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.i miss the way
flit just-a-crack opened palms
when we thought catching wishes
meant we got to keep them.
we never learned that
scar and past eighteen
our whole lives
back in the toy box
where you keep that
card you put in the spokes
of the bike you fell off of and gave you that scar
in the first place.
and it died
in her arms.
.the wolves are
dragging their teeth
across the nape of
all the moonblossoms
in the garden.
the sadness anymore,
so burn the city down,
i'm ready to watch
.things i've learned in
the last few months:
-friends are expendable.
-so is sanity.
-you can like girls and boys
and neither and either.
-it is possible to
exist while half your soul
is jutting out of your body.
-change does not help
-you can't bring back the dead.
-but you can hold the dead in your
arms when their eyes won't close.
-and when you make pacts with god,
remember that you're still upholding
so many promises with him in the first place.
-you're not suicidal, just human.
-maybe just a little less human than
-devaluing people doesn't
help your social anxiety.
-you can't run away from job
opportunities just because
you think a colleague is whispering about you.
-but you do get a choice on which job to take.
-and no, you're not so worthless that you have
to settle for a job you know you'll hate.
-and you do have a right to be paranoid.
-you don't have to write your sister.
a poem for the roads and skies.shaking, i
carve religion into my
arm just to
remind me that i am
somehow, i have
my entire life- i'm telling you, the
devil is in the
it's in the way
the trees bend outside the
churches and the
funeral home, the smell of
convergence in the
and i am stuck
half-in-love and humming
while burning my heart
Shy TruthsI spilled a cup of ocean
and opened my hands
hoping to catch the truth.
and a palm-full
of worn pebbles
were all I caught.
My Heart's Captivityif these walls could talk -
you'd be dead by now,
lynched by the very
same red stringed promises
you wouldn't keep.
heretic.admired & afar,
his beauty became a childlike caricature
of his defiantly devious demeanour.
euphoric ecstasy found its feathers, flying him
'til gravity grounded gushes of his history on my helpless hips,
his insanity insistent on injecting juvenile judgments into my kingdom,
killing love & leaving lust,
as malleable memories manoeuvre my mind
near never-ending nausea.
oh, other-worldly oppression,
please place me at peace!
a qualm quickens the riot rising in the rosebud refuge of my ribcage,
sand spreading through the time-glass
underneath the vile vagrant with wicked wings,
wanting water in xerarch.
yes, i yowl, yes
this is the way that i will extract my revengei am nothing but phantom pains
reborn into old bones;
oh, sugar skeleton, tell me -
what's it like to be a ghost?
Monday Morning (I Know)It was mentioned casually
at the breakfast table:
“A boy from school
committed suicide last night.
Did you know him?”
I know the way
the night sky wrapped itself
around his shoulders
and ripped itself away,
and how to him, light-years
were a measure of time
and not of distance.
I know that darkness
was darker for him,
and that light was
always too bright.
I know that smiling was painful
in all seventeen muscles,
and that it was a relief
I know that he carried
the depression on his shoulders,
and that he spent half the day
hiding it away from everyone,
and the other half
wishing somebody would notice.
I know that he was the best actor,
and that everyone believed
that his eyes sparkled from happiness
and not from tears.
I know that he was so good,
he never had to lie and say
“I’m fine,” because
nobody ever asked.
I also know that today, the halls
will echo with silence
and the occasional small cry,
courtesy of the people
who never really knew hi
spider song, purple ladyshe carried
a pair of scissors
in her purse so she could
cut the filter off her cigarette
before she smoked it.
she sucked in her
cheeks and pursed her
lips when she had to be
patient for anything.
'how do you
stay so thin?' i asked
she gathered her bracelets
at her wrists and they clinked
like wine glasses, like the twinkle
of her smile, 'cigarettes and ritalin,'
she said. 'a steady diet of cigarettes and ritalin.'
she had small
hands that were not
feminine. her fingers
were short and her palms
her was purple. even
her eyes. they were brown.
she didn't wear
lipstick. only gloss.
stinking, pink, and sticky.
don't go too near, you'll end
up with your lips stuck and then
she'll eat you. you'll love it.
i asked why
she didn't just
cut the filters off
all at once, all at once
at home and she said, 'honey
it's wednesday, and i've barely
made it past monday yet.' snip,
flick, fzzz. alright, i said, you know
you're one hell of a girl and you're
alright, i said.
you are, you will bethis is meant to be heard: https://soundcloud.com/c-e-moore/you-are-you-will-be-by-your-methamphetamine
try again with more
conviction this time.
my body is beautiful;
its curves ascend more than the rugged
fall like contradictions from a politically
incorrect statement, my body is the
pavement of my mind's highway but these
trapped under the debris of
(not self-esteem, that requires
a mind-heart team effort)
my lips have kissed all kinds of
royalty; my hands have polished enough
crowns and sworn fealty to the right
people. my loyal legs once opened wider
for you to go deeper but I don't like
thinking about that, I don't like
start over and this time,
my body is beautiful; have you
seen how my hipbones curve like
(when you find me stuck between your
gravestone-teeth, will you promise to be
break me homolytically?)
seen how my thighs purge out of
my father lived in Indiamy father is a man of many colors.
on the nights when the moon stays asleep,
he lotions his palms with pomegranate juice.
the sugared blood pools in the creases of his
skin, staining it India’s red.
sometimes, my father scrubs his hands until
they are nothing but flesh & fruit rinds.
when he was younger—all skinned knees and pocket
knives—he must've slipped on a thousand marbles.
my father’s father was a welder who rolled and spun
steel into tiny spheres.
when he died, my father’s hands became blue and
free of pocket knives. to this day, he keeps a bag
of marbles on our mantle.
from time to time, he shakes the cool metal into
his open palms and waterfalls it back and forth.
see, this is the trouble with blue hands:
they never let go of the things that scar them.
they try so hard to be red again.
my father doesn't like whistling because
an old woman in India told him it was uncivilized.
she perched herself on the edge of the Ganges River
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