8

do i or do i don’t? do i or do i don’t?
questions lingering at the tip of my tongue,
where i allow all my insecurities and sadness 
fester
like an ingrown calcified fetus.
bury me in fire.


clinical depression?is it contagious?my toes r infected


Desperate thoughts from this undergrad

I miss my mom


r.i.p me


lust rust stardust

a canvas is stretched over a skeleton, and life is breathed into it.
"this is my creation," she says proudly.
the sun and the moon all rise for you, baby. the stars twinkle in the reflection of my eyes, all for you.
baby, i made all this, for you to see, to enjoy.
why? why because you deserve it. because i made it and i needed someone to love it.
let me paint on you, you need help. you don’t know what you’re doing.
i can hold you up, you need me to hold you down. can’t you see?
why isn’t it responding? where did it go? please, let my baby stay.
please don’t fade into the inky night, please don’t leave me here all alone.
you are my creation, you cannot undo yourself.

this is not my design; stay here.


illusory calm

drench yourself in a 
thousand knives,
and they will drag across
your skin.
submerge a limb in
bubbling, frothing ink,
writhing across the page
trying to squeeze out your
story.
black and red; your words.

can you hear the bells ringing? 
the choir boys chirping?
concrete blocks settle like 
electric nodes, always 
threatening to choke at
the tip of your tongue.
segue from one tragedy to
the next, feeding off of ghouls,
hell-cats, satan’s hoof.

and one day the songs will fall
silent, no longer howling your requiem,
all will be still. a calm, hooded woman
will motion you forward, your sore
shoulders finally spiked with wings,
snapdragons sprout from out of your torso.
you sail into the stars only to
explode. 


Flaws

I am a conceptual experiment composed of blood, hair, and mucus, and the beholder is only myself. Everyone else walks idly by, seeing nothing but last night’s decomposing dinner.
I was crafted by a selfless person who projected that somewhere else and not onto me.


a spotless mind

so happy, so happy, I chant to myself,
so happy, so happy, so happy.
it could always be worse, a stern voice will say,
you could be uglier. raped. murdered.
Oh?
and again,
so happy, so happy,
so happy,
it’s morphine of the harshest kind; there
are no studies on it, no papers on its properties,
no treatment for when it gets out of hand.
smiles!
smiles! plastered, no meaning,
no hands to hold.
so happy, so happy, so happy,
acidic laughter rings in my ears.
this quiet room feels like a barred cage, but it’s just me,
there is no room. just cameras, flashing, crying,
so happy, so happy!
beer, heroin, poppies, lilies, eggs, mothers, seahorses,
so happy, i’m happy, 
i’m happy.


🗻

To the vast, empty plains of tomorrow, where neither you nor I matter.
To where my cracked veins and sore thumbs will find a balm, where a whole soul is possible once more.
A visage that is cleared of past charges, a new body that is soft, embodies warmth, evokes passion.
Why can’t I find this now? Where does it go? How does it continue to elude me?
I seek a self where there is no more doubt, but no more narcissism, where I can completely unmask myself and look back, seeing fresh, running water, happiness, empathy, joy.
Feathers rustle at my feet, where dead birds lie, cawing no more, this silence ringing like church bells, a place of worship and hope where I refuse to step foot in.


🚭

when I write love poems, words of longing, they never pertain to anyone particular, not in this world, but a figment of my imagination, perhaps the heat I felt for a lover in a past life.