[Désastre Corporel]

if you would be able

you would supply shoes for an adventure 

in a place that needs them

if i was able, i would say

no

but hands [around] throat

make things hard.

when you are at a certain age

when innocence is ripped

childhood eschewed

in favor of lipstick

tasting of berries

in favor of magazines with that

tickly “s” word emblazoned

bold

when they ask you

“who taught you how to kiss?”

how can you answer that you didn’t have a choice?

sticky fondlings in stairwells,

places you have no right to be,

places that are tainted by that action now.

you can’t walk alone without glancing over your shoulder.

things are different now, tar-shadow-flowers

bloom in these places that used to be good,

untouched by flame and rot.

they’re all rotted now,

and your mistbones, 

for a moment

turn to lead.

You are poisonous.

I heard you
whispering the cosmos in her ear
and i wanted to let
a giggle loose—

she would never understand,
her, 
with the earth on her lips.

i kept my eyes in the ocean, far from you,
in a cold place
where they would keep.

once 
you told me that the constellations must
be jealous
because my eyes shine brighter
than all of them
combined

i told you that they aren’t
upset at all,
just lonely:
they only want me to come 
home

That’s all. 

I am

made of feline eyes.

With the disposition of a Colt and

a taxidermized heart.



I want to be inside you, 

curl up like a tapeworm, safe

and sound.

Or more covert, a virus, 

wrapped around your spinal cord.

Becoming one with your mind, your nerves, every

primal function will be mine.


I’ve been clawing at these walls

shredding wallpaper and ceiling wax

at my feet

and I think to myself

I

think

to

myself



what wonderful taste in furniture

it’s a pity I noticed it.



I have to sit to contain my excitement, you know.

When will you be home?

I’m curling up in cerebral fluids, waiting for you to awake. 

Dizzying, the concept of space and time do not exist here

it’s only in your head that they have life.



I’m never leaving. Never letting go of your

sweet, saccharine mysteries.

Gulping it down like clove-smoke,

how avant-garde you must think yourself!




I’m here to take that away. 

Just hold me here in your frontal lobe

and sing me to sleep.

How could the silence be so loud?



I saw the crying
Exhausted angry voice trembling
Secrets written on my arms in 
Permanent pen.




upper arms=13in
thighs=26in
upper waist=30in
lower waist=32in
hips=40in

Notgoodenough. Nevergoodenough.





It’s so much easier to let yourself go in a place with bars, with fences.
Easier to lose yourself in a cage
Where your only fear is losing
Television privileges.  Easy
To let go of inhibitions when they can only
Lock you away
With
Yourself.



I’m doing fine. I’m just
Feeling
Tired.

[old journal entry, dated 2/12/09]

Dead Bodies Everywhere is playing in the background, and it makes me remember, the frayed, drawn on denim, the hard cement steps under us, the knife, the blood, the kisses that smeared it, the shared cd player with a scratched up copy of “Follow the Leader” inside it, spinning like us, out of control.

The hard wood floor under my knees, knife at the corner of my mouth, skin tearing, blood again. I can brush the scars with my tongue, can’t see but feel them there, burning at his presence again. [x] is back, and I can’t control the memories. The broken glass embedded in our hands. The manic grins. The midnight calls, with cold breath and colder eyes. Things I can’t tell anyone about. The hundred dollar long distance bill. 

MAKE IT STOP.

I don’t want to remember it all.

Oh, but you do.

She touches you in the places you’re ashamed of, prodding and pulling at the fat that still covers bone.

“Why can’t you just listen to me, sweetheart? I told you not to eat that. Now look where that got you.”

She sits down near you, pulls your hands into her cold, pale, bony ones, and stares into you. She knows what you’re afraid of, more than anyone ever could. She soothes your fears. But most of all, she understands better than anyone ever could. She sees it when you reach for sweets and taps your hand, shaking her head.

“No no no, remember what I said? Please, don’t do this to us. To me. Toyourself. You know he won’t love you anymore if you do that. Stay with me, be lovely and light as air.”

And you put the sweets down.

I am laying here, stretched across this empty, pillowstuffed bed, stocking mismatched and knickers in need of a mend, and I wish so badly that I could cry. But I cannot.

I want to write. To fill these blank pages with horrible dreams and beautiful nightmares. To make him smile, to make my mother proud again. 

But I cannot.

I would even make myself pretty for him, to make him gaze upon me with renewed lust, if not love. I would paint my fingernails, curl my lashes, primp and preen.

But I cannot.

This is what I am; a wretch. What else?

You see this match/lighter/whetstone? 

Do you see the way that flame snaps to life in a flicker of sulfur-scent, sparks on your skin, burning for a moment? That little icepick of fear, jolting into the base of your spine?

This could be much worse you know. And you only brought it on yourself. See, if only you had listened. If only you had opened your eyes. 

But hey, it’s never too late for second chances.

Feel your eyelashes singeing? 

It is the most beautiful emotion I’ve ever experienced. It’s not the one I enjoy the most, but it’s certainly the prettiest. I don’t think many people actually feel melancholy, seeing as it’s so widely misinterpreted. Melancholy is NOT sadness.(Sames as depression is not sadness, it’s a long period of emotions related to sadness) Melancholy is related to sadness, but it shares equal similarities with emotions like peacefulness. And there’s something indescribable about melancholy. If an artist can convey melancholy effectively in their work I gain tremendous respect for that artist. Things dirty windows and cobwebs all seem connected to melancholy and I have no idea why. Melancholy is an echo.