make ends meet

we live our lives waiting to die
        they say
i'm living my life,
 waiting for you
                          (is that a kind of death, too?)

but isn't it morbid,
   to start with the end?

but what are you and me
  but a collection of loose moments
and words
    and touches

      and accidents? (i didn't mean to love you
                               you don't mean to let me.)

should i talk instead about how you
feel like
             sunlight
taste like
                the rain
                on my skin? does that make it easier for you?

(we have enough endings by now
                 to start something new.)

you will always be alone and then you will die

I breathe and live and want; they call me 'whore'. 'Prostitute'. 'Bitch'. But I've never gotten paid and I don't hate anyone for it. I get what I want, and that's more than most girls can say.

Your stupid trailer is freezing, or I am, and I'm hungry again. I'm not above begging you for something to fill me. It's been three days. Baby, your pity tastes disgusting, but beef jerky's all you've got, so I'll take whatever you let me take.

Whatever I want to take.

You're in a cage and there's the stink of testosterone and blood and fear as you tear into other men like tissue paper. Like Picasso, you paint the walls and floors with red and linoleum and intestines before you sigh. I don't want to be here, anymore, I whisper, lost to the jubilant screams of your crowd, but you hear it anyway. Amber eyes rise to my green, suddenly shifting into my own, like you're saying me too or I'm gonna eat you alive.


I can be content with that.

Innocent. You want to keep me innocent, but I've got voices in my head telling me that I'm a sinner, an insult to God, to take what I want because it's mine, I'm no good, I'm better than anyone. And maybe, baby, it would shock you to your bones to hear what I've got in mind. I want to crawl into your skin and take you from the inside out, claim your heart with my teeth and grind you into the floor with my hips. I want to run my hands through your hair and bite you 'til you bleed (for me, again; this is getting repetitive, isn't it?). Have you dreamt about it? I hear you in the night, low voices and hitching breaths -- do you think about me?


Do you?


I am you and you are me, and nobody is a victim here.



(There's this line to this poem, and it's the one that thrums under my skin whenever I'm with you--)


I'm in a car with a beautiful boy and I feel sick to my bones as they creak against my skin because he's not you, and I want you. When did I get into this? When did you love redheads and propriety and tameness and when did I let you? When did you push me into ice-cold arms and ice-cold smiles and expectant hands?

Is it because I can't tell you I break everything I touch? They shatter and wither and die in front of me, you know, and there's nothing I can do about it because I can't let go. Not ever. Because you can't just sink your claws into someone and wait for them to shove you off, not when everything hurts more on the way out than in. Not when I want your claws and your everything, to compress it with the depth of your voice and the heat of your naked skin and swallow it so it's mine. So I'm happy -- so what? There is no excuse for this.
    (--you wanted to be in love and he happened to get in the way or--)



The road to happiness is the most misleading thing, the cruelest kind of ideal because it makes you put up with so much shit, baby, all for the sake of happiness. Happiness, they all tell me, like it's some kind of state and not a thousand moments strung together, not the high you run and reach for in life, not little presents from life to you. As though it's just another goal, another thing on your to-do list as you sit there in a pinstripe suit and briefcase and affairs with a secretary.


You make me happy, whatever that means. For what it's worth.
(--a man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he's still left with the river or was it--)

But you're always angry, you keep trapping these tornadoes under your flesh and it's not good for you, baby, to keep her from all these disasters. Sometimes, two people fall in love and it's tragic, it is, but sometimes, two people don't love enough and that's even worse. You've got tornadoes for her, hurricanes, blizzards and a dry, dry desert but she's a city of angels and sky-high towers and I'm gasoline and messed up wind patterns and the sun. You blame me and I take it, because you make me happy and I grew up in Kansas and I'm still stupid enough to believe in yellow-brick roads and evil, redheaded witches and a happy ending.



We're a terrifying, dysfunctional tricycle and I would have it any other way than this. Please.


And we're standing on the edge of a cliff, and we've both got choices to make, baby. But not really, right? I'd move mountains and cross oceans for you, but you'd die for me (and that's the worst part, it is, it is; it's not romantic like in the fairytales, having someone's life in your palm like that).

I am standing on the edge of a cliff and you're by my side, lingering in the peripheries, lingering in the darkness, until I kiss you, isn't it? I kiss you, mouth open and warm, and slide my hands across your chest, your back, and it's supposed to fix everything, isn't it? A kiss is supposed to wake you up, isn't it?


Isn't it?
   (--love, too, will ruin us.)

snow angels

i'm drawin' little snow angels
on your frosty windows

you've got the A/C on high
and the radio's nothing but static

each raindrop thuds against my fingers
and my pulse, in venn

your misty exhalation brushes across my bare legs
little ghost kisses as you switch the dial from FM to off

i burrow into my cocoon of cotton and candy and cutting words
and flowers and elegance and dior flood the air

your lips, as red as my eyes, press thin to stop a litany of my name,
and a little golden shackle, glares at me.

burnt opals

liquid sapphire drips away into
a blood red ruby
bevelled burning opal
(dips and furrows darkened
by the opaque night)
sneaking down to meet
jagged jutting topaz
rays tumbling over each other
to press fleeting, shy kisses
burning opals
illuminated.

and liquid sapphire drips away
                                              away
                                                      away
                                                                                                  away
as blood red ruby
floods the sky.

just going on

there's this story you want to tell. you're pretty sure there was a moral and you're pretty sure he'd like it but you can't remember how the story goes. but you're not worried.

it starts like this.
    it starts like this.
        it starts like this.

(i)
you have too many houses and not enough homes and the terracotta buildings have sunk so far into your skin, you don't think the earthy smell will ever leave you alone. your favourite place in the world is with a pair of green eyes and blue ones -- and maybe a brown pair or three, if they're not too busy today -- under a canopy of grey sky and greg the gargoyle.

instead, you've gotta be happy with blue walls and wood panelling and a green door.
             you push it open and fall into a surprised sea.
                                       

and suddenly, you've found a kind of home you've never known.



(ii)

your pulse flutters like there are butterflies trapped under your skin. it would explain the black and blue, wouldn't it? but you bite back the early spring and he smiles at you, soft and slow and symmetrical except for that one dimple in his right cheek, and you kind of stopped breathing ten minutes ago. he says a line -- and you're too slow to wonder now how many women he's used this on, how many women he's been with, how many women he's loved -- and you can only blink as he runs because, when the fuck did you ever become something worth pulling a line on anyway?

                he runs,

                and you've always, always been good

                                                                          at hide and seek,

                so you chase him down,

                and make the biggest

                                                                          mistake of your life,

                because he was playing tag and you

                                                                          aren't too great at that,

                sweetheart.

(iii)

there's a purple dress and a beautiful woman and you don't know who she is. the silver lining to every cloud and sea and mirror but you just want to rip it out of this one, turn it into a cloak and make yourself this gorgeous forever. there's a purple dress and a beautiful man and one night to make it real. your face would match your dress if anyone found out but you think he's worth the risk he's worth everything this is all for you.

you buy a pair of black stilettos and a flower clip,

and your best friend buys you a velvet purse.

                                                                              there

                                                                                       are

                                                                              three weeks left.

(iv)

she talks to you till four a.m.,

and you write him mocha letters in red ink

of all the things you can't say,

                                            it's short and concise,

because that's what he taught you,
and experience teaches you best.

(v)

you feel like you're about to puke all over his perfect, cream floor. he wouldn't get offended even if you did because it feels like there's glass clawing it's way from your heart and out your throat to decorate his floors with miserable crystals.

there's a purple dress and a beautiful moment where you hoped it would be different.
you were wrong again.


(vi)
he's the kind of guy who gets lost in the details but never forgets he's in a painting and he's drowning in it, you know, drowning in colours. and you, you're the kind of girl who paints and paints but never gets it right; there's always something wrong. he'll tell you it's this dot over here, why is it here? and you'll say, that's the dot, the dot that's you and how you make me feel and everything that you are and he'll still say why, why is it here? and how do you explain then?

you don't.

(vii)
you've never been good at holding things together; not yourself, not her and not anything else. and he can't keep it going; not himself, not her and not anything else. he's a beautiful man in a blue shirt and things are falling apart. you think that if you press your fingertips into his bare back enough, that maybe the whorls on your thumb could be enough of a map.

but there is no map to doing this right,
and you're both doing it wrong.

(viii)
you've never been whole,
but he's pretty fucking broken too.
(he's fucking pretty broken too)

and, maybe, all of your pe i c es will fit together and you wouldn't need to be fine, or whole, or flawless, or perfect. maybe, you could both just be you.

hope is the most fragile thing,
and it presses angel kisses to your sternum,
flickering with each of his smiles.

love you till you're whole

.
 i'm wearing this pendant, small and round and blue,
 you bought it for me at this carnival, and i snuck out to see you,
 and my dad had never been so angry
 and my lips still ache
 from where you kissed me
 and my cheek throbs,
 from his slap.

.
 you told me once that you weren't all that poetic,
 and i told you that sometimes it felt like i had butterflies,
 in my bloodstream and you pressed a kiss to my wrist
 and my neck, as my pulse fluttered wildly, like a dove
 in a gilded cage.

.
 you have, i say, really nice hands,
 and you cup me in them, like i'm a prayer,
 something important and to be blessed,
 and i feel like i'm worth something, that i can
 still be (w)hol(e)y.

.
 and i'm in the backseat of your car and it's
 not all that comfortable, the seat belt buckle
 is digging a cave into my back and the soft
 black material is pressing into me the way
 you do.

 stars blink and shine, reappear and disappear,
 in time to your staccato heartbeat,
 and the world is titled on an axis,
 stuck in permanent contemplation of you.

.
 if i knew how to love you whole again,
 i would.

fiat lux

god asked me to bow down,

so i did and he said, you are for adam.

in my peripheral vision, you are the brightest thing in heaven, 

and i said, yes. yes, i am his.

trembling palms meet in a palmer's kiss,

and you shied away with each step i took,

adam runs his fingers across my pulse,

and you watch with hungry, thirsty eyes.

my skin feels too hot and too tight,

and i want to burst through in a symphony of light,

so that you'll look at me, so that you'll see me,

even for a brief moment.

i wonder sometimes if you can hear it,

the pathetic thud-thud of my lone heart,

wonder sometimes if it matters, you press a thumb to my sternum 

to leave a wreath of purple flowers and i don't think it does.

i remember the apple tree and your wide, wide eyes,

as your fingers spread starlight across my ribs,

and between my thighs, and your voice, exultant,

gloria patri and you are so beautiful.

beautiful. that's what you are, so bright and pure,

and when i kissed you for the first time,

my tongue snaking around yours,

you tasted like fire and mornings and the sweetest fall.

you taught me to feel, to take,

and the first thing i did was spread myself all over,

your thousand-sun skin and drag out little noises,

with my hands and felt myself roast alive.

i writhe under the canopy of your wings and grace,

as you bless me with your hot mouth in all the most secret places,

throwing my head back, i shut my eyes and pray to soak you in,

the vowels of your name fill up my throat and adam's eyes are green.

my knees burrow in the ground, brackets to keep you grounded,

and my tongue paints a honeyed molass love, and you burn,

brighter than ever, brilliantly,

and eden watches you come undone, silent and salient.

you are the heat of fire and the cool of water,

your words are slippery slick and silver-tongued,

your touch is midas-blessed and golden,

and you are mine.

god told you to bow down,

obey them

and i was in your peripheral vision,

when you said, no, i will not.

and as god turned his wrath to you,

i kept you in the circle of my arms,

and stopped praying, trying to keep you 

from being swallowed by the sea of despair.

horrified, i watched something break,

and i watched my glorious morningstar,

shatter and shine with an impure light,

you turned into lucifer, the light bringer.

just when i don't think i know you anymore,

you stumble in, lips trembling and eyes flooding the earth for days,

and your fingertips mark springs of green and blue and purple,

on my arms and you say, i've never needed you more, and how do i resist?

i told you i love you,

and you brushed off my affection like a snakeskin,

and you wind down my arm, fangs sinking in,

sweet cyanide cider spilling from prayer-cupped hands.

adam's fingers trace my lips,

he walks away, cheeks stinging with shame

and anger,

in the shape of my hand.

michael pushes you through the gold gates,

and held me as hellfire burnt our hearts,

where you are, the fire only serving to illuminate the dark;

you took all the light of heaven and wrapped it around your broken grace.

i trace the red snakes around my wrists,

my lips become crimson with my heated kisses,

on your scars of love,

and if i kiss hard enough, i can almost taste you again.

i count each of my blessings carefully,

collecting them and coveting them,

and since you left,

there has been a grand total of zero.

my teeth bite the forbidden fruit, liquid lust burning,

and it gives me the courage to say,

i hate you; do not touch me; 

i am not for you, adam.

it should be harder to walk past those golden gates,

harder to leave eden and fall to earth,

but it's not, my morningstar,

it's not.

i left heaven for you,

and the gates of hell embraced me.

a/n: based on a dream and not meant to offend anyone. it's just creative licence and i'm sorry if anyone is offended by this.

mannequin

when i think back to my childhood,
there is a doll.
                      no wait, that's not right;
                      i was more a mimicry of humanity
                      than something so easily different

so, daddy carved me arms and legs and
a mind of diamonds and rosewood and
sugar, and big glassy doe eyes complete
with a set of curled eyelashes as i wrapped
men around my fingers like a chinese finger
trap or a set of rings, three sizes too small,
                      but he was never really happy with me,
                      not really because there was always something too plastic
                                                                                                glassy
                                                                                                transparent about me,

this isn't a case of the bitch biting the hand of its owner,
not when the maker calls his child a whore
but you made me, goddamnit

and these are the words i will never be able to tell you,
because my mouth has been sewn shut by my web of lies;

-

i'm an unfinished work of art,

but i'm still art, right?

-

block

i let you fill up the silences, whispered words and stuttered sighs,

until there's this e n d l e s s rushing in my ears,

so that maybe, i won't feel so alone,

so that maybe, my screams won't sound so

c h i l l i n g.

and i let you fill up the s.p.a.c.e.s between my words, each i and t

dotted and crossed with your eyes and smile in mind,

so that other memories don't se e  p where,

where i should've apostrophied your name,

to show you're mine.

and i let you fill up the sp.a.c.es. inside my soul, because i 

never knew emptiness could be so heavy and liquid

and viscous and it's better to have you there than that

d-r--o---w----ning me in endless misery. but there's these things lying

[                   in wait between my thoughts and memories and they're                  ]

murky and malicious and malevolent and they look

and awful lot like

em|me. 

but sometimes, there's nothing left to fill, because everything,

everything is you and it scares me because there's nothing

but you where something used to be. and it scares me because

then, then i have to talk about myself instead, a broken sob and

endless crying and i have to write about myself instead, in brackets

as an afterthought or even a post-script (p.s.don'tlookoverme) and i

have to face the fact that i'm so broken i don't think even my

mother loves me.

it's not healthy, being broken

there are some days where i'm sh a tt e r ed, completely wrecked,
but more often than not, i'm just                          t                                 e
                                       e
                                                                a                                                                   t
                                                                                     d
     c
                                                      s                                                                  
                                                                                                                        r

and it seems like i've been waiting ohso long for someone, anyonepleasepleasepleasehearmeseemeloveme
to [pickup] the pi e ce s
because god knows
i can't do it myself, anymore.

eden

you've grown into oak,
tall
               and overpowering.

sometimes, i'm the sun which
makes you thrive.

sometimes, i'm the driest leaf,
fallen too

f a r

from your tree,
the crunchy kind that's always
the best ones to step on.

sometimes,
                  sometimes, i'm a vine, smoothing out the tough knots in your bark,
                  almost suffocating and i can s . e . e  that.

sometimes, i'm just plain old yellow gorse,
huddling, dispersed under your canopic branches.

and, more often than not, i'm an azalea plant,
growing right there beside you, always.

scattered

if only, she thinks, there were enough words in the world.

.

if only, she thinks, there was enough time in the world.

.

if only, she thinks...

.

if only there was enough of me left to love you.

midnight snack

your skin swallows up the sun,

until you're fit to burst with sunrays leaking through your fingertips,

your tongue traces thought-ridden lips as your cloudy mind

sheds judgements like clothes for charity

precise and well-worn;

your silence says more than it should,

(

slithering up to my heart, [f ang s] sinking in,

the poison in my veins hums for your voice;

i'm w r i t h i n g                     gossamer skin,

  underneath

pulled [tight] over blood+bones,

fireworks filtered through fallen lids,

&& 

[there's a song written on the inside of my wrists]

seagreen lyrics singing lifebloods,

as the moon creeps out, child-like curiosity,

inky ghosting locks liplocking across the night,

milky moonbeams f

                                a

                                     l

                                         l

                                                        to earth, 

to kiss my buttermilk bones;

and now i'm always hungry,

for pale skin and luminous blue eyes,

[for that blue roadmap of amazonian rivers to to your liquid lusty love]

who else can cool my blood?

there's some kind of animal trapped in between the smooth muscle

and endothelial layers of my vocal chords,

pushing through like a thick vine to overtake my face;

{please, i'm howling for you}

you: carmine candy and home and real,

i need to be (wholer),

because my breathing w a n e s,

blueblueblue in the midnight air,

tendrils of heat s p r e a d i n g like wildfire;

and the moon . . . waxes, leaving the night sky,

ravenous for adventure and [p o  o   l    s] into the ocean;

even the sky feeds from my awe of you;

in the dark is the best way to hear your heartb e a t,

thick heartstrings like black powerlines p a s s i n g  t h r o u g h 

the core of every star from you to me,

.h.o.o.k. onto my diaphragm,

make my pace as they d r a g me to you,

over gravel, grit && grass,

bloody feet on the yellow brick road,

hansel and gretel follow me home;

)

i smile

-  k c a b -

 at you patiently&patiently,

serrated incisors glinting in sunlight;

and we're only human

-

[the autumn moon is bright, tonight]

possibly

you made your defences from all the leftover bitterness of her supernova-love,
and me? i break you down, break down walls made from the bright light,
reflected in your smiles
with nothing, really,
because loving
you is the
easiest
thing
.

oh, these worthless words

i sing for you,
for you,
and you're always asleep.

i speak for you,
for you,
and you never hear me.

i look for you,
for you,
and you're never here.

i love only you,
only you,
and you'll never even


fucking know.

breaking point

you're the sun,

warm and comfortable on my back,

burnt, black skin peels away in face of your radiance.

you heal as you tear to shreds,

e v e r y piece of me,

i'm being stretched beyond my limits,

don't ever please 

stop.

( i don't need you & please don't leave me

there's more to my life than you & you're everything

your happiness is mine & why do you love her and not me? )

ghost of you

i.
                                      my sleep is haunted by a burning baritone,
                                      e c h o e s in my mind's ear like seraphim song.


                                      i dream of a city of glass lit up by white fires.
                                      i dream of ivory dresses and a topaz necklace.
                                      i dream of words entwined like an ivy crown.
                                      and i  l i e
                                                    ...because i dream of only  y o u.

ii.
                                      my days are shadowed, hallowed,
                                      feet trailing on pallid grounds,
                                      lit up by moonlight,
                                      long gone,
                                      and detour signs,
                                      lead me home.

iii.

                                      i am empty;
                                      all my words
                                      are ghost-written
                                      in lemon juice.





                                      waiting endlessly to wake from a sleep,
                                      my world is without a sun.

platinum albums

i am fire and blood and screams and rage,
your voice is spearmint toothpaste,
on an aeon-old burn,

your heartbeat is the soundtrack of my mind,
but your pulse fades beneath my fingertips,
as i hug you goodbye.

ceasefire romance

his heart b e a t s
a new brand of morse code,
hope in times of war;
you are mine.

i've spent my whole life,
in the dark,
trying to find this.

life's seasonings

pillars of bitter white salt,
curl and crumble,
at the echoes of your honest,
fiery voice,

my resolve is gone,
i can't do this.