Broken Hearts Still BeatingThe lightning-spliced sky illuminates my bedroomand I'm crouched in the corner, embraced by the dark,thinking of how there could have been a chancefor me to wake up next to you, your emerald eyeswebbed with emotion, your body limpfrom jerking in your sleep. I imagine ruffled sheets,broken lamps, and permeating heat.I think of how we could have jogged togetheralong roadsides and doubled over with thornsin our ribs at your feeble attempts to whistle Dixie.I'm collapsing inward, reminiscing on the truthsI should have told you and how every boy I passhas your face, your dark brown hair, your lips.And I cry. Oh, do I cry.I saw you hunched over one day, exhaustedfrom nightmares, sipping Gatorade and recitingpoetry about there being beauty in decay,and I couldn't help but think that youwere living proof of that phenomenon.I wanted to cry for you and tell you about that timea lady ran into me at Barnes & Noble and I'd hadno earthly idea that I was alive until she turned ar
ForgottenMy heart like shattered glass lies broken,The fragments pierce my lung,I grasp for words unspoken,for feelings left unsung,my skin it feels so cold,why don’t I feel the pain?,my bones they feel so old,the steel against my vein,perhaps in crimson tides,will you remember my name
dutifuli used to make boys light houses but your ocean eyes are what keep me on land.i used to use boys as an excuse to not eat but our sex makes me ravenous.you are the music that i sing in the shower, you are the ink that my fountain pensalivates onto virgin parchment.you are the kind of boy i thought of back when i had reasons to wish. every driedup dandelion i exploited; when i closed my eyes i was blowing kisses to you.the v your stomach makes when your hungry is enticing but i like running myfingers over your distended abdomen after a meal we made together.you are the reason why i do not need to carry a thesaurus around with the restof my 'baggage'. your pallid skin is a palette to me, bashfully vapid, and i takeadvantage of the canvas. i leave finger trails and bite marks to remind you of me.and then there are the days where i amstranded on my island of anxiety, i always know you are willing to listen to me cry.and when there are days where i ammute andselfishit takes a b
when somebody says your name for the last timeoneone of the first things she learns is that ghosts cannot cry.this does not stop her from trying.there's a house.not a home. barely a building. just beyond the part of town parents don't let their kids near after dark.it's empty. it's been empty for as long as anyone can remember.in the upstairs bedroom, there's a queen-sized bed and a chest of drawers and a chandelier. they are covered in dust and cobwebs. they are rotting. they are bug-infested and falling to pieces.in the upstairs bedroom, there's a girl.she wears a long, white dress, and a shroud of grief, and a bullet wound in her chest.she is rotting. she is sorrow-infested and falling to pieces.in the right light, you can see straight through her.one of the first things she learns is that even if she could cry, it wouldn't make much difference.no one can hear her.no one can see her.no one even knows that she's there.he runs away, and she isn't quick enough to follow him. she doesn't know if she can haunt
mad houseyou are a moan thatcrawls like a tarantuladown the hall to my room.papier-mâché girls dancein the garden, wild women, burningwith their dreams of becomingskeletons, and through theirparchment skin i can see theirwasted hearts struggling to beat.a dead boy visits me at night.i lie rigid in my bed, paralysedwhile he stands by my window, whiteas the underbelly of a fish,still dripping with waterfrom the ocean that stole his life.and i can still feel their handson me,as cold and rotten as the handsof a corpse,the prick in my backside whilethey fill me with their venom.they rape me of my lifeand i hear someone wailin the darkness, as godforsakenas the howl of a dog who has discoveredits owner dead.i vomit and it comes out blackas ink.my heart is the ugliest partof me, but no one will ever see...and these walls,oh sometimes these walls scream so loud.
BurialThe mud caked my fingernails.My hair slipped from inside my hood,blowing across my face.The wind shifted the leaves on the grounda collage of yellow, red, and brownand the earth crawled around me.The rain fell hardand the wet grass grabbed at my ankles.The hole I dug with my own two handswas between two trees where you and Iused to sit and talk about superheroes,videogames and high school bullies.I thought the location fit.I pulled from my coat pocketthe heart necklace you gave methe year before you said goodbyeand drove off, leaving skid markson the vacant street.I dropped my heart into the holeand buried it.As I walked away,the rain still pouring,I picked the mud from inside my fingernails.
apatothe ocean air is sellingmoist and salty caressesthere is a metaphor to takein each skimming wavebut I am tired so Iso I willwill let it restmy turning mindwith the tidesand breathewith the gilled creaturesbelow the rhythmic surfacegulping gaping gas-gasping fish mouthsmine will open too andopen till wide enoughfor the cry clenched in mythroat to caw-clawits way out till I amchorusing with the seagulland if I fallinto the water nowit will envelop mewrap its foam arms aroundmy corporeality touch its crest to my headkiss me deadI will be complacentin its sea indoctrination this is how I will stayabove the darknessinfinite below me
Drinking in The AfterlifeFor someone who had killed herself, she was awfully cheerful. She was sitting at a small, one-person table in the corner of the pub, twiddling her hair and giggling. There was a bottle of beer on the tabletop. If I hadn't known that it was untouched, I would have thought she was drunk."Something amusing?" I asked, having walked up to her.She jumped and looked towards me, her eyes finding mine. She smiled somewhat sheepishly. She was such a pretty girl. Why she'd killed herself, I couldn't imagine."I just can't believe this," she said. "Who'd have thought there'd be pubs in the afterlife?"I nodded in understanding. "Indeed."She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then reached out and touched her beer. She picked it up, then set it back down. "I was worried there for a while," she mused. "Suicide being a mortal sin and all. Thought I'd end up in a lake of fire or something.""If you don't mind my asking," I said, "why did you take your own life? If memory serves me right, you ha
this won't ease my parents' mindsmy demons are coming out to playand i'm not showing them offanymore,they're showing methingsi probably wished i hadn't seen(but probably needed too)i'm seeing the tearswelling behindmy parents eyeswhenever they ask how my day was,because they know i'm probably lying.my mother is concernedabout the things i don't say,my possible waning faith (in everything)my weakening shoulders,how heavy my load is,how much more i keep trying to pile on.-the church i grew up inkeeps sending me emails,i see old teachers,extended family,old classmates,it gets hardfaking smiles,the muscles inmy facehave grown much strongerthan i am.strained,gasping,tired,the lights go outand the muscles slump.-on easter,i know there was onethought on my parents' minds.because jesus roseand i almost didn't."who will take care of uswhen we grow old?"if i were themi would stillbe asking myself.i've gotten goodat actinglike i'm standingin the sunat midnight.