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Published by: spoongrrrl on Apr 27, 2012
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Prosperity makes friends and adversity tries them.
Lucky Numbers 5, 11, 12. 18,20, 36


peace is \}..61

once i heard a shot go off in the neighbors house and the police came and dragged a man away and the sirens woke me up and i was imagining that they were taking me away far away from everything where i could be alone and do nothing all day and i was wondering if anyone was happy in jail or if anyone was happy in my house or if anyone was happy in this world and i thought yes there must be somebody


someone sleeping deeply on your chest \


.. ~~hy

J~ h?< ~rytl? ~

that fucking new years kiss stung like a testament of who you were, stung like everything you do misspelled words and your last name fucking ripped up to remind me

.r:C'<./vy~u . ~/ s?'t--7 Ilk

--/-~.-- .. wf-" f ~

it wasn't long before i knew that you'd be leaving but i didnt really care as long as i got to see your fingernails growin~ growing growing t~ey.saYr that your fingernails keep growing once you die and I was wondenng If I when you die if you look down and watch your fingernails grow and \ watch your funeral and watch your mom cut off all of her hair and your \ sister cut herself and if you watched them throwaway old pictures of you \ and scream and scream and scream or if you were just in some other place and your old dead body was of no concern and you just forgot about that1 old life sometimes i wonder if all those little itches that you get on your leg or on your arm or on your butt are people poking you to say wake up or maybe there's just a spider crawling on your leg so i usually just itch it but if it \ was a person saying wake up then maybe we split apart and maybe a piece of me floats off to explore and we fly through the mountains and create healing machines and in the morning we come back and lay together .... become one person again





what if i forget everything that happened to me will I still be the same person or maybe when we learn lessons they just sink into our skin kind of like how the food we eat becomes the molecules that make up our bodies maybe the salty beach air and midnight kisses and screaming matches make up the lines in our faces and maybe our hair is just strings of all the times we cried like the note left on the pillowcase and that time we forgot to say goodbye and the sunrise after we lost it all but maybe will just forget everything and go back to whatever it was before those hands touched our shoulders and maybe if we didnt carry around all books our backs would be more straight and maybe wed go back to whoever we were before all this but who would that would that real me or is the real me whoever i am now

this is self destruction at its finest and self creation in its glory because you saw the way I stared into that mirror and you saw the way my eyes I fell cold and silent like the concrete under our bodies as we stared straight \ up and wondered why we were here wondered why we were born\ wondered what it felt like to die wondered what it felt like in the womb\ and we weren't the only ones who sang those songs and we werent alonel despite our loneliness and we weren't silent despite our sore throats and we werent lifeless despite our brokenness maybe i like the soun 0 ones cracking an ta e secret pleasure in my I mothers screaming because we all have that sound that haunts o~r ~rea~s whether it be a child's cry or maybe her laugh and even though It digs mto us deeply we love the way it binds us to reality and makes us feel like \ human beings so we fantasize within this pain the way she binds your hands to play just like we all still read books that make us cry and watc~ the movies that make our stomachs sink and take pictures at funerals 1 i wish that i could talk about the tears without sounding cliche I because they really are beautiful and they taste so good and when they are happening to me i oh so subtly tum my head to steer them toward my lips to taste that saltiness because they taste like me they taste like suffering in the form of a drop which is hard to taste but sometimes it comes in the form of a . and sometimes you can find it on other people's lips




i didn't know that y?U wanted to ~ss me so i turned my head away but if i wo~ld ha~e known 1 would have kissed you because kissing you is kind of like eating an apple and sometimes its hard to get started but then once you've taken a ?igjuic~ bite y~u're like hey this is alright this is really good ~ctually kind of like readmg books or going to funerals of people that killed themselves because you remember hey this is alright after all they ~ow better than anyone else if they could have kept doing it and if they didnt want to keep doing it anymore then hey who am i to say otherwise its just selfish to say they have around . keep me company but hey its alright god we tried so hard to be free to forget responsibilities to feel high without spending ten bucks on a white little pill or some weed and we ~alked up and down 8th street and we stood on the hill looking aCf{)SS CItyand under the lit up cross and in the stairways of parking garages and we wrote our poetry under the bridge and we rode our bikes all over campus and we played on the rocks near the trains and we danced round the fires on top of the caves and we drove and drove and drove and stared out of the seat window for some

you were not ~ cold machine on the lawn that night with my legs wrapped around your waist like ribbons and my nose nestled in your neck and -_ running. you only proved your humanity through cracks that shone bright my voice broke and tore away so I couldn't tell you I wasn't you thought I was. darling, you're a tease, but I'm not just a warm wetr--::::111 between my legs and I'm not just trying to dissolve you, I want to feel ....._....... . you and taste your secrets. so fill me up with longing because you'll never give me enough, its never enough. (


I never sent the envelope.


. Nana's house reminds me of the ocean view, last winter, after died. Empty and damp. Her belongings tell stories in a language I can't read. A hollowed out book, a watch frozen at 2:31, the tail of a kite. In the bedroom, under the wallpaper, is a wall of poems. Poems in my grandmother's handwriting. Poems about her first love, before the war. "She wrote them in her sleep" Grandfather once said. After I memorize her words, I paint the wall a deep color of teal, like the ocean. When I can't sleep, I listen to the tape of Mom's heartbeat.

I wonder if you hurt like I hurt. \ ~ . _;' "': {J: staring at the ceiling in the morning I. ., .I waking up with salt encrusted eyes stinging like razor blades and cigarette stained fingers , wishing they were wrapped around my waist and tangled in my hair you don't get to see me curled up like a baby , at the bottom of the shower I digging nails into my thighs and leaving of all the places you once sunk your teeth

I wonder if you cry at night while driving home on the freeway in the rain mourning the mornings of sleep ending suddenly and keeping time of minutes lost~ to rehearsing speeches you will never speak this nausea's getting old and I'm running out of ways to distract myself at night when sleeping gets too heavy running out of space to carry these lost like envelopes of every misplaced moan] sucking on your bottom lip, I miss. \ I wonder if you sigh like I sigh. \",




II ( Q

I'm losing you and I know it. I know it better than I know your scent. ~ You're going to leave me and that's all I can predict. It is written in mascara stains bled deep into your pillow like tea leaves or the stars. I can beg for you to stay but it isn't you, just an empty shell of something I only knew for one day of bliss filled up and spilling. I've been left three times this year and you're about to make it four. My courage must be born from an irrational desire of emotional self mutilation, letting in whomever ~ knocks hard on these ribs I can hardly call a cage, and ask to come inside. I'll greet you with some coffee and my secrets on a silver plate amongst my innards. Come on in, take whatever you would like, and be careful of the sickness that is my inability to stop loving everyone I meet. It will • drive you to madness. Consider yourself warned. If you're looking to feel special don't look toward me. If you want to be the only one,just stand up , and leave. I will torture you with the love that drove you in until you're bloody in the knees from begging please. I am destined to a lifetime of • , being left. Of loss. Of hurting those I love with the reason I love them. A paradox of magnificent illuminating cycles of faux betrayal and misunderstood loyalty. An infinite contradiction. You may be broken L hearted but I am the queen of broken hearts. I collect them like trinkets crncy round my neck to wear like scars or jewelry. They compound against each 1 \ other, multiplying with each new lover leaving when it gets too hard to hold. I am the architect in the library of unfulfilled love, forever destined to build new halls to house the books of all the men I tortured and bled. \ You can never know my sadness for I am infected with disease that \ \ _ (_ makes me fall in love with everyone I meet and then they leave. \.).;\


broken bottles/bourbonlrazor blades/whiskey/cigarette burns/ strangulation/heroinlhandcuffs/screaming/suicide prevention (absolute cruelty) [ J\ .i?~-.r..L' i -: ~ { K/, YF;·. (so maybe you'll stop loving me) L:l~ju.~;- (.,,~...r--FS ~\S'
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Please do not feel sorry for me. That's the last thing I want. That's why I hide it all from everyone. That's why I stole it from his bathroom drawer.
That's why we never spoke about our failures. [-:'"





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this is self destruction at its finest. this is self creation in its glory. ~':'t)." holy holy holy f is the lord god almighty I developed a self defense and now its destroying me' (I've never lied to you)


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..., an object in motion tends to stay in motion \ My hot breath fogging up the windows again, I pull down my sleeve and clear a little space to see through these frosted windows, everything could be so clear if I wasn't speeding down 1-15. And with eyes focused on unpredictable bends in the highway, everything else is so blurry. Peripheral vision is all I have to see what's going on around me, speeding ..( past the window in streaks of color so dull compared to the lights up ahead. And I'm on this journey alone because I can't help but hold the hand of anyone with me and that's when I cease to be me. Wave to those I pass and remember the times we had, but we're still separated by hunks of steel and glass. And maybe this is why I can't connect to anyone or J 4 anything around me. Those who are still just seem to fly past me in a blur and I can't hear anything but my own voice. And I'm on this journey alone because I can't help but to hold the hand of anyone with me and that's when I cease to be me.'





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my mother reUs'Sn~I:vrn ~


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Our.eve~ings gathered round at the kitchen table will never look like your ~an.ulydinners because we have the audacity to rip out every beating thing inside our chests and pass them round. the softest sound I've ever heard was my sisters hand upon my shoulder because her tears were rare and they were made of diamonds. we only learned to speak in sarcasm and quiet apologies. my mother tells me I will always be alone. her heart breaks with mine and her mouth smiles with mine and she knows that I will always be alone because my passion is too harsh and my skin is too raw , s~nned and bleeding to feel the sting of settling dust from the days our voices cracked and broke from screaming sorry screaming it was an accident screaming just get a divorce already. We didn't know what it felt like to be ourselves for we had never had the chance.

the light flooding up the cabin was a color that I would never see again, an '\ amber that could never be replaced. and now I wonder from my bed if that airplane would be scarred from my sleeping body sinking deeper in the l seats. he said that life was a series of near misses.' and nearly miss~d me. I \ was running but I did not know what I was runmng towards. and If I had known, would I have kept on running? how could I explain those hands? _ on a napkin I had written get a job and keep falling in love. the \ 14 VII / punctuation was everything, it always was. o~ if only th~s made s~ns,eo maybe you could know my mind in the rnormng, mourning. all things leading, flowing, anticipating toward the point where two lines if not perfectly parallel eventually converge. how could we have known? I said that I would kill myself if I ever lost a limb and you wanted to kiss me, for you were, too, in love with hands. with those paintings. lines and shapes and letters and all things once removed and I had been running. and we kissed. and. and. and. I woke up and you were not a dream ..


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I sat on the dirt while my friends played guitar. their voices ringing out. we sang together and the stars sang with us and the bugs sang with us and the mountain lions sang with us and we were scared and we held hands . . the sky was black and the fire was flickering outside the cave. we leaned back and liste~ed and knew things we didn't know before. I looked uPt.,::M"l! and my breathing synched up with the guitar and my friends beautiful voices and the birds that sound like lions and the gunshots we shot straight into the air and the places that feel like home and the whisperin that felt like falling. she cried warm and sal~ and beautiful on my [.t. " ;~~gU~~:~.welooked\up a~d remembere~ thm.~s~e didn't know ~e hadl!

•1 V •• ~ ", ~ lQ "'-"0 t' .,

home is nev~~'tbe plac~ where you are, \.

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but always the place that you just were, so just keep reminding yourself that being alone is the same in every state. If regret claims your actions as mistakes you must remember the softest hands belonging to the man who whispered, "you did the best with what you had" because we must remember our scars. We must forgive ourselves for being perpetually slowed down and we must celebrate the days our bloody wounds stop leaving crimson fingerprints on everything we touch because our eyes have been turned grey by mother's sighs and our misfortunes were sew into our skin by the failings of our fathers. I




When I sleep I'm searching for you. Always just out of reach. You are ~ past the wavelengths of every subconscious rotting peach, beneath whitewashed reflections of half departed memories, interwoven into the depths that drown me in foreign symbolism. You wait beyond every r---misplace childhood nightmare, taunting me with the beauty of your lips I curled up like my hair in the morning. When we sleep I can't get enough of you; pushing into your sides and skin, matching up my breathing to our own. Let me in. I want to be closer to you. When we kiss I hope I' dissolve into some liquid to melt across your lips. Suck me into your\ mouth and down your throat and taste me, let me in. I envy the clothes that wrap themselves around your body to keep you warm on winter nighr-t_s:,..,I __ what intimacy your wardrobe wears, such knowledge of your body. \ When I sleep alone you sleep in my mind. Just out of reach. I miss you ..--


»< ~








I am the disloyal and sultry cowardice. I am the self destructive sinner. E.very breath I take is a wish for fights and honest hatred. I am the [ disturbed upper hand because I love weeping almost as much as I love you wrapped around my finger and I will never forget those nights or I dreams of troubled sleep and they are painted in the same cracks along my] palms as to become indistinguishable from another. I don't know what's real and what's created because I am a self glorified embodiment of vanity. You'll kiss me twice with pure intentions and I'll reply with a shower of affection sprung from ulterior motives. I am the culmination of every woman I've read about who's managed to capture the attention of men like rings on fingers ripe for plucking weeds. I am an entirely created shadow of a thing. You can't love me because you don't know who I ~m.






your face is such a lovely color pink between

m~tiii!~ ~ \'


An open letter to all the Scorpios in my life \
I swear your secrets taste like the open road and your rare confessions sting like cold wood floors on barefoot morning feet, because while you're writing poems in languages I can't read, in places I'll never be, I'm sketching the memories that settled on my sleeping skin in journals that I , leave beside my bed for you to read. But you never crack their spines ~ because your passion is too intimately yours for me to ever understand, and you don't need my words to tell you who I am. You are closed, and I am open in a way that's never known the walls that you call home. To you I am the opponent in the unspeakable challenge. To me, you are a poem, or a suitcase with hidden pockets because you don't whisper the words I'm always fishing for enough. You will always be a mystery because your embraces feel like not recognizing myself in the mirror and your \ infinitely rare moments of vulnerability feel like sinking completely into someone else. We're two pieces that will never fit because I am a beating heart and you are a buried treasure chest, and although I feed your flame I'll always be just another riddle to tease your brain. So give me time memorize old psalms to soak into the tip of my tongue, for I must . my bones in the Atlantic Ocean before I see your smile on this side of ~ town again. ~ _ -V


I was having a hard time ~ \~_." . s~, he crawled i~to our b~d, sucked on my toes ~= 'I~:II::"'. ~ . kissed the backsides of my knees like pulling out a drawer with his teetli full of ticket stubs and traffic jams (we were sick of winter) I blood stains and a copper tast9 (we just missed the sun) Ii I was having a hard time b. j when he said he'd like to draw me , .. to stencil out my skyline, trace the mountains of my hips and I



the pink valley of my cunt


. .'


god, he sleeps with such simplicity such noble quiet sounds b...._ I wake with salt encrusted eyes, his hands mixed in my folds of skin, our sheets so stained \ blood dried like lines of drugs we never did \ we share this place, its creaking walls \ bullet holes through our front door] he wakes before me in the morning, bums his hands in scalding water, reads my spring lake eyes (the color of his paintings) \ ] / like books I long to wear as pearls \ my blood runs red and down my thighs\ :;.1<





c.r:' V'ntD






Its been two years since I've slept without dreaming since I've drifted off with only \ the insides of my eyelids . keeping me company \



and god, I miss that secret silence of a night that feels like nothing of mornings with no salt encrusted eyes, r',o .... .,....nor chest heavy with mourning for ~hen. I pull the sheets over my head I hope for Just eight hours 1 ~ ~ b'" r where I ~ / 'C' . /9.l' don't \ .' Yo",-"'./ feel 1 .• '


....v ~ 4~ ~~ l~ ~ -s..
/1: ,(' :/ ~


Sometimes hunger feels like loneliness and a stomach ache is only ...... sadness because my body feels the anger in your voice and I can taste suffering on your salty lips. When you hugged me goodbye it burned regret into my bones, for shin splits are just a sharp reminder that we' grown. A sweet caress pressed fresh bruises on my back to paint a portrait blue and green of all the eyes of men who broke the news by breaking legs. But we healed those bones with a bloody catharsis in sweaty basement shows and the warm familiar smell of battered books that brought our flighty lovers home.



god in a pill every morning \

as the fog in your ~ead nses \ forming condensanon that drips down crimso~ cheeks /


h \~




I could barely hear your voice, I (raspy with that sweet scent of cheap beer I vaguely loved) over torrential rain flooding the gutters of 8th street -liiiril typing out coded messages on the hood of my '89 like so much morse code poetry I _.,....."........::""








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we kissed under the back porch light blinking off and on and off again 1~ ., , like my love ~ ~ ~ ~l-t l~ke every fli~kering thing~: I . ~ I·A.-t ~ hke peaches In the back of the van with the windows down ~ ~L..

~rv ~


_ -4-_

all of your nightmares have already come true in a past life ]'<1"U..!(_ L .~ ~~ somewherefaraway~"--t.'l. ~~ ~ so you don't need to worry I hov"c," the scars were there, they fade away '{J 1/ now you've moved on to live another life ~ to tell your lover about it in the morning light. ~
"\.'kv i. J -~~~~(

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all of my lovers are english majors your beautiful bruised legs my empty queen bed ~ that dead summer l~wn . his heart breaking on the hne

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