if my shoulder blades would just snap out
and accept their place as machetes
guarding whatever it is my ribs hold
where the magic wears out rather quickly
and i make potions out of reconciliaton
to whatever i used to believe was worth
this was meant to be written in parantheses
but all i’ve got is a mouth full of theses
on theories of everything in the world
i look at too often
i asked someone recently, “do you
ever just stare at plants?”
and she looked at me like i was crazy
so either i exist in another reality
or dimension or whatever this
(where the ego has died
and my veins know more drugs
than the volume of blood i’ve lost
or it’s everyone else
and i’m protected inside this bubble
i keep trying to get out of
by writing poems
by popping pills
none of it works
so god created loneliness
and named it
so humans are the joke
but the thing is
i’m used to my heartbeat being called a punchline
and i don’t want to lay in bed anymore
with someone that doesn’t lay awake at night
admiring what dreams i haven’t let die
i may not understand syntax
or know the best recipes for metaphors that
know how to make poems
last for centuries
we all die at the end anyway
and if the only thing that remembers me
is the stardust i turn into after this life
i want it to burn
brighter than the sun
We never learnt the technique of trying too hard
I’m on the riverbank ready to throw myself in,
no words you say
could build a bridge for me to cross.
We’ve always been losing,
but now I’m lost.
Whisper white lies in my ears;
like a missed phone call
the alarm bells rang off a long time ago,
but I never got the message.
I miss the mess,
and I miss the millstone you cast
around my neck,
and I missed a breath
when you told me we were worthless.
The sky is as cold as torture,
grey and ready to fall,
and you know I’ll falter.
We lie like only lovers can
and promise to give it our all.
But I know you wake every day at dawn,
dreaming of his call
that never comes.
numbers / numbness—
we sleep on sea shells.
counting the mistakes
that fill us,
hoping not to crack.
the hours pull
our bodies in—
a polluted tide over
cold indigo skin.