Not you, but meNot you, but meI've crossed every stone,A trail through the bay to your heart.Tossed among sunken ships,Just a wreck in your deepest harbor.You're the coral I cut my knee onAnd the salt in its wound.I swam over you at low tide,Should have known not to.Torn at the seam,No comfort in the folds.Just an old towel hanging outOn the porch to dry.I'm a stagnant bay,sand trapped under my tongue.No words to undo.You drew a line as youwalked away from me.Further and further,A distant island hidden by the clouds.
homeMy heart is tetheredbetween wrought ironand quick tempersIn the house, a man was waiting:silver skin, sharp chineating the remains with his corbeau mouthMy cloaked heart slips through the gate,and past March, April, Junemy palms are stained with the smell of rust,dust and rotting wood under my tongue,unopened mail behind each ribWhat's heavy will hurt.I took a small boat awayHalf way thereI lost my oars(abandoned)Flung and tossed like a childinto the channel"Are you afraid of what's below?"you're just froth below the horizon.you're just a speck in timeThe dark whale should swallow me whole,but instead I lay my head in the day's end,like resting on warm thighsMy mother's own.
An owlWhen I was youngerWe moved into the new housemy father built.In the evening an owl flew in.With heavy wingsit threatened us,cutting through the darkwith hardly any room for flight.My sister and Iheld our breathand played dead until myfather came home.When he saw us he laughedwhile we lay stilland then opened all the windowsto let it fly out.
deservethe poisoned branch,I pulled myself up onto see another.now an ant nest in my heartyou stepped in andleft distraught.
By myselfWhen I'm aloneI steal pieces of night.Without another to share,I eat by myself.The meat is spoilt.Only acid in my throat when I wake.
without a goodbyethis is the last time.just empty space and time passingbetween us.I am at the other end of the room,and you have opened all the windowsand doors to let yourself out.
the netI'm rot.Was sliced at the gill,thrown near the rocksunder sun and flies.Flesh exposed, a little girl with no t shirt on.Dead amongst scavengers.lost my armor all scattered likeand soaked into the stone.Swam into the net.Thought it would get me there fast.
KnivesknivesMy life through the glass,a million pieces scattered (splinters in my thumbs)A spectrum (colours of fear)Forced through me like knives.Here, smoke and doubt intersects false light.A journey queued. Where I had begun.This time aloneWhat am I fighting for?
:apart:Home again today.Where there is no relief.Not to slowly kiss.Once here was my love to fall into,now my days are just steep.Tonight I sleep alone.and time did not settle me.
Brown Eyes Compliments, and AnalogiesBecause I'm sick of people saying there aren't any.Your brown eyes are like the deep intoxication of campaign wine, bubbling with hazing richness and expensive taste.Your brown eyes are like the color of mahogany wood- comforting and home-steady toughness that lets me know you will be the beams of supporting me.Your eyes remind me of Dove chocolate, smooth, creamy, delectable, and melting.The color of brown eyes remind me of mountain terrain and nature, something subtle, but beautiful in every form and season.Brown eyes make me think of Devil's cake, taunting and tempting, curtained by black lashes, the symbol of rich seduction.When brown eyes delve in love, they become the color of a leather book, promising a story of loyalty, long-life, and devotion.Your brown eyes remind me of mysterious secrets, dark to cover the pain of ignorance, opaque to cover to want of another.Brown eyes are like the stable ground, steadier and prepared to embrace you when you fall, into a nurturing a
sunday morning girlI'd rather be the girlwaking you upwith coffeeon a Sunday morning,than keeping you upwith vodkaon a Saturday night
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one. When she cries herself to sleep six out of seven nights a week you must say nothing. You must simply take her in your arms and kiss her gaunt, pale cheeks and wait for her to slumber at the sound of your heart.two. On the days where she wishes she were part of the stars, tell her no. Tell her that there are too many lights in the sky and that just one would be forgotten the moment you looked away from it. Tell her that she is perfect the way she is: completely human.three. Don't let her think about the scars that no one but her can see. If she says "I think I'm broken" smile like you know a secret and say, "No, you're mending." But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
It's time to leave the toxic people behindLife is a continuous cycle,a carousel that never stops spinning,of being in situationswhere you are treated unfairlyby those you (thought)held you closeand even ifyou keep treating them kindly,they will never return the favorthese toxic peopleexhale poisonous gas,that will begin to fill your lungs-this hazardous aircan not even be purifiedby your own clean breathSo dear:It's time to find somewherewhere the air is freshas flowers and grass,and you can be the sun-appreciated for the lifeand bright lightthat you are,It's time to leave the toxic people behind.
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A PenisDo not assume (if I hold the door for you),that I am making a statementabout your inabilitiesto open the door for yourself.If you hold it for me,I'll say 'thankyou'.Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),that I am underestimatingyour earning capacityas a woman.If you invite me out for a meal,you're paying.Do not assume (if I defend your rights),that I am belittlingthe attempts that you have madeto defend your rights yourself.If you defend my rights,I'll consider you human.
Simple Machinesthere is no green valley, stitchedin-between the skull platesof a death like this,nothing to section its low spotsinto a geographymore sensical, less cruelor intricately interleaved enoughto dismiss as random or miraculous,there is simply no vein of lifeto stretch or shape these stepsinto lessonwhen imaginations die,they settle and house their needin places like this,in the oil-dusty shed quietlandscape of out-buildings,they settle like workpiecesclamped to the point of crush,between jaws of the vice, wheretheir own empty arms meet and rememberhow the unwavering compressionof failure's suffocationcan almost feel like lovethese truly simple machinesare driven by the tireless turnof starvation's axle,breathing onlythe black hole's bellowedrise and fall, simplein their mechanical advantagein that they will never threatento dream, nor live, never riseabove the deceptionthat fastens and hingesdull tools like us together
wolfYou resemblesomeone I once knew.A wolf in the darkpressed against my window again.