(un mille spectres)
you’re not allowed to turn

it is tuesday morning and we
are littering the floor
with after-sex cigarettes,
you are running your hands
through your hair and giving me
that

look. there is the beat of the
drum and the hum and the
sigh and the morning kind is the best

kind, half-drunk with sleep
stealing teeth
from a shark and the sting
from a wasp; baby’s breath
kissing the window

sills
the dew on
the glass and
the sinew in
your bones, not

to break the quiet
for anything you know and i
know, and we could keep
on pounding on the
walls and no-one would
give a damn:

not even me

not even me.

october 16, 2012

I am addictive by nature and even knowing this I still

I’ve been coming home
with hair like stale smoke, and
throat scratchy and
eyes red and
sweaters
collecting in their folds
ashes
flicked from the bottom
up.

there is a girl
sitting on my windowsill and she
is knocking
incessantly,
she has blue eyes and
blonde hair and crooked
teeth and she wears
tights
under her skirt.

I have given her
a look
or two and
exchanged a
little understanding.

she is younger and knows
people often turn out
to be exactly
who they swore
they’d never be.

I am young and I
know this, now,
and I am smiling thinking
of the bud of myself blooming
in the past,
maybe wilting

and I am sitting smiling thinking how maybe
she is horrified and
loves it, still, how maybe there will
be many men and women
to greet and bare your teeth at
before it ever gets
like this,
again, where I’ll
meet another girl
in another time
place
et cetera

and find her
in the same way

october 13, 2012

in scratches on cell walls

when i was small
i thought of the people
fighting for their innocence
but ending up in jail -
now i am thinking,
'this is ironic'
sitting in
solitary confinement and knowing
damn well
that innocence is hardly
a question,
now.

october 6, 2012 - for a write off contest

REM and i’m awake
where the sky opens up
and spits me out -
and my body
plunges 
into the sea
every time-
i think i 
expected grav
ity to
esrever
itself. 
where the earth begins to
blur and sucks reality
into a sound 
vacuum - 
the rest of it
void & 
null.
the rest of it
restless
in the background.
waiting.
humming.
drumming,
softly
the pulse 
of things with teeth
and snares
october 2, 2012
and i’m not even religous, but

and you, thinking,
'how nice
would it be to be
god,
do you think?’

to exist in everyone
the ultimate storyteller:
to have lived infinite lives
and not yet felt the weight of it,
not yet having time
catch up with you
in small spaces where it does not
exist.

to know everything and still feel
naivety -  to have experienced
first-hand with bruised knuckles
and tender palms,
the pressure and pull
the sirens’ lull
and their company
and their temptation
and to feel sorry about
none of it,
because somehow it was
necessary

and having to explain
none of it
because it would seem rude of people
to ask

september 30, 2012

ugh, i need to write more

i’ve been meaning to write more lately instead of so sporadically, but i just don’t have the time, which is really sad. i have over 320 messages on deviantart to go through from other people (meaning their writing and stuff) and when i don’t read, i rarely write. sorry for the dry spell ahah. it’ll pass once school shit lets off…

rat a tat tat

tap-tap-tap,

wink,
the corner curl of
a smile almost
there but not quite

little wrists and quick
on her feet -
and god
how i can’t believe
it’s taken you this long to realize
that she is the kind of girl
begging to be chased

(and god
how i can’t believe
it’s taken her this long to realize
that getting caught would
end the game)

september 20, 2012

inadequate

you can try to preserve people
in stories, in books, in poetry,
in formaldehyde,
but it will not make them breathe
again. it will not make them the person they were
or those things they did;
it will not sound right
and it will not seem right, chiefly because
it isn’t right. you miss
the details or at least the right ones:
people are not made of hearts and lungs and limbs
they are ankles and hands and tongues and eyelashes
they are fire and fury and friction and fear.

i cannot say that i miss you the way you want me to.
i can’t. just can’t.
and that is the difference between you and me:
you say what you think you’re supposed to and i,
well,
i don’t say much at all.

septembber 19, 2012

you’ve got the blood on your hands, i think it’s my own

you are cancer.
you have entered my head
and jesus,
slammed down
hard
just where it hurts,
and we are not meant to be
the greek Divine, you
as athena & i, 
zeus.
you snuck up on me
midmorning and by moonlight
you had sparked, 
spread & multiplied.

and yeah,
maybe i had
brought this upon
myself,
and yeah,
maybe i should have known 
better, but a viper 
doesn’t know its own 
venom when it drips
and it drips
and it
drips

september 14, 2012

living on the cusp of death thinking it won’t be us

mother always told you never to drink or do drugs or smoke cigarettes or get tattoos or piercings, nothing nothing nothing that would disappoint her. but you were never a momma’s boy and fuck if you could have gone without her, you would have. following the rules was ephemeral and eventually void, null, gone - the concept of it a smile curled hiding just behind the lips and waiting in your eyes, smug and sarcastic.

god, all the things you would never tell her.
all the letters she would never read.

the best thing about you was that you kept every carton of cigarettes you ever bought - when people asked about it your answer was always that it was a record of your life, or death, (however you see it), with a little more grit and grime than a spiralbound notebook or worse, a photo album.

when you were nineteen you made it your goal to try every brand you could find, malboros to newports to camels to lucky strikes and on and on and on. half of the packs you had were only half empty so you were always asking people’s favourites and writing on the bottom in cheap ink, little initials. you stuck them to your walls and laughed every time someone saw them for the first time, so fucking concerned for your lungs and your body and god, do you really want to smell like that? that was always your favourite remark coming from your mother who cared little about you aside from how you made her look.

so you did your best to make her look terrible.

you kept things in every carton. on the inside, in sharpies of varied colours - the dates in which you bought them and, eventually, when all but one cigarette was gone. tucked into the pack would also be a letter of sorts - addressed to no one, sometimes a few words, sometimes a few pages. a calendar for your life written in smoke, a pack for every time you did something substantial or wish you could. the brand and its history always, always reflected the letter inside.

the only rules - every one must have dates, a letter, something small & meaningful, and a single smoke left. you never explained it to anyone, the rules, or the reasons, but you were consistent and the people who didn’t have to ask why were the ones you liked the most.

and you were always looking so sad all the time, jesus. we all knew you weren’t but there is something tragic and beautiful the way someone smokes the way you do. not to feed an addiction but to understand it and see things clearer, one after you’ve woken up drunk or fucked a girl or fallen in love, the important things. the things you think you’re supposed to remember. you were always complaining about how people are depicted by well they were born on this date at this place and went to this college and married this girl and lived in this shitty apartment and ate this shitty food and died in this shitty way in this shitty space. you were always saying how you wanted people to know you in moments, how you wanted them to see how you felt about the strangers you’ve talked to laughed with had sex with, you wanted them to see how you saw the universe at night and how it never seemed so simple in the morning.

you wanted to know that if you died you would have no single sentence of famous last words, but hundreds of letters found to keep you alive; in words. in letters. addressed to no one. addressed to everyone. addressed to anyone. telling your story the way it was meant to be told; by packs of cigarettes, the barrel of a gun, smeared red lipstick, flower pedals long since wilted, words long since lost.

september 13, 2012

shit on the back-burner

you know who you are.

i have loved you once and i have
hated you, once
each in different ways and
different kinds and between
seven minds i am still
deciding which of you
know me at all,
really.

i am the girl in the shadows:
i am used to that. i sit in class
or at the table or in her bedroom
and i decipher your every movement,
mumble, shudder, tap, just
for the hell of it. i do little things
on purpose like
shifting a certain way or
speaking double meanings or
tracing patterns on my desk /
little glances steady stances
and then not so
steady, god
if you could read the looks i give you
just to pass the time or
fuck with you
where would we be?

the little smiles, little comments,
little questions about little things
you thought nobody would
point out. the details;
the little
kinks, little fears,
the not-so-little
thoughts with the not-so-little
stares. so idly shines
the little red standby
light, so unaware and
subconscious \

or not-so
subconscious. bleeding
bruises into
consciousness,
even,
creating not just scars
but burns; the kind that cuts deep
and singes deeper. past the point of
recognition. past the point
you’d want to.

september 7, 2012

081012

this is the kind of music you
dance around in your underwear to
at four in the morning drinking
raspberry vodka and spilling it
sticky sweet on bare feet
and staining the dress you neglect-
ed, silk slick
on wooden floors

september 1, 2012

i am tired of people judging me
i am tired of people judging
i am tired of people
i am tired of
i am tired
i am
i

august 30, 2012

carnival prizes

it is incandescence without lightbulbs and you are
looking straight at me, eyes open and mouth,
shut. you are sticking to the bottom of the trench
i dug and filled long ago; you are plucking the strings
from broken instruments but there is no vibrato.
and i have locked the doors but know it keeps
things both in and out, out, and whether this room
has four walls one of them still threatens
in stature and structure. out Out OUT -
you are banging on the floor and i am saying no but saying
nothing. lungs without oxygen rub together like sandpaper
and this is what that feels like. blowing air into a bag
of water and goldfish, closing it up, forgetting - carbon dioxide
and you are wondering why it dies every time. forgetting. this is what
that feels like.

august 27, 2012

on being and belonging to

i hate that to other people,
there is no
'me'. it is always
'you and z',
it is always ‘us’,
it is always ‘we’.

not to say
that being with someone for so long
doesn’t make them a part of you,
(because it does),
but it doesn’t make you
the same person.

last time i checked,
i still have a cunt between my legs
& flowers in my hair, though
wilted & bloomed again into
something else entirely.
last time i checked i still sleep alone
most nights, and the earth doesn’t crumble
beneath my feet and the sea and the moon
don’t sway from their keep if i am seen
without him, and the bones
in my spine and the beat
in my heart do not
dissipate if i seem steady
as a girl belonging to no one
body mind & tongue
of her own.

august 24, 2012

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