she wants to name
so no matter where they are
they'll still share one
By ZeroSometimes she thinks about math.
She wonders if there's an equation for her depression.
The number of times you cut yourself today squared,
minus the unhealed wounds from the day before
by the number of days this week you felt pretty.
The total meals you threw up in the last month
multiplied by the pounds you didn't starve off
by the number of times you told the truth about it.
The mean of the slurs hurled at you by strangers
and the ones flung by friends
by the number of people you know who love you.
She was never good at math.
She forgets you can't divide by zero.
the pills don't workA few weeks ago
my doctor called me
"You have a
with the tendencies of an insomniacthe loneliest part of her day
is going to sleep
knowing when she wakes up
she'll still be
She called me Ma'am. He called me Miss.The bank called today, trying to sell you life insurance. You let them babble because it's their job and you couldn't get a word in edgewise and you're too polite to simply hang up. When the woman on the other line finishes her spiel you tell her you're not interested, but she insists so you listen. Letting her speak for another minute couldn't hurt, right?
She starts telling you how you should be prepared in the case of a sudden death. Car crashes, drowning, equipment malfunction, cancer, disease contracted overseas, covered. You aren't going to buy this insurance but you want to ask if suicide was covered under it anyway.
But you weren't planning on dying. Not today, anyway. Not for a while. You stopped that.
She transfers you to another associate. You tell him he's wasting his time, because you simply aren't interested and don't have the need for this program.
He lists off some statistics. The number of people who die in accidents every year. What the average funeral costs in Canada
it was cold when I woke upI long to trace invisible trails
across your face, like wind
I yearn to feel your heartbeat
cuddled up against your chest
I crave all of your kisses
I ache to give you mine
Wishing upon a falling star
I'll sing you lullabies
Ninety-EightI want you here on my darkest nights
when razor blades can't scare the frights
and scars aren't enough to face my fears
haunting, taunting all of these years
I want you here on my brightest days
when sun shines dim under my rays
and our laughter comes in fits and starts
prancing, dancing never apart
I want you here for everything
The good and bad, the in between
You're HomeThe only place I know I'm safe
Is someplace I may never be
If home is where the heart is
I'm still living overseas
Red PenShe has a red pen, holds it close
Reminded of a boy
She plays with it but not his heart
A heart is not a toy
Sometimes she writes and stops herself
Afraid, for ink runs dry
Superstitious mind, she reasons
Red pens, like love, can die
She saves the pen, saving the ink
Never once she forgets
By losing it she loses him
Her heart is in his debt
wilted petals on bedsheets and bathrobesi was full of
soft blossoms and a
wild, arcing sky that
would have taken
your breath away.
but now i am
petals of my
down the drain
is a bodily
all kinds of growth
nothing tries to
.falling in love
is like collapsing
onto the ground
blossoming from beneath.
Does it make
to want to f.a.l.l.
even if it means
every time you
touch me -
it feels like I'm dying.
I Know You Hate Me Now But...I Know You Hate Me Now But...:
Just give me a chance alright, I'll explain
To me, you're the girl that I notice everything about.
The way you laugh, the way you smile;
We got along great back then, even if we don't now.
And to be honest, I miss that...
You had the most lovely silky smooth hair
You'd give me the cutest anime girl smile
I wish I'd talked to you more about Manga,
Hell you got me started on the whole thing.
You were fantastic at drawing too
Man I was always jealous of that talent,
And I loved your drawings, like I once loved you.
I wish that you could have been a professional.
I would have bought your book every month y'know...
You encouraged me to write.
Back when my stories were shit,
Back when my poems were still baby's rhymes.
You taught me not to give in and I was grateful.
Now just let me finish alright?
I know that you won't speak to me.
That's okay, I admit to being an ass,
But the reason that I'm writing this poem to nobod
Throwback ThursdayYou know what I miss?
The simple days
Of aimless buses and trains,
Like magic carpets
That helped us to escape,
If only for a little while.
I miss the endless walks
That led to hours of
Shopping center shenanigans--
Spinning in desk chairs,
Petting that little blind kitten,
And reading anything
From cheesy joke books
To Frost's melancholic verse.
I miss cheap deli lunches,
Discounted coffee house milkshakes, and
Midnight conversations on the swings
At your old elementary school,
With the moon so bright that
I could see your T-shirt.
Remember that time when, hot chocolate in hand,
We followed the sound
Of live fiesta music
Sailing on the hollow winter air
Until we nearly crashed
A Hispanic family's party?
Or what about the moments
Of heartbroken silence
When we discovered
The ruins of a piano
At the church
That was once your daycare?
I remember climbing, barefoot,
Halfway up Ricky's fence
To watch his illegal fireworks
And stealing Mom's car
In the dead of night,
Just for store-bought C
Lose yourself in me.
Be the unbidden thought
that follows me to bed.
and tosses my pillows
into dawn's lingering traces.
Be the gentle wager
I make with the night,
the ravage of stars
that follows me until
I can make peace with the dark.
Be the first tumble of dreams
that steals into my mind
and unravels me in eiderdown
while the day steals from my limbs.
And when morning breaks promise,
be the first touch of aurora
to brush against my skin.
i am trying to let you leave but ...i am trying to
say goodbye but
my soul is digging
in its heels,
it is piercing my
skin with its teeth
and it is
it will not let me
let you go this time.
list for ninth october1) your lover is dead and
you burn the eggs. grease
streaks the stove. you
sit, stand, switch off
the burner. sit.
the birds chirp. sit.
2) your lover is dead and
the birds are hungry:
the blue-jay funereal
sick ocean grey.
you shore yourself
against the bare mattress,
empty mason jars, your
mother's phone calls,
by desk receptionists.
the author's name
dwarfs the title,
that means it's good.
that means it's popular.
you spill tea
and soak its pages
and sit. sit.
3) your lover is dead and
the tea is cold.
the leaves have settled
in rorschach patterns.
the tea is hot:
when it's poured.
when you walk away.
you open your mouth.
4) your lover is dead and
you can learn no more
languages. dust sheaves
on books, in sunroom-motes.
half-eight, you feed the cat.
she scratches the door.
you say nothing:
5) your lover is dead and
you've fallen asleep.
your lover is dead and
6) you know that mockingbird don't sing
we never had no diamond rings
It's The Distance, I Think.It was sitting on our kitchen counter-
Brown glazed and curved, like her-
Perched next to the microwave.
I thought it would best hold
Her spatula and my two bamboo spoons.
She filled it with yellow tulips and
Pink carnations and hydrangea blossoms and
Told me to "Get your own spoon vase"
With bells in her voice and
Her cheeks dimpled and her eyes crinkled,
And I wrapped my arms around her waist and
Punished her back-sass by tickling her ribs until
We were a jumbled mess, strewn
Across the tile floor- with flushed cheeks and
Not a worry in the world.
These days, the curved brown jar
Sits next to my stove top and
Holds my two bamboo spoons,
Three of my own spatulas and a metal whisk.
The tiles have been replaced with hardwood
And my eyes never crinkle
And I can't remember the way hydrangeas smell.
you smell like green leaves
just torn from the earth
spring's pungent scent
daubed behind your ears and knees
where it beads like morning
on the pale iris of your skin
you taste like lush worlds
plucked from the garden
spring's verdant wine
kissed upon your lips and tongue
where it blossoms in the soft crush
of your hot house smile