Welcome To The Bottom of the Erotic. The Mood Swings Pure Chemical Hormone. I lose skin and I am watching the curtains make double-colors: the red too fresh, too fake the black like insomnia, the artist's friend, climbing in for psychotic kicks. I make my reflection in crescent nails I find that (once again) I… Continue reading poem: I do not want to mistake another boy’s kindness for love
poem: strangers three nights apart
she has made monsters and villains where there are none, where it should only be a boy and a girl. she is sitting in a shrinking place, watching the house lights dim and his shoulders fold like glass, crushing and crashing into all the Damning, as he leans into the nightscape window and counts the… Continue reading poem: strangers three nights apart
poem: we are writing, we are killing
I wrote an artist but did not give her art, she was lonely waiting by windows for bluer skies but dying in her head, re-castling to save me: the other girl, the one writing her. we were in hell together, the mafia maniac pixie dream boy blowing her kisses from the burning room, the emo… Continue reading poem: we are writing, we are killing
poem: the last pavilion (for me, for you)
I want to have God even in the dark places so that I am not writing revels or anthems but writing glass, writing kitchen-windows so ninety people can see inside myself, inside the chaotic parts where my mind is already on fire, already dancing like tomorrow is myth. So that when I say "I am… Continue reading poem: the last pavilion (for me, for you)
poem: therapy is cheaper when you’re in a relationship
I really must not pin hope on people who do not (yet) exist; one day, he might want to lean over the table and hold my eyes and hear the personal hell but in the tight space between 60 seconds and one minute, we are still nothing; he does not care about the damning things… Continue reading poem: therapy is cheaper when you’re in a relationship
poem: trauma
we are girls tied body to body to music: our headphones like veins bringing the low guitars and lighter wails, pumping in the bright noise that keeps us from dying in locked rooms the memories coming like birds in flocks of heat our arms splitting open from remembering we are not talking, we are not… Continue reading poem: trauma
poem: the artist in hell, justified
she is perfectly halved: she is pouring black paint into the mouths of strange boys, her body all light under the strobe lights, her neck cut into diamond pieces by the sex moans made by singers too punk to be human. And she is reading at the window ledge her feet curled under a skirt… Continue reading poem: the artist in hell, justified
poem: music/video/love
we are here for the unknown, for the possibility of falling in love with people who were nothing just one day ago: boys with odd dark smiles, mars and venus colliding when our eyes touch, the Bold and the Dazzling coming in wet flushes, in roses wrapped and snapping. we are here for the aesthetic,… Continue reading poem: music/video/love
life update: new profile picture, medium
It's probably temporary and I sort of hate it, but it's new. Also, yes, I am now on Medium, re-posting some of the better poems. Let's not talk about how my grades have suffered because I've been writing angsty poetry online instead of studying. Thank you all, as always, for reading! It means much more… Continue reading life update: new profile picture, medium
poem: my father is a sociopath
number the stars, the sluts, the saints: we are all here, in a hell we can't escape. and my father said I was just like him. my mother said if I painted my nails black I would become a heroin addict, a fucking drama queen. can you hear the lights in the city flickering? they… Continue reading poem: my father is a sociopath
the last pavilion 