leans back languidly,
pressing her backbone unto
her beaded, bubble-beaten bed
she looks out to the world through her weary window
she is momentarily molested by the sun's stare
and, it is almost as if the gray,
wool-woven clouds came over just to
clothe, cover, and calm her
celeste skies are ricocheted by lemon yellow lightning
and a cobalt hue
only to later be gunned down by a chalky,
rain drops drag down
a new beat to h
I'll Be ThereHold my Hand:
I'll Be There
Hold my hand, dear-
It'll be alright.
Don't let your trepidation show,
Even though it's hard.
Hold my hand, dear-
Because my love for you
Is the sea-
Hold my hand, dear-
Walk side-by-side with me.
Don't cry, even though life is rough-
Hold my hand, dear-
Because I'll be your rock.
And I promise to you
That I'll always be there.
Just like you were
The Option."Why do you want that option?"
"Because I want to die, if you must know."
He wants it, so he can take it, tick the box for the final option.
He means it, he does, he doesn't care how much you scream "No!"
He wants the option, for when he is discarded like a broken toy,
That he can end his life, and stop all the hurt, stop living.
He no longer wants to be an emotionless decoy-
I no longer want to be tortured, in the land of the living.
See? He and I, finally agree, that it's what's best for us, for me,
Yes, we agree that I should die, although it is a bitter choice.
A bitter choice? But the prospect of leaving it all? Being free?
And that, is the appeal, it is what makes me agree with the voice.
We finally agree, that once everything is gone, and we're left to rot,
That we shall take the final option, it's what's best for us, for me.
We finally agree, that once everything is gone, and w
Teenage TaoismGiving birth is the closest I’d ever felt to dying.
Before that, my near death experiences had consisted only of my silent announcement of pregnancy—silent, being that my social media accounts were all deleted almost simultaneously and I never returned to school in the fall, saying without really saying that I had caught the malicious disease of “teenage pregnancy”. I’m sure the whisper spread in the hallways like the Bubonic Plague. That September, sitting at home on what would have been the first day of my senior year, I imagined friends I’d never talk to again saying “she was only seventeen, and so full of life!” at my absence in the cafeteria tables, as if they were attending my funeral instead of talking about me behind my back.
"Full of life," I had snorted then, folding a never ending stream of what had once been my own baby clothes. "Literally."
I walked around like a zombie for the months of my pregnancy, deciding t
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