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Omphalos (in progress)In the afternoon, when it’s more humid than you’d think a mountain town would be, I perch on the cement balcony framing the coffee shop below my apartment and write sonnets to the remaining memories of my brother. The lingering smell of apples hangs in the October air and my skin, it feels heavy. Around me lay ceramic pots filled to the brim with half-dead plants that Jake and I had, to no avail, attempted to raise. They’re sad and wilted, leaving something to be desired. I’ve lived here, with my brother’s best friend, for five months now. Living, really, isn’t the right word–I’ve taken up residence, but I am not alive; if anything I am dying here. I don’t know when time started to stand still, but these last months have felt like eons. Time, she holds on to me with her perennial tendrils and roots me to this dystopia. It feels like one day Milo was teasing me about being too cute to be a boy, and the next Jake showed up at my
preciousI am I am
A princess from the sky
I wonder I wonder
Why it is that dogs spin in circles
Before they lay down
Why fathers pass
As quickly as water under a bridge
I hear I hear
The laughter of a sibling
The mewling of a cat
As I descend into my bed
I see I see
My castle walls
Melt into pools of wax
My steed become a mouse
My self spoil
I want I want
To be adored
To be held
To be precious
I pretend I pretend
That I am something
More significant than this
That I am dancing as I lilt down the stairs
I feel I feel
The gossamer threads of a perfect gown
Slip between my fingers
And fall to the ground
I worry I worry
That the dust will stain
My delicate gown
That my reputation will be twined
I am I am
A princess from the sky
I will write enough words
To form a book
And you will read this piece
And cry a few tears
And you will think i am beautiful
I will dream enough dreams
to form a reality
and you will no longer be a piece
and i will cry a few tears,
and think i have a worth apart from you
ravelmentand on occasion we will find ourselves
tired, yet still awake, counting the
ticks on the clock as opposed
to the tocks that follow,
and chewing away at
finger nails, and
Manifest Destinyyou once told me i had
in my head
(you said this because i was delicate,
and sweet, like botany,
and what bird wouldn't want to drink my nectar?)
i shooed you away,
guffawing at the though
of me being desirable to
although it seems now
those angel birds have infiltrated
tucked in under the pleura
like it was thier god given right to be there,
drinking the honey of my
but i cant help
entirely okay with this whole ordeal.
conservationthey've said that
you can only manage 150
at a time
and i sigh, picking and choosing
who can stay and who cannot
trying to keep myself
from closing a book
before its read,
or burning a bridge before its
is not as many
as it sounds
Freudianwhat if i were quiescent and
and calm like water,
lazy beneath a foot bridge.
what if i were literary like
but known like fallacies
and sad like fairytales and
acoustic guitars left,
in trashcans behind bus stops in detroit.
quiddityI've been writing
snippets of my sorrow
(which is transient and lamenting,
waiting for a place to nestle down
and spread like gremlins who are drowning)
as i listen to you chronicle The Day In The Life Of
and as much as i hate to admit it
i wish i weren't so sober
and i wish i weren't so clean
and i wish, really, that
this wasn't me.
A message to the brokenYou drown yourself
in liquid sorrows,
letting the salty mess
burn your wounds,
and the sadness
to drip in your mouth,
consuming your words
and you say
you deserve the pain,
but I want to dry your face,
and whisper in your ear
how the clouds cry too,
while they hold such beauty,
and so do you.
It's Okay to be ImperfectThe moon
Stand Against SuicideI know the pain is perhaps unbearable,
But darling, please put down the blade.
Release your emotions through tears and smiles,
Rather than dreading these days.
Do it for the little girl, whose mother can’t be there,
Or for the boy whose father drank too much.
For the boy who can’t sit in elementary school,
Because the bruises from Daddy hurt to touch.
For the teenage girl lying face down in her bed,
Thinking, why can’t it all be done?
For the elderly man looking up at the stars,
Counting the days one by one.
Do it for the children who wonder, does it end?
For the ones who feel left on their own.
For the ones who think, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard
If I didn’t feel so left alone.
And finally, do it for one other person,
The person in front of these words.
Because you’ll never know how it gets better
When focusing on pain and hurt.
Live one more day, dear, for them and for you,
And I swear to you, problems will fade.
I know, for right now, it’s p
Clear WristA clear wrist, barren of scars,
as opposed to skin sauntered in marks,
tells a trickier story than it's soiled and raw,
uncaring, unkempt counter part.
Bravery, I think it holds,
the strength to bare unimaginable loads
of pain and suffering through endless times,
and withstanding the agony of sleepless nights.
Some think it is fear, the reluctance to cut,
but I believe it opposite, it show courage and guts.
To bear your pain without a nick on your wrist,
is like a solider braving his terrain while being torn limb from limb.
Agonizing as it is, to hide your pain,
you do it so well, and no attention you'll gain.
At the end of the day, it's not cry for attention,
rather a cry for the victory that's silently mentioned.
Your scars are those not self inflicted,
and despite the gnawing intention,
to harm yourself and ease your pain,
the scars you earn are rightfully gained.
In a room of those who have jumped the gun,
and left traces of blood deep in their arms,
do not be tempted to do the sam
dark circlesi haven't slept well in 14 days
my eyes droop pretty colors
'50 shades of purple and grey,
they're bags and they're designer'
making jokes is how i cope
with chapped lips and constant chap-stick
it tastes like honey and mint
i laugh and say i'm addicted.
hooded lids and sleepy smiles
during lunch at subway
my friends ask if I'm okay
I say that I'm just tired.
but really when I see him with her
my heart sinks to the tiles
she's pretty and witty and sure as hell she can sing
and i'm just a loud bone-collector.
when I see her with him,
dancing and laughing and grinning,
the ring on her finger
laughs at my singularity.
for as much as i lie and as much as i try
my loneliness still creeps in,
because no matter how much they protest,
i'm still the lowly fifth-wheel.
walking behind them on sidewalks
that are wide, but built for four
smiles and laughs when they look back
but the frown creeps evermore.
pelvis peaks through paper-thin skin
and knuckles white and pale
my ribs are empty, my bo
I Thought I Needed FeminismI thought I needed feminism, when I was a little girl.
And I am very sad to admit, that this wasn't very long ago.
I thought when he held the door open for me, that he was making a big mistake.
That he was being a pompous ass, and he took my strength for a fake.
And when he offered to pay my tab, I still called him an ass.
Because I thought he assumed I was poor, and below middle class.
Or when his hard work earned him a promotion,
yet I did nothing, and the boss' ignorance to promote me, I believed was a sexist notion.
My friend really wanted feminism when she found her ex-dead drunk,
removed his clothes, and without his consent, had a pleasurable fuck.
When her parents bust into the room unexpected that night,
she said he raped her, and he was arrested without so much as a fight.
Perhaps feminism was there when I walked out into the street in pure nudity,
and shouted the my neighbors “You have no right to judge me!”
I didn't care about the children who were standing in th
untitledcall me hummingbird.
leave me small tokens of your love,
fold them tightly
squares and tuck them
into the pocket of my favourite
pair of jeans.
kiss me on the nose
and miss me in your sleep
into the crevices of my heart.
call me lovely,
and hold my cheeks
betwixt your palms
and assure me that it is ok
to not be ok.
(love me please
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